The Grey Tier

by Michele Scott

  “Even she knows it,” Nick said, pointing to my dog.

  “Okay, okay, already. I’ll be right back. Guitar is in the van.” I headed out the back entrance to the VW. As I slid open the doors to grab my guitar, my cell rang. I looked at the number. Crap. It was Simone. I muted it and took out the guitar. The phone rang again. I gritted my teeth. Guilt washed over me as I stood looking at the number, ignoring it. Damn. Damn. Damn! What if something was really wrong?

  Ugh. I flipped open the phone. “Hello?” I said meekly.

  “Edie . . .” She still didn’t always get my name right. “I need you to come now. I think I’ve taken too many Sudafeds. The lights are so bright and blurring and, oh my God! I’m dying. I know I’m dying.”

  “Okay. Um, well, where’s Brenda?”

  “That stupid bitch went to a party without me. I don’t think I can forgive you for glamming her up. She thinks she’s fucking Katy Perry now.”

  “Right.”

  “So I need you now!”

  “Here’s the thing . . . I’m over at Nick’s.”

  “That dive? Seriously, I don’t get your love of that place. At all.”

  “I know, but Nick has this friend who is a record producer and he’s coming to hear me sing tonight.” I was trying hard to sound hopeful and not pathetic.

  “Oh God, you’re kidding, right? You’re so fucking pathetic. Please. That guy doesn’t know anyone worth anything. Look, you want an audition? I’ll get you one over at Sony.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Now get your ass over here before I die!”

  I looked back at Nick’s place and then down at Cass who stood there staring at me, and I swear if she were human, she’d have been shaking her head at me. “I know. I know,” I said, gritting my teeth. Simone was right, I was pathetic.

  I walked back into the front entrance, not wanting to face Nick in the kitchen. I caught Jackson staring at me and managed a smile. He waved but I didn’t return it. Ever since Mumbles’ comments earlier, I’d been feeling a bit uncomfortable about the guy.

  I walked quickly over to Candace and turned her around on the bar stool.

  “Oh no, no more lectures. I’m not going to rehab. And after that little show here tonight, I ain’t going nowhere. Even with her here.” She pointed at Becky and glanced at Mumbles who sort of nodded. “Place is entertaining!”

  Mumbles mumbled, “I got a black eye.”

  “Plus, I was sober once and it sucked,” Candace interjected.

  “Right. I don’t want to lecture you,” I replied. “Just tell Nick I had to go. It’s an emergency and I’ll try and be back as soon as I can.”

  “Emergecy?” Mumbles looked at me. “You got black eye?”

  “Gotta go.”

  “Wait, hon,” Becky said, trying to stop me. “Where are you going?”

  “I just have to be somewhere.”

  Yes, I know—it was a crappy thing to do. I really believed Nick this time about the music guy, but I’d also been here long enough to realize his music mogul was likely past his prime, and, frankly, I couldn’t take the chance of losing my job with Simone. Plus, she promised me an audition with Sony!

  I ran out the door and got behind the wheel with Cass staring at me as if I was the devil incarnate. She can chastise like nobody’s business. Only my father does a better job. We sped up La Cienega, then across and over to Wilshire. Hopefully, I could save Simone from her Sudafed overdose and become the next pop sensation.

  Chapter Seven

  SO MY RUSH TO SAVE Simone’s life turned out to be a bust, except I became the new owner of a cat. Cass was so not pleased.

  It went like this: I high-tailed it to the diva’s house only to find her in her movie room watching one of the Ocean’s Eleven movies.

  “Hi,” I said, standing awkwardly in the doorway. There were eight rows of plush movie theater-type seats in the screening room. She was in the middle seat of the middle row.

  “Shhh! It’s getting to the good part. Come watch it with me.” She patted the seat next to hers.

  “I’ve got Cass in the car, and you seem better.”

  “No.” Simone shook her head and then, glared at me. “I am not better, Edie. I’m sick and I need you. I’d say bring your dog in, but I think I’m allergic to animals. Actually, you’re gonna have to take my cat.”

