I have no idea who Karen is talking to, but I can tell they’re talking about me.
Karen continues, “No problem at all. I’ll send her right over with the guitar. My pleasure. And it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” Karen hangs up.
I ask, “Who was that?”
Karen arches a suggestive eyebrow, “That was Julian Whittaker. The handsome blond suit who bought the gold top Gibson Les Paul yesterday. He wants you to deliver his guitar. Today. He sounded impatient to see you.”
Excitement flutters through me. I’d almost forgotten about Julian.
But it seems he didn’t forget about me.
Chapter 45
VICTORY
My Altima spirals up the winding road into the Hollywood Hills. The sun is high overhead as I crest another hill along the road.
I catch a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean ten miles to the west. Too bad L.A. has so much traffic, otherwise I’d probably make it to the beach way more than I do.
Julian Whittaker’s house is only a few miles from the shop. I looked up the address online and drew a map for myself before I left, but the roads around here are so squiggly, I hope I don’t get lost.
The radio plays.
I tap the wheel with my fingers in time to the bouncy reggae beat of Jessie J’s hit single Price Tag, featuring B.o.B.
It’s the perfect music for this perfect weather.
When the song ends, it slides right into a tune I haven’t heard before. It sounds like Layce, but I don’t know this one. Maybe it’s a new single? It doesn’t take long before I’m dancing in my seat, weaving my shoulders to the beat.
It’s a bittersweet song about a girl who thinks guys don’t dig her, so she’s trying to talk herself up to be more confident and believe in herself.
The chorus is super hooky, and by the third time I hear it, I’m singing along.
“I’m
So
Irresistible
Boyz
Want me
Cuz I got the flow”
I smile from ear to ear, alone in my car, the windows down, the breeze in my hair.
“I’m
So
Irresistible
istible
Irre
sista
sista
bah-bah-bah-bah
buuuull”
My voice is light, smooth, and airy. I haven’t had this much fun since
(Stop!!!)
My throat chokes and knots into a handful of gravel. I cough several times, unable to sing as the song finishes the final repeat of the chorus.
Tears dribble down my face and I wipe my cheeks. Good thing I’m not wearing mascara.
The song ends and the D.J. on the radio says, “That was the new single ‘So Irresistible’ by Layce from her upcoming album ‘I Rise’ produced by those star making whiz kids Mad Max and Lord Jah—”
I pull my car over at the first parking space I find on the winding road and put the shifter in park.
I’m panicking, on the verge of total meltdown.
The D.J. continues, “…you can meet Layce in person at Amoeba Music in the heart of Hollywood this afternoon…”
My chest spasms and I try to lock it down, but there’s no stopping it this time.
(don’t sing)
“…people were already lined up half way around the building when I drove by Amoeba on my way to work this morning…”
I cough out a hoarse shout, a rebellious “NO!” but it breaks up into useless shards of broken conviction.
(don’t sing)
I sob so hard I start wheezing.
(never ever sing)
I don’t know how long it lasts.
At some point a gardener’s truck drives toward me on the narrow road. Garden tools sprout from it like metallic porcupine quills. Rakes, brooms, edgers, lawnmower handles, and leaf blowers. The driver looks at me as he passes on my left.
I hide my face in my long loose hair until he’s gone.
(never ever ever sing)
I check myself in the rearview mirror and smear my cheeks clean.
I’m tempted to turn my car around and go home. Then I remember I don’t have a home. I’m already sitting in it. I consider finding the nearest cliff and driving my miniature mobile home over the edge.
I sigh heavily.
Giving up has never been my style.
I just need to get my shit together and deliver the guitar to Julian Whittaker.
After a few minutes of deep breathing, I put my car in drive and continue toward Julian Whittaker’s house. The houses get bigger and fancier the higher I go. I make a wrong turn and have to back track. I’m happy for the delay. It gives me more time to collect myself.
When I reach the address, I’m back to my old self again.
All I find is a long curving wall of green bushes interrupted by a nondescript black gate. Beside the gate is a brick column with fancy brushed metal numbers mounted on the front. On the side of the column is a speaker box with a button.
I press the button.
A second later, a female voice says, “Yes?”
“I’m here for—” I cough and clear my throat, “I’m here with the guitar for Julian Whittaker?”
There’s no response. A few seconds later the gate rolls open silently.
So mysterious. Like, whatever goes on behind these gates is illegal and super exciting.
Who knows, maybe it is.
The road to the house is maybe 200 feet long. It curves up to a driveway with a six car garage burrowed into the hillside beneath the house. A bunch of expensive cars are parked in front of it.
I recognize the black Ferrari Julian drove yesterday. It’s a 458 Spider with red interior. The top is off. It reminds me of the old Batmobile, except way sexier.
There’s also a high end black Range Rover with silver trim. I know a little bit about fancy super cars like Ferraris and Lambos, but not much about high-end SUVs.
