Geez, how much money does this guy keep in his wallet? Maybe he really did have thirty grand cash on him yesterday at the shop.
He counts out several bills and says, “I owe you this for delivering the guitar. A thousand dollars, like I promised. Remember, this is for you. For delivery. Not the shop.”
“That’s very generous of you, but I really can’t.”
“Victory, you need to learn to negotiate. You’re going to get taken advantage of in the music business if you don’t. I wouldn’t have all this,” he motions around at the house, “if I told everyone I can’t accept their money.”
That makes sense. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. I guess I wasn’t raised that way. I’m used to paychecks and clocking in and out for my shift.
Julian lifts my hand from my side and squeezes the bills into it. “This is yours, okay?”
I don’t tell him I’m going to give it to Johnny and Karen when I get back to the shop because I owe them for the Contrares. “Oh shit! I need to get back to work! I’ve been gone almost two hours!”
“I’m sure they’ll understand. Before you go, I need your email address, for the consent waiver.”
“Oh, uh…” how do I tell him I’m not checking email much while I’m living in my car and I can’t afford a smart phone?
“Or you can come by my house later in the week, sign a copy of the waiver, and leave it with me. I’ll take you to dinner after.”
“What?” I blurt, surprised.
“I would really like to see you again, Victory. You’re a fascinating young woman.”
“Are you asking me out on a date?” I say with minimal coyness.
He lifts my other hand, the one not clutching a thousand in cash (the first thousand is buried at the bottom of my purse), and kisses the back of it. I notice again how smooth and tan his skin is.
“Yes,” his green eyes flicker as he gazes into mine.
His lips feel soft and warm on my hand.
Jolts sizzle up my arm and dive into my belly, where they bounce around pleasantly, leaving me tingling. He looks double dashing while kissing my hand. His eyes sparkle up at me with obvious interest.
Yeah, he’s totally hot. And not some lame banker or stock broker.
“Okay,” I say.
“Good. Then we can discuss the possibility of having you do some more session work for me. I suspect I’ve just scratched the surface of your musical potential.”
“More?”
“More work, and more money. I predict you and I will be spending a lot of time together in the recording studio in the very near future.”
After we say goodbye, I float down the square stone steps outside to my Altima while my head spins.
I vaguely remember Johnny saying something about doors opening and closing.
I’m still tingling when I park near Big Momma’s Guitars.
Chapter 48
VICTORY
“You didn’t tell us you’re living in your car!!” Karen gawks.
I lean against the glass counter top in Big Momma’s Guitars, “I guess I forgot to mention it?” Too embarrassed is more like it. But it slipped out when I told Johnny and Karen I was going to use the two grand Julian paid me to pay back part of the Contrares.
“Don’t tell me Scott kicked you out,” Karen growls. “I have half a mind to put a hex on him.”
I grin. I wish she would. But instead of requesting a hex, I say, “No. I moved all my stuff out on Friday night after our show.”
“And you slept in your car?” Karen gasps.
“Only one night,” I say defensively. I don’t know why I feel bad, but I do.
“Why didn’t you call us?” Johnny asks, obviously hurt. “You could’ve crashed at our apartment.”
“It was late?” I say lamely.
Karen shakes her head, “That’s no excuse. You’re staying with us until you find your own place.”
Their apartment is really small. I feel bad.
“We insist,” Johnny says.
“In that case,” I say, “I should totally give you the money I made to pay for the Contrares.”
Johnny shakes his head, “That money is yours, Sunshine. Like I said, pay us back when you can afford it.”
“But the shop is closing,” I argue.
He scoffs, “It’s not because of you or that busted Contrares. Me and the old lady want to retire. We’re fixed up good when it comes to money.”
“You’re sure?”
Karen rests her hand on my wrist, “Use the money you earned to find a place to live or buy a new guitar. Whichever you choose, Victory. Johnny and I will be fine.” She pats my wrist several times.
I say, “You guys are totally sure?”
Karen and Johnny nod in unison.
Johnny says, “And you’re welcome to stay with us until you get situated. Right, Momma?”
Karen nods, “It’ll be nice to have someone keeping us company at the dinner table for a change.”
“Wow, you guys,” I feel my eyes heating up, “Thank you so much.”
They both hug me at the same time. Johnny and Karen are all about the free hugs.
I feel loved.
Then I tense when I remember that all my stuff is at Kellan’s.
All the distractions of the day have noticeably cleared my head on the topic of Kellan.
Jumping into a band with Kellan and crashing at his apartment is craziness. An image of him lying naked in bed flashes through my mind. I shiver pleasurably, which is bad. I can’t think clearly around him. He makes my head spin way too much. One night of jamming with him and sleeping on his couch was fine. I managed to resist his charms. But two nights and starting a band will lead to trouble. Those abs and arms of his will wear me down. And his cute butt?
I don’t stand a chance.
What I need right now is my own space to get grounded after my break up with Scott and Skin Trade.
Tonight, I’m going to crash at Johnny and Karen’s. First thing tomorrow, I’ll start looking for a cheap room somewhere. Then I’ll do a job search and talk to Julian about that session work he mentioned. That’s the sensible thing to do.
