She asks, “Where can I put my guitar?”
Dubs points, “Over there is good.”
She sets the case down, giving us all a view of her red plaid ass, which is heart shaped and leads to her narrow waist.
While her back is turned, there’s an unspoken conversation that happens between me, Dubs, and Joaquin. None of us utters a single word, it all happens with our eyes, but we may as well be communicating telepathically. The conversation goes like this:
Joaquin: Ay, mamacita…
Me: Fuck me, are those tits real? They’re too perfect not to be.
Joaquin: Ay, mamacita…
Dubs: You see that ass? Mmmm-MMMM!
Joaquin: Ay, mamacita…
Me: Which one of us gets to fuck her?
Dubs: None of you all. I saw Shorty first.
Joaquin: Ay, mamacita…
(Joaquin doesn’t get laid much because of his work schedule)
Me: How about we let her decide.
Joaquin: Ay, mamacita…
Dubs: I let you know if she any good.
Me: In your dreams, bro—
“You guys ready?” Neon Pink Hair asks, her guitar already slung over her shoulder.
Picture me, Dubs, and Joaquin stumbling all over each other like a bunch of left footed gorillas, only we do it entirely with our eyes.
Neon Pink Hair looks at me expectantly.
“I’m sorry,” I say apologetically, “who are you again?”
She smirks, “I’m Switchblade. Who the fuck are you?”
I chuckle, “I’m Kellan. I sent you the email? You don’t have a picture on your website. With a name like Switchblade, I guess I wasn’t expecting—”
“A girl?” she says defensively.
“No,” I chuckle, “it’s not that…”
Her eyes dart between me, Dubs, and Joaquin like she’s a cornered wolverine. She says sarcastically, “Considering how you three dicks are sizing me up right now like I’m dinner, I’ll give you zero guesses why I don’t put my picture on my website. So put your dicks in your pants and let’s jam, or I’m the fuck out of here, you cock knockers.”
“Oh!” Dubs guffaws, “No she didn’t!”
Joaquin cackles loudly.
I chuckle and grin, and Switchblade’s feral face relaxes into a smile.
Dubs says, “Her guitar playin’ as smart as her mouth, I vote you go with the shorty.”
“All right,” I say, “let’s see what you can do with that George Lynch Kamikaze of yours.”
Her ESP guitar has graphics like a World War II fighter plane, which is the perfect look for Switchblade. She plugs the guitar into her practice amp, cranks it up, then fires off a slick high speed riff like a pro. Me and Joaquin recognize it immediately. Eruption by Eddie Van Halen, the classic solo guitar players play to say, “I shred.” She does it note for note.
“Órale, ésa!” Joaquin cheers.
Switchblade is amazing. When she finishes, she sneers cockily, “So, what the fuck are we playing? Or are you guys gonna stand around with your dicks in your hands all day?”
“Joder, ése,” Joaquin says to me, “that girl can shred.”
Dubs asks her, “You play Reggae? Maybe you can join my band instead of his,” Dubs chuckles, nodding toward me.
“Fuck Reggae,” Switchblade says dismissively. “I’m here to play fucking metal.”
“She got a mouth on her,” Dubs laughs.
Switchblade is such an awesome guitar player, all I can think is, Victory who?
I forgot all about her.
And I’m digging the pink haired punk look. It doesn’t hurt she’s wearing a Wild Child shirt. They’re my favorite fucking band.
And that ass of hers?
Damn!
Chapter 55
VICTORY
Julian drives us up Highland in his Ferrari with the top down. The sun is done for the day and the city lights go to work, twinkling dots and dashes of color against the black night sky. The temperature is perfect for a slow evening drive.
I say, “Thank you so much for dinner, Julian. It was totally awesome.”
“My pleasure,” he smiles.
I ease comfortably down in my leather bucket seat, “I can’t get over how you paid for dinner in advance when you bought tickets. That’s so weird. I’ve never been to a restaurant that sells tickets.”