  “What?” This was getting ridiculous. I sat down next to her.

  “Yeah. You got to get my fucking cat out of here.” She turned and stared back up at the screen. “Hey, who do you think is hotter? Clooney or Pitt? Damon has that weird lip thing, so he’s out. I don’t even know why I’m asking. They’re like, way too fucking old, but I kind of like old guys. Oh, see what that Sudafed has done to me? I’m losing it. So, what do you think?”

  “About what?” I was still mulling over the cat comment.

  “The guys! God, are you high or something?”

  “No. I’m just confused. What did you say about your cat?” I asked.

  “Answer the question! Which guy do you think is better looking? Which one would you do, for God’s sakes?” She pointed to the screen. “I’ve seen this movie twenty-seven times. Count that! Twenty-fucking-seven!” She paused for a moment shooting a quick assessing glance my way. “Oh my God. I get it. You’re gay! I know a chick you might like.” She kept her blue eyes trained on the screen. “She’s a gourmet chef who owns, like, six of my favorite restaurants. How cool would that be?”

  “I’m not gay!” I shouted.

  She flicked a hurt glance my way, “Hell, you don’t have to bite my head off. What, do you have a problem with gay people?”

  “No! I just—” Big sigh. “Can you tell me what you meant about your cat?”

  “Fine, but pick a dude first. I’m going Clooney cause I think Angelina could kick my ass and who needs that. Then, like all twenty-five bazillion of their fucking kids would jump me, and, well, you get my drift . . .” She tossed up her hands.

  This was getting surreal. “Right. I actually think Matt Damon is good looking.”

  She stopped staring at the screen to narrow her eyes at me. “You’re a strange chick.”

  “Um, can you please explain the situation with your cat, because I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”

  Simone rolled her eyes. “It’s not complicated. No wonder you’re a make-up chick.” She shook her head.

  At that moment, I had a very clear vision of my fist punching into her cosmetically enhanced nose. I even briefly thought of quitting, but then the reality of what I now had and where I’d come from hit, and I shut my mouth.

  “The cat. His name is McConaughey. Get it, after Matthew who I had a little fun with one night, but then he had to shack up in his trailer and have babies with that Brazilian chick . . . Anyway, I’m totally allergic to McConaughey, and he has to get the fuck out of here.” She wiggled her fingers.

  “And you want me to take him?”

  She pointed at me and winked. “Bingo. You’re catching on.”

  “What do you want me to do with him?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Take him to a shelter or something.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “Okay, where is he? I really do need to get home. If I have to be back here by seven, I should get some rest and so should you.”

  “Look at you, Mommy. Stay the night here. I have more than enough room. Obviously.”

  “No. I can’t. I can’t leave Cass in the van and I, uh, I always water the lawn at night to be, you know, environmentally conservative.” I so did not want to be stuck overnight at Simone’s place.

  She gave me an odd look. “Whatever. Just hope I don’t fucking kick the bucket tonight.”

  I shook my head. “I think you’re okay. Drink lots of water and go to bed,” I said, and then muttered under my breath, “and maybe you should wash your mouth out while you’re at it.”

  “Oh sure, then I’ll be pissing all night long. Wouldn’t that be great? H
mmm. The cat. He’s around here somewhere. He’s an orange tabby with a weight problem.”

  “Would you, by chance, have a cat carrier?” I asked.

  “Where the fuck do you think you are? Petsmart?”

  “I’ll figure it out,” I said.

  “See you in the a.m.” She turned back to her movie and left me to make my escape.

  I found McConaughey on the kitchen counter eating what looked to be the remnants of that evening’s dinner—some kind of fish. Lucky cat. And Simone had not been kidding about the weight problem. He must have weighed at least twenty-five pounds. His name should have been Garfield. I eyed the plate of leftovers McConaughey was currently chowing down on . . . it was pretty clear how he got so fat. Simone’s cleaning service went home daily and she had drop-off delivery for her meals, which meant the leftovers sat out for the following morning’s cleaning service to clean. If there were any left.