The third car I totally know. It’s a 1970 Dodge Super Bee. The whole car has been lowered but the rear end is a couple inches higher than the front, giving it that sloped dragster look. The custom rims are oversized with low profile tires. The car is metallic apple green with a black stripe around the trunk. The intake paths on the twin hood scoop are also painted black. It’s got rear quarter panel side scoops and running lights beneath the quad headlights, none of which is stock, but looks like it should be. Someone spent a bundle on this mod. I wish my dad was here to see it. He’d love it.
If the Dodge is Julian’s car, he has way better taste than I gave him credit for. It’s one thing to throw a bunch of money at a Ferrari. It’s another to take a classic muscle car and make it better. That takes art.
Maybe Julian isn’t as Metrosexual as he seemed yesterday.
The house above the garage is all white and straight lines. It has lots of windows and a 1960s modern minimalist feel to it.
I like it.
I park my Altima to the side, so I’m not blocking any of the cars, and pull the gold top Les Paul out of my back seat where I stowed it on the floor. I didn’t want to make the Les Paul slum it with my two garbage bags of stuff still in the trunk. Les Paul deserves better.
I carry the guitar up the square stone stairs that lead to the front door of the house.
I ring the bell and wait.
The sound of a garage door moving below drifts up to where I’m standing. I glance down toward the driveway.
Someone walks out between the cars.
My first thought is that Julian has come to meet me at my car. Very thoughtful. I should walk down to meet him.
Then I notice the guy has a big leather top hat with silver buckles around it and a huge pile of curly black hair sprouting from beneath the brim. He’s wearing a leather jacket, torn jeans, and boots. When he opens the door of the Dodge Super Bee, I see he’s wearing mirrored sunglasses.
He’s so far away, I can’t be sure, but I think that is…
&
nbsp; “Victory!” Julian says after whipping open one of the front doors.
I almost jump out of my rocker boots, “Jesus!”
Julian chuckles, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
My heart pounds in my chest, but I look back down at the driveway at the guy in the Dodge. The engine has that 4 rpm idle speed I love on a Mopar.
Chug. Chug. Chug.
Rugged poetry.
The car backs up and does a three point turn in the driveway.
“Is that—” I turn to Julian, “is that Slash?”
Julian nods, “Yes.”
“Like, Guns N’ Roses Slash?”
“The same,” Julian grins pleasantly.
I can’t help myself. I’m star struck. Part of me wants to run down the square stone steps to the driveway and ask for Slash’s autograph before he leaves. But I keep it together and pretend like it’s no big deal.
Not.
SLASH!!!
I gush, “What’s Slash doing here?” I never figured Julian for the kind of guy to have Slash at his house. Maybe some Wall Street guys or Bill Gates or whoever. But freakin’ Slash?
“I’m talking to him about doing some work on an upcoming project of mine.”
“You work with Slash?” I’m losing my mind.
Julian grins, “Not yet. But I might. Let me get you a drink inside.”
“Oh, okay.”
Julian wears a tailored button down shirt over chinos and Adidas tennis shoes. A huge change from the suit and tie look he wore when I met him. Now he’s almost hipster preppy. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing the hint of a lithely muscled chest. He’s quite tan and I notice his arms are defined and criss crossed with veins, but he’s not overly muscly. He has more of a swimmer’s body with broad shoulders and long legs. Not bad. I wonder if he did modeling at some point? He’s more than good looking enough. It would explain his practiced casual body language.
Inside the house are more clean lines and minimal decor. The furniture is low profile white rectangles and the floor is light colored wood. I can’t decide if it’s sterile or peaceful. Maybe that’s the same thing? I wouldn’t know. But it’s definitely impressively expensive without being obvious.
Julian smiles, “You can set the guitar down over there.” He points to a round elevated side area connected to the living room. Two steps lead into it. Glass windows go all the way around, from the floor to the super high ceiling, almost like a giant glass test tube. In the middle of it is a black grand piano surrounded by cellos, those big violins I think are called violas, and regular violins, all resting on elegant wood stands. There’s also a bunch of hand carved sheet music stands.
I walk up the two steps.
“Wow,” I say, “Do you play all these?”
“What, the instruments?”
“Yeah.”
“Frequently,” he smiles. “You can set the guitar in the corner. Let me get you a refreshment.”
I put the guitar down beside the cello and follow Julian into the naturally lit kitchen.
A very attractive classy looking woman in a cross front keyhole blouse stands at a long counter doing something on an iPad. Her blouse tucks into pleated wide leg pants cinched with a thin belt. The pants cover her peep toe pumps. Her hair is fancy and up, like she’s going out for the evening, but it’s just past lunch time. Standard issue rich housewife.
I can only guess this woman is Julian’s girlfriend or wife. It’s Sunday, after all. Why else would she be here if she wasn’t with Julian?
Compared to her, I look like a slob in my ripped jeans and boots. For once, I’m not wearing a black concert t-shirt. Instead, my shirt is white and form fitting and I bought it new, but it still has a random black print on it.
Anyway, I was right about Julian. He’s a scammer, hitting on me when he has a glamorous wife waiting at home.
“Victory,” Julian smiles, “this is my assistant, Colette.”