“Now you have,” he grins. “I wonder what other interesting things I might expose you to?” he says suggestively.
“Well, just don’t expose yourself. You can get a ticket for that,” I grin.
He chuckles and shakes his head, “That wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“Well, you’ve already exposed me to being a session musician for TV commercials. That was awesome.” I want to say that I’d be happy to record more guitar parts for whatever dick commercials, cat litter commercials, or toilet bowl cleaner commercials he’s working on next because I need the money. I can’t live out of Johnny and Karen’s apartment forever. But I don’t want to sound presumptuous or shallow, like all I care about is Julian’s money, so I don’t mention it. If he has more work, I’m sure he’ll tell me.
He says, “Now we need to have you record guitar parts for something more interesting. Perhaps an album—”
“Are you reading my mind?” I blurt.
“No. Why?”
“Nothing. Continue.”
He nods, “I was going to say, I have several album projects right now that could use some of your magical fretboard expertise.”
Concerned, I ask, “I wouldn’t be taking work away from Max, would I?”
“You mean because we used your guitar track instead of his on the dick hardener commercial?” he grins.
“Yeah.”
He shakes his head and smiles, “No. Max and I are producing partners. We both do whatever needs to be done, so you won’t be taking any work away from him. In fact, you’ll be helping him. Having you present to handle all the guitar parts means Max can focus on any of a thousand other things that we need to accomplish on any given project.”
“Really?”
He nods. “Speaking of which, you don’t sing, do you?”
My stomach seizes and threatens to squeeze all of the fancy dinner I just ate back up my throat. Why did Julian have to go and ask that?
(never ever sing)
Couldn’t he have asked something less personal, like whether or not I’m on my period? Regardless, I can’t answer. I’m speechless, in a bad way.
He frowns and glances over at me when I don’t answer, “Did I say something wrong?”
“Uh, no, it’s just—”
(never ever ever sing)
“—I, um…” I stammer into horrified silence.
A concerned look settles onto Julian’s face. A moment later, he flips on the Ferrari’s turn signal and pulls over to park in a free space along Highland. He puts the car into neutral and looks right at me.
I avoid his eyes.
Out of nowhere, he boldly asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Two things strike me like hammers to my heart at the exact same moment: the sensitivity, sincerity, and concern in Julian’s voice like he genuinely cares, and, the fact that I absolutely cannot talk about this with him. Or anybody. I don’t even like talking to myself about
(Stop!!!)
why I don’t sing.
I do my best to pretend Julian isn’t peering into my soul as my shields crack around the edges.
I can’t let him in.
Nobody gets in this far.
(Victory!!!)
In two years, Scott never got in this far.
(never ever ever sing)
I do what the possums do and play dead.
After a moment, Julian says apologetically, “I’m sorry, that was very forward of me. But I can tell it bothers you. I don’t like it when people are hurting. It makes me want to help them.” He sighs, “I’m sorry. You barely know me, and that was rude of me. I should
n’t have asked.”
Who is this guy? Some kind of self help guru? Guys don’t talk like this. Guys hate talking about feelings. I’m totally weirded out right now. Plus, he sounds all formal again, like when I first met him.
Julian puts the car into gear and eases the Ferrari back into the flow of traffic. He drops the subject completely and we drive in silence for several blocks.
At the next red light, we roll to a stop.
A BMW convertible pulls up next to us. It’s filled with giggling girls with puffy lips and teenage facelifts. None of them are over thirty, but they all look like they’ve had work done. They immediately take notice of Julian’s Ferrari, then Julian.
Hands off, ladies, one of my committee members barks in my head.
“Hey-ey!” the girls in the BMW singsong with identical voices. They sound like they were all manufactured in the same blow up doll factory in the Valley where they also make novelty dildos and shoot How-To porn.
Julian nods politely and says, “Ladies.”
Suddenly, I’m totally jealous.