  I sighed. “Okay, kitty. Looks like it’s you and me and my dog.” The cat eyed me suspiciously as he continued to lick the plate clean. “And I’m sorry, buddy, but as of this moment, you are on a diet.” I already knew there was no way I could take the cat to a shelter. I was banking on Cass being cool with her new feline friend considering my mother had two cats back home.

  What I didn’t expect was Mac (I had to shorten the name. There was no way I could visualize Matthew McConaughey when I called the fat cat) might have an issue with Cass.

  The car drive home was interesting. Mac hissed and howled at Cass who sat in the front seat, her chastising eyes boring into the side of my head.

  I decided it best to drop Mac at the house and lock him in the laundry room while Cass and I went to the store to pick up necessary cat items—a litter box for starters, and some diet food.

  Finally, past our bedtimes, Cass and I walked through the front door of the mansion. She froze. Her ears pricked forward and the scruff of her neck stood on end.

  “What is it, girl?” I whispered, noting a strange feeling in the room. I’d had that feeling before, but this time, it was front and center. The air felt dense, heavy. Really heavy. Almost like water. And again—that damn pot smell in the air! I took another step further inside and Cass let out a low growl. My fingers grew cold and a shiver went straight down my back. Suddenly, I felt a breeze pass through me, not over me, but through me. I shivered again. And then Cass dropped her guard and began sniffing me, the surrounding foyer, and family room beyond.

  My sister’s face suddenly surfaced in my mind. And then an eerie howl echoed up from the basement, startling me into action.

  “Mac!” I ran down the back stairs with Cass in tow, to find one freaked out feline wedged behind the washing machine.

  Getting an overweight cat from behind a stackable washer and dryer is no easy feat. How he got behind there in the first place, I have no clue, but after shoving, pushing, and inching the machinery forward for several minutes—and nearly slipping a disc in the process—Mac shimmied out and shot off through the laundry room and up the stairs. Cass and I ran after him, but he’d hidden himself in the depths of the house, and at that point, I was too exhausted to send out a search party for my overweight friend. He couldn’t get out as far as I knew. I set out food, water, and a litter box and prayed he’d find them in case he had to do his thing. Then I headed to my room and to bed.

  I thought sleep would come quickly. At least I’d hoped it would. But it didn’t. Between thoughts of my sister, Simone, Mac, and the constant faint scent of marijuana floating through the halls, it was hard to fall asleep. But eventually I drifted off . . . or at least I assumed I had, because ever so slowly, the marijuana smell grew stronger, combining itself with the soft, familiar melody of Bob Marley’s “Buffalo Soldier.” It was almost as if Bob was right there in the room with me, next to my bed. As far as dreams went, this one was pretty nice. I mean, I never much cared for the smell of pot, and getting high was definitely not my thing. But I did like Bob Marley, and it was all so . . . peaceful.

  Then the dream changed—in a big way. How do I put this? I am not one for sex dreams. I don’t have much sex, so dreaming about it isn’t a regular occurrence in my life. But on those rare occasions when I do, I only have a vague sense that I’ve done it with someone. Usually it’s someone famous like, well, Matt Damon. Sometimes it’s someone ridiculous like the fellow in line at the DMV (scary). Then I wake up and think, Huh. That was interesting. But this . . . this was like insanely crazy, wild sex. It wasn’t just wild though. It was kinky and dark and I felt violated.

  In the dream, I could see the man with me. He was blonde, with gold-colored skin and an eerie, blue-black glow surrounding him. He had hazel eyes that seemed oddly dark and in all honesty—demonic. And they looked right through me. I felt panicky and afraid as my heart raced, pounding hard in my chest. I repeatedly tried to wake myself but I couldn’t make it happen. Finally, Cass woke me with loud, sharp bark. I flipped on the light to see her fur sticking straight up, her back hunched, and her eyes wild.

  “Cass! What is it?!” I focused, trying to see if maybe Mac had come in the room and startled her. But there was no cat in sight. I calmly spoke to her until she settled down, and then I pulled the rumpled sheets and covers back up over me. I must have been really struggling in my sleep. I tucked the covers up around me. As I lay in the darkened room, waiting for sleep to arrive, I began to suspect Cass, Mac, and I were not the only beings at this house in the Hollywood Hills.