Not sleep in an apartment with hot naked Kellan and start a band with him.
I’ll just have to break the news to Kellan gently.
My stomach knots at the thought.
Chapter 49
KELLAN
The YouTube upload status bar crawls slowly to the right while I sit in front of the computer in my living room.
I type in a title: “Ms. Yngwie Malmsteen - Hot girl guitar shredder.” This video, the one I recorded with Victory last night, will get more views with a title like that.
In the description, I put, “Victory, the former lead guitar player of Skin Trade, shreds on guitar like she’s Yngwie Malmsteen. Accompanied by Kellan Burns.”
Too bad I don’t know her last name. Oh well, most people probably don’t either. I bet her stage name is just Victory anyway.
I add as many tags as I can think of, typing in the names of all the guitar shredders I can, both male and female, plus a bunch of music terminology. I want to get the guitar nerds watching her video. Most of them are guys and they’ll come in their jeans when they take one look at Victory. But when they hear her play, they’re going to shit themselves or their brains will explode. Afterwards, probably half of them will give up playing guitar out of jealousy.
I already know this video is going to blow up big.
Juliette Valduriez already has 3.5 million views for her “Girl Shreds on Guitar” video, but I think Victory is gonna get more.
It’s only a matter of time.
I grab my skyburst Les Paul and sit down on the couch. I strum it, unplugged.
Now we just need to round up a good drummer and bass player so me and Victory can start writing tunes.
When the video finishes loading, I set it to public so the whole world can see it.
Then I load up my recording software and st
art recording various riff fragments I come up with, or jot down lyric ideas.
Man, I wish Victory was here right now so we could write together. No worries. I’ll see her tonight when she finishes work.
We can write songs together until we fall asleep.
I’m grinning like crazy thinking about it.
I should hit up Ralph’s and stock up my refrigerator so we can work without interruption. I’m kind of in the mood for sub sandwiches and I’m out of French bread and prosciutto.
I can’t wait to see Victory.
I hope she likes sub sandwiches.
Chapter 50
VICTORY
“Hello? Anybody home?” I say as I lean my head inside the front door of Kellan’s apartment. I unlocked it with the spare key he gave me before I left for work this morning.
No answer.
I step inside. The apartment is hot and stuffy. Kellan must’ve had it closed up all day and it cooked in the L.A. heat.
I carefully lean my head around the corner of the short hallway leading to his bedroom to make sure he’s not taking a naked nap or something.
Nope. I’m all alone.
Time to get my stuff and get out of here.
It doesn’t take long to throw everything into my black garbage bag. I wheel my Marshall cabinet out the front door with the garbage bag on top.
I’m about to lock the door when I realize I still have his key. I don’t want it. I walk inside and leave it on his computer table in the living room where he’ll see it, then lock the front door on my way out.
Made it.
Now I just have to wheel my Marshall and my garbage bag to my Altima down the block, and I’m outta here.
Why does it feel like sneaking out of here before Kellan returns is so important?
My intuition tells me so, that’s why.
When I get to the street, I lower my Marshall from the sidewalk to the asphalt easily. Getting it into my Altima by myself is going to be a bit more work. Kellan made it look like nothing. But I’m not big and buff like him.
I roll the cabinet up to my car and open the back door. I stand with hands on hips. What’s the best way to do this? Besides hiring a day laborer or two from outside Home Depot to load it up?
I don’t have the money or the time to spare. I need to get out of here.
I’ll figure it out.
I lift one end of the Marshall, which weighs a ton, but I manage to hook the front casters on the edge of the Altima’s door frame. Of course, there’s another foot to go before the front end of the cabinet actually rests on the back seat cushion. Damn, why can’t this thing fit in the trunk? Not like I could lift it, and there’s no sense wondering.
Maybe if I lift up the back end and push toward the passenger door? That’s ridiculous. What I need is a ramp or an engine hoist.
I do my best to muscle the bottom front edge of the speaker cabinet onto the back seat. Made it. Now I just have to push the whole thing all the way up onto the seat.
Let the heavy lifting begin.
I squat beneath the back end and push with everything I have. Wow, this thing is really heavy! I strain with all my muscles and feel like I’m going to pop a vein in my neck or give myself a stroke. Not gonna work. I set the back end down on the street.
“Need some help?” Kellan says, straddling his black Honda.
“Oh!” I jump. “Where’d you come from?!” I hope I don’t sound surprised or guilty, because that’s how I feel. I must’ve been so focused on getting my Marshall into the car, I didn’t notice him ride up.
He puts the kickstand down on his bike.
“I’ve got it,” I insist.
He smirks at me, “You sure?”
I pick up the back end handle, but it’s quickly obvious this won’t work because I’m not tall enough. I set the cabinet down on it’s rear casters with a huff. I have to shove the thing in. If I can.
Kellan swings his leg over the bike, takes his helmet off, and sets it on the gas tank. He’s also wearing a backpack, which he takes off and sets on the seat. “I’ll do it.”
“I told you,” I sigh, “I’ve got it.”