Nearly everyone in my entire internal committee is shouting at the tops of their lungs for me to grab the nearest rock or tree branch and bash in the heads of these blow-up dolls. Ms. Sensible, who resides in the only remaining sane part of my brain, warns that the vacuum between the Blowbags’ ears will suck the brains right out of Julian’s head if he keeps talking to them, and I should probably do what the rest of my committee says and start popping Blowbags with the nearest sharp object.
One of the Blowbags asks Julian in a shrill voice, “Where are you going, sweetie?”
“Forward,” Julian says.
I hope he isn’t interested in girls like this. If he is, it will seriously lower my respect for him, music producer or not.
“Where?” the Blowbag asks.
“Forward,” Julian points straight ahead.
The Blowbag looks confused, like she did the first day she learned multiplication tables in school, which for her was probably junior year. “Where?” she frowns.
Julian shakes his head imperceptibly and mutters to me, “Which do you think is larger, her chest measurements, or her IQ?”
I chuckle, “Do you even have to ask?”
“I’ll wager that the cup size of her bra is the same letter of the alphabet as the overall letter grade average she received upon graduation.”
I snicker, “I don’t think they give out G’s or H’s in high school. Anyway, I doubt she made it to graduation.”
“I think you might be right.”
Luckily, when the light turns green, Julian turns onto a side street, leaving the Blowbags in the BMW behind.
Julian asks, “Would you like to get a drink someplace? Or go back to mine?”
Considering my car is parked in his driveway, I can’t tell if that’s his way of propositioning me or offering to take me home. So there’s no confusion, I say, “I should get home.”
Julian’s cell phone rings in his pocket. “Bear with me a moment. That’s Colette. She never calls this late unless it’s important.” He pops a Bluetooth earpiece in his ear and answers the phone, “Yes?”
Chapter 56
KELLAN
“Say WHAT?!” Dubs blurts in surprise.
“I’m serious,” Switchblade says.
I frown and say to her, “Dude, there’s no way a girl as hot as you is gay!”
“Dude!” she says sarcastically, “There’s no way a guy as pretty as you has a dick!”
Dubs and Joaquin both cackle and bump fists with Switchblade.
We all hit it off so well back at Dubs’ garage that we spent two hours jamming. We even wrote a song. No vocals yet, just riffs. But it’s catchy, and everyone nailed their parts by the end. You’d never know it was the first time we’d all played together.
Afterward, Switchblade drove us to The Canal Club on Pacific Avenue in the heart of Venice to buy everyone sushi and beer. It turns out Switchblade is 29, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at her.
The Canal Club is packed with people drinking, eating and chattering up a storm.
I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off Switchblade since she walked into Dubs’ garage. She’s totally hot, totally shreds on guitar, totally hilarious, and I’m totally bummed she’s gay.
“Wow, Kellan,” Switchblade says, “it’s the 21st century and you still haven’t heard of a lipstick lesbian?” She plucks a piece of Volcano roll off the communal tray with her chopsticks and pops it into her mouth.
I say cockily, “The only lipstick I know anything about comes out my dick when I’m painting some chick’s face.”
Joaquin laughs heartily and bumps my fist, “Orále, ése!”
Dubs yammers agreement, “That’s right.”
Switchblade shakes her head, still chewing on her volcano roll, “Now you know why I don’t fuck guys.” She rolls her eyes, “You’re all idiot mouth breathers.”
I smile at her and sigh longingly, “Such a waste.”
She grins while chewing on the crispy tempura and fried shrimp roll, “I could say the same thing about you, pretty boy.”
“How?” I ask.
She winks, “It’s a waste you don’t have a pussy!”
Dubs and Joaquin laugh.
“Maybe I do,” I say flirtatiously. “You wanna check? Inspect my premises for wall to wall carpeting?”
“Okay,” she grins, “but if I find any balls, I get to punch them as hard as I can.” She slams her little fist loudly on top of the high bar table between the four of us. Glasses and bottles clink hazardously toward the edge of the table.