Colette looks up from her iPad and walks over to shake my hand. Her shoes clack on the cold tile floor. We shake, and she says, “Can I get you something to drink?”
I smile, “Uh, sure. Water?”
Colette grins, “Flavored, filtered, smart, or gassed?”
“Gassed?” I giggle. Gassed sounds like farts. Doesn’t sound very smart to me.
“I’m sorry,” Colette smiles indulgently, “Americans use the word sparkling. What would you prefer?”
I think she has some kind of European accent, but I can’t tell for sure.
I stammer, “Oh, uh, regular, I guess?”
Colette gets a squarish glass from a cupboard, puts some ice chunks from the fridge into it, and fills it from a special little spout on the sink. She hands me the glass with a smile.
“Thanks,” I nod. I probably could’ve done that myself, but whatever. I’m not used to being served, but I guess I’m the guest.
Colette turns to Julian, “Do you need anything else?”
“Not right now, thank you, Colette,” Julian nods and he casually slides his hands into his pockets. He’s more laid back than yesterday, but still seems posey to me. I wonder if he’s one of those guys who never relaxes all the way. Too soon to tell.
Colette walks out of the room.
I sip my water. Julian isn’t saying anything, just staring at me with a vaguely creepy look on his very handsome face, which makes me uncomfortable, so I say, “So, you’re a musician?”
He nods, smiles, and his face relaxes noticeably, “I am.”
“What do you play?”
“Primarily the violin, cello and viola. But I also dabble on the piano and a few different wind instruments.”
“But you don’t play the guitar?”
“Not like you,” he grins, his face finally relaxing and losing the last of his creepy look. “That’s why I asked you to play the Les Paul at the store yesterday. I suspected you might know your way around a guitar better than I do. Apparently, I was right.”
I shrug and sip my water.
“Speaking of which,” he grins, “I wonder if I could ask a favor of you?”
“Sure.”
“Can you put that gold top Les Paul to work for me?”
I frown, “I thought you said it was a gift.”
“It is, but before I send it along, I’d like to make a recording with it.”
“I’m not sure what you mean…”
“Follow me,” he says and walks out of the kitchen.
I shrug and set my water down on the counter with a soft clink.
Over his shoulder he says, “Bring your water with you. This may take awhile.”
Yes, master.
Yeah, right.
Julian’s weird.
I leave the water behind and walk back to the big living room. If I didn’t know Colette was in the house, I might have made an excuse to leave. Oh well. I’ve got my rape knife in my crappy leather purse. Julian can try anything he wants if he doesn’t mind getting stabbed.
When I turn the corner into the living room, he’s holding the gold top guitar case in hand. He glances at my empty hands and smiles, “Not thirsty?”
“Nope,” I grin confidently.
“This way,” he says, striding casually past me with the guitar.
I follow him down a long hallway and we descend a long staircase. Are we going to the sex dungeon?
There’s several closed doors in the downstairs hallway. Probably has girls chained up with ball gags and their tits hanging out, all covered with whip welts.
Julian seems like the type.
He opens one of the doors, “After you.”
No murder victims. But I’ve just died and gone to heaven.
Chapter 46
VICTORY
Julian’s secret room is a huge high-end recording studio.
In his freakin’ house.
He and I are standing in the control room, which has racks and racks of recording gear along the back wall. Their front panels blink a rainbo
w of colored lights.
The front wall has high-end monitor speakers sitting on top of a huge multi channel mixing console with about a thousand buttons, knobs, and sliders. Through the control room window over the console, I can see the wood paneled recording room which currently has a bunch of chairs, music stands, microphones, and various musical instruments scattered around.
“Holy shit,” I blurt.
Julian smiles, “You like?”
I nod, “Yeah.” I’ve been in some pretty fancy studios around Hollywood, but nothing this nice. And not in someone’s freakin’ house. I’m so jealous of Julian. Lucky bastard. “What do you use this for?”
He chuckles sarcastically, “Recording?”
I roll my eyes, “You know what I mean. What kind of recording?”
His flashing green eyes take on a new glow as he speaks, “It ranges across the entire spectrum. I produce everything from albums to rough demos. I compose music for film and television, as well as commercial advertising. Sometimes I produce a video game soundtrack or two. I even did a few audio books while going through a minimalist phase. I wanted to focus entirely on the rhythm and melody of the solo voice using only the spoken word, and to see how the process was done. An incredible amount of work goes into an audio book, but it was a fascinating learning experience.”
He clearly loves his work.
I gaze at everything in the control room and drool over all the recording equipment I could never afford but dreamed of having.
This place is paradise. I could live here and never come out. Well, not until I recorded an entire album first, then I’d come out and tour like crazy. Wow, the possibilities.
Too bad it’s not mine.
Underneath all of my excitement at seeing this amazing recording studio is the constant awareness of Julian. He’s really not as weird as I first thought. Maybe a bit formal for my tastes, but he seems as thoughtful as he is handsome.
Julian sets the Gibson case on the floor and opens it up. He holds out the golden guitar, “Take this.”
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