  Chapter Eight

  AT TEN PAST SEVEN the next morning, I could be found at Starbucks insisting to a barista she did indeed have everything needed to make a pumpkin spice latte in June. She, sadly, didn’t agree. I tried pulling the, “I’m Simone’s assistant, you know, the Simone” line. Her response?

  “Right. Whoever you are, I can assure you we don’t serve pumpkin spice lattes in June. How about hazelnut? That should make anyone happy.”

  “Oh, fine.” I glanced at my watch, knowing there was going to be hell to pay. I’d overslept, probably the result of that disturbing sex dream combined with Mac waking me when he eventually found his way to my room and crashed on my pillow. Suffice it to say, it hadn’t been the most restful of nights. I’d darted out of bed and then out of the house, leaving Cass and my new feline friend inside to sort things out.

  And here I was, running behind schedule and without the requested pumpkin spice latte to sweeten the deal. I grabbed the hazelnut mocha or latte or whatever it was, and kicked the van into high gear—which means not high at all—making it to Simone’s about twenty minutes late.

  She greeted me at the door with a bright red nose, red-rimmed eyes, hair in a rat’s nest, and hands on her hips. She wore a short, hot pink-colored silk robe with some kind of lace teddy underneath. Simone stared at me like I’d slapped her. She grabbed the hazelnut drink and took a sip. She spit it out. “What the fuck is this?!”

  “I’m sorry, Simone. Look, the girl at the counter insisted she did not have pumpkin spice. I pleaded with her. I told her I was your assistant. I don’t think she believed me.”

  She grabbed my arm. “Come on.”

  “What?”

  “Did I stutter? Come on.”

  I followed her outside.

  “Are your keys in this piece of shit?” She smacked her hand on the van.

  “Yes.”

  “Get in.”

  Oh no. This was it. I had lost the only real paying job I’d ever had. She was sending me on my way. I had been fired. “I am really sorry. I am.”

  “Get. In. The. Van.” She pointed at the driver’s side, her slipper-clad foot tapping impatiently.

  “Hey, you can fire me, but that means you don’t get to order me around like this anymore.”

  “I’m not firing you, loser. We’re going to Starbucks.”

  “I told you, she said—“

  “I don’t care what that idiot said,” Simone said. “Now drive me to Starbucks.”

  We turned right off of Mullholland. �
��God, Edie, I can’t believe you drive this tin can.” She wiped her hands down her face tiredly.

  “It’s all I can really afford, and it gets me where I need to go. I’m saving my money.”

  “Saving your money? Why?”

  “Uh, well, that’s what most people do. They budget and save so one day they have nice things and can travel or afford to send their kids to college.”

  Simone shook her head. “Whatever. You don’t even have kids.”

  We drove the rest of the way in silence until I pulled into the Starbucks parking lot. Simone grabbed the handle and threw the door open.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I am going to get my fucking pumpkin spice latte. You stay here.” With that, she was out the door and marching into Starbucks wearing nothing but her pajamas.

  I groaned, certain it wouldn’t be long before the paparazzi showed up or someone whipped out a camera phone. All I knew was somehow this was going to end up my fault.

  Less than five minutes later, she strolled out with two coffees in hand. She got into the van just as a crowd started gathering, handed me one of the cups, and said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  I turned off of Sunset and floored it, as ordered. Once we’d reached cruising speed, I glanced over at Simone and asked, “What did you say in there?”

  “Oh nothing much. Just let them know the next time my assistant comes in and asks for a pumpkin spice latte, they better fucking well give it to you. They gave me two. What do you think?” She motioned to the coffee.

  “I think you should stop using the ‘F’ word.”

  “No, what do you think about the latte?” She rolled her eyes.

  I took a sip. I wasn’t really partial to super sweet coffee, and I really don’t like pumpkin, but I figured now was not the time for honesty. “It’s great.”