“Don’t do it, dawg!” Dubs warns with a big smile on his face, “Bitch be crazy!”
Switchblade smiles and nods at Dubs, “What he said.”
Joaquin tips back his Corona to swallow some suds, then asks her, “Chica, you sure you don’t miss gettin’ dick sometimes?”
She spits out the words “Do you?” before taking a long swallow of her ultra dark Avery Mephistopheles Stout beer.
Me and Dubs guffaw.
I have to swallow my beer so I don’t choke on it. I set my glass on the bar table while I continue chuckling and wipe stray beer from my lips with the back of my wrist.
Joaquin shrugs like he’s disappointed and says to Switchblade, “I’m just sayin’, if you change your mind and want some dick, let me know, ésa.”
She smirks, “If you cook yours up and flop it in a taco with a whole lotta hot sauce, I’ll take you up on it right now. I’ve got meat scissors I keep handy for just such an occasion,” she jokes and uses her chopsticks to make a snipping motion.
“Dude,” I say to her, “what the fuck are meat scissors?”
“Douche,” she says it like it’s my name, “quit calling me dude, or you’ll find out.”
Dubs bumps fists with her again.
We all munch on sushi in friendly silence.
“Hey, Joaquin,” Switchblade says, “How long have you been playing drums? You’re pretty fucking good.”
“The bateria?” he looks up thoughtfully, “Fifteen years?”
She asks, “Is bateria the Spanish word for drums?”
Joaquin nods, “Sí.”
“That’s rad,” she smiles. “Bateria sounds like canons.”
I say, “When Joa plays them, they always do.” I pronounce his nickname ‘Wah’.
Joaquin grins.
I clink beer bottles with him.
“So,” Switchblade says, “are we a band, or what?”
“I’m in,” I say instantly. “What about you two lazy mother fuckers?”
“Who we gonna get to sing?” Dubs asks.
“I’ll sing,” I bark.
Dubs says, “You gonna do that cookie monster death metal shit, or actually sing?”
“I’ll sing,” I say.
“Then I’m in,” Dubs nods.
I turn to Joaquin, “What about you? You too busy recording drums for MasterCard commercials and Kidz
Bop covers, or you gonna man up and play metal?”
“I’m in, homes” Joaquin says.
“All right!” Switchblade cheers, holding up her pint of stout.
We all clink glass.
Switchblade asks, “What are we gonna call ourselves?”
I say jokingly, “How about Four Non Dongs?”
Switchblade cackles, “Love it!”
“Hell naw,” Dubs frowns.
“I quit, ése,” Joaquin quips.
“We’ll think of something,” I say.
“We can’t waste too much time,” Switchblade says. “L.A. Gunslingers at Guitar Central is coming up quick.”
I arch an eyebrow at her, “You know about Gunslingers?”
Switchblade scoffs, “Every musician in L.A. knows about fucking Gunslingers.”
“True that,” Dubs nods.
Joa says, “We clean that shit up, homes!”
“Damn right,” Dubs agrees.
I eye the three of them. They’re all way into the idea of us playing Gunslingers. Exactly what I was hoping to find. Switchblade was the missing link. Now we’ve got the makings of a serious band. We just need a name and a few more tunes and we’re going to kick heavy metal ass.
I raise my beer and cheer, “Let’s do it!”
We all clink glass again and throw back more suds.
I clunk my empty bottle on the table and stand up off my barstool, “Now I gotta take a leak.”
“You asking permission to leave the table?” Switchblade barks sarcastically.
“Fuck no,” I frown. “But maybe you want to help? Takes four hands to hold my shit. It’s like a fucking fire hose when I set it off,” I smirk.
Switchblade rolls her eyes, “Is that supposed to impress me?” She shakes her pink hair, “You’re on your own, flyboy. Or should I say fly dick?”
Dubs and Joaquin chuckle and exchange grins with Switchblade.
Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3 Page 27