He shoulders past me, picks my Marshall up like it’s weightless, and slides it in the backseat.
“Thanks,” I say flatly.
“You’re welcome. Taking off?”
“Uh, yeah.” I was really hoping to avoid this discussion, but my stealth retreat was delayed by lack of man power.
“Got someplace safe to stay?” he asks coldly, his charm and humor all gone.
Did I do that? Make him mad? I feel bad. “Yeah,” I nod, “at my friends’ place. They said I could stay there as long as I need to.”
“Awesome,” he says like it’s the least awesome thing ever invented.
I feel like I owe him an explanation or something, but he doesn’t seem to be asking for one. I search his darkened eyes, but he quickly breaks eye contact.
He says sourly, “I should park my bike and get inside.”
I notice a baguette of French bread poking out the top of his backpack on the motorcycle seat. I ask, “What’s with the French bread? Making sandwiches?”
“Got a date tonight,” he says absently.
I gasp, “You have a date?” Why am I not shocked? But why am I slightly jealous?
“Yup.” He flashes a hard humorless smile and stares into my eyes, “Don’t you know I have a date every night?” All of his light-hearted cocky confidence is gone. “Different chick every time.”
Now he’s trying to hurt my feelings. He’s pissed, but he’s hiding it.
Is he mad because I left without telling him? It’s the only reason I can think of. “Kellan, I’m sorry. But I just broke up with Scott and the band. I need some time to, you know, get over it? Sort things out? It’s probably best I do it on neutral ground.”
“Neutral ground?” he asks with a tinge of sarcasm.
How to answer that diplomatically? “Um, not at a guy’s place who I just met?” Why do I feel like I’m making weak excuses? I’m not. It makes sense, right? Kellan would be a rebound, and we both know it.
Right?
The committee in my head is silent.
“Whatever works,” he sighs.
Is he not angry? I can’t really tell. Now he seems disinterested. Maybe this is proof I was no more than a fling for him all along? That our connection was just due to the late hour and the beer he drank and my exhaustion and all the pizza? Yeah, that has to be it. I’m sure Kellan jams with other guitar players like me all the time. They’re all over L.A.
Just like Scott said.
I’m just one among Kellan’s many.
Kellan says, “I need to go get ready.” He hops on his bike, puts his helmet and backpack on, and rides up the driveway into his apartment complex.
I watch him go while I stand in the middle of the empty street.
Should I go talk to him?
Yes?
No?
Yes? No?
Yes? NO! Yes? No!! Yes? NO!!!!
YEEEESSSS!!!!
Now my committee has an opinion.
Stupid committee.
I sigh harshly and stalk across the street.
His bike is locked up like before and I step onto the stoop of his front door. I raise my hand to knock. My knuckles pause an inch from the door when I hear him chattering away on his phone through an open window in the kitchen.
He chuckles, “She was lame, man…Yeah…Total waste of time.” Kellan doesn’t sound angry now. He sounds relieved.
Is he talking about me?
I’m not lame.
He says to his phone call, “I need to focus more on music anyway, not waste my time on some stupid chick.”
I’m not stupid! And I’m not a waste!
Kellan’s officially an ass.
Most manwhores usually are.
I should’ve known better.
Kellan is as bad as Scott.
What was I thinking last night when I
decided to crash at Kellan’s apartment? I wasn’t, that’s what. I should’ve sucked up another stiff neck and slept in my car.
I turn on my heel and march to my car.
I need to find a guitar and put a band together.
Without stupid Kellan.
Chapter 51
KELLAN
I dribble the ball a few times on the outdoor court, fake left, then shoot right around my buddy Dubs. He tries to hip check me off balance, but I twist and slide by. Two steps and I spring upward, floating toward the basket. I dunk the ball one handed through the rim.
Dubs grins, “You the only white man I know can jump like that.” His hands rest casually on his hips.
I go after the bouncing ball, then dribble slowly back to him.
We’re at one of the Venice Beach ball courts, near the handball walls. The sun is pink and hangs inches above the ocean to the west. Dubs and I are both wearing shorts and are shirtless. It’s a tough call to say who has better abs. Plenty of ladies have stopped to gawk. We pretend to ignore them, but both of us keep tabs out the corner of our eyes.
Dubs waits at the back of the free throw circle.
I bounce pass him the ball, scrub sweat off my forehead with the back of my arm, and square up in front of him on the balls of my feet.
Dubs dribbles slowly then suddenly explodes and tries to power by on my right. I go after him, right in his face, but he zags left at the last second and drills upward, spiraling the ball unexpectedly.
My fingertips brush leather, but he powers it through the hoop.
Dubs laughs, “Too bad you ain’t the only one who can jump. Eighteen fourteen.” He walks slowly toward the ball, which rolls lazily past the baseline.
I put my hand to my ear like I can’t hear, “What was the score again?”
He grins as he picks up the ball, “Eighteen fourteen.”
I nod like I’m stupid. “Who has eighteen? I can’t remember, is it me or you?”
He chuckles, not answering.
“That’s what I thought, LeBron,” I grin.
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