I totally love Olivia.
She says, “You can crash at my place any time.”
“Thanks, Liv.” I’m so glad she offered. It’s nice to feel like you have friends watching your back, even when you don’t need it. “I’m already staying with Johnny and Karen.”
“You moved in with the hippies?” she grins. Olivia knows them well from visiting me at the shop in the past.
“Yup.”
“Do they grow their own grass and walk around the house naked like it’s a nudist colony and take you on acid trips when it’s time for a vacation?”
“Pretty much,” I grin.
“You can’t stay there. Next thing you know, you’ll stop shaving your legs and start wearing bell bottoms and hippie head bands.” She grimaces at the thought. “If that ever happens, we’re no longer friends,” she jokes.
I chuckle, “Don’t worry. I’m gonna try and find a studio apartment somewhere in Hollywood.”
“You sure? If you stay with me, we could have slumber parties and bake cookies and talk about boys.”
“Do you even know how to bake?” I ask skeptically.
“I can bake a pop tart. Does that count?”
I roll my eyes. “Anyway, thanks, Liv. Really. But I think I need space to decompress after Scott.”
“I understand. But you let me know. Okay?”
I nod. “How’s the music business treating you?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically, “It’s slow going, sister. Things are way more competitive today than they were two years ago.”
Olivia does odd jobs all over town for the recording industry. She’s a whiz with Pro Tools, the industry standard recording software, and knows a lot about audio engineering. She’s also an amazing singer and does backing vocals for all kinds of bands. With all the people she knows, I’m surprised she hasn’t made it big already.
She sighs, “I need a big break soon, sister, or I swear I’m gonna hang it up and become a celebrity dog walker for the rest of my life.”
“I thought you hated dogs?”
“I do. But I’m desperate. And nobody hires cat walkers. Anyway, I want a job where I don’t have to sit on my ass and get fat eating bonbons.”
I sneer, “Who eats bonbons anymore?”
“I eat bonbons. And I eat way too many. You should see me when I’ve got my head in the cans deep in the middle of a mix.” She’s referring to mixing music while wearing headphones.
I giggle, “I can totally picture you dripping ice cream all over the keyboard and blaming somebody else.”
“Exactly. Anyway,” she sighs, “I need to put a band together. One that’s going to make some money finally. Wanna help?” As well as singing like a diva, Olivia also plays a mean keyboard.
“What did you have in mind?”
“I’ve been thinking some kind of bubblegum punk with a feminist edge.”
“What, like Avril Lavigne?”
“No, sister,” she frowns. “Not that bubblegum. I was thinking something with more attitude and less assitude.”
I grin. “Hmmm, something like No Doubt?”
“Sort of. But I want to do something different. No use walking the same roads Gwen Stefani already traveled.” She pulls out her iPhone and swipes the screen until she gets to her music. “Listen to this. I recorded it last week. Still working on vocals.”
It’s a peppy, funky disco beat that sounds retro but modern at the same time. The guitar work isn’t what I usually do. But maybe I need to branch out beyond hard rock and metal for a change.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Olivia says, “No guitar solos and not enough distortion.”
I smile, “You know me too well.”
“This is just rough tracks. You can add embellishments, or we could just write stuff from scratch. I don’t care. As long as it’s new and it’s catchy. I want to sell, sell, sell, girl! I need a hit single! Like, yesterday! I’m sure a couple of Lolitas like us can come up with something new to turn heads and blow up some skirts.”
Olivia’s enthusiasm is catching.
“Okay,” I smile. “Why don’t we get together soon and write? I’m totally up for it.”
“Perfect,” she grins. “We’ll seduce the socks off the world with our bombshell songs.”
I glance at my phone to check the time. “I should probably go. I need to get up early tomorrow and look for a job.” I put money down on the counter to pay for my cheesecake and hot chocolate and stand up to leave.
Olivia slides off the barstool she’s been sharing with Pompadour for the last half hour.
“Before you ladies leave,” he says, “I was wondering if I might ask for your number.”
“Who, me?” Olivia says brazenly. “I’m flattered but—”
“No,” he smiles thinly, “I meant your friend.” He gives me a long look.
I stammer, “Oh, uh, I’m not dating anyone right now. Sorry.”
“Fair enough,” he says. He turns to Liv, “How about you?”
“Are you serious?” Olivia gawks. “After you just asked my friend out? What, am I leftovers? I don’t think so.”
“Well, I thought—” he stammers.
“You didn’t think,” she flicks her fingers at him. “Skedaddle, Daddy-O. Or Mustachio, or whatever your name is, Mister Hipster.”
He smirks, “Hey, you were the one who stole half my seat.”
Olivia frowns, “And you never tipped me! I said twenty percent!”
He shakes his head, “No way. You didn’t render any services.” He glances down at his crotch.
“How about I knee you in the balls and we call it even?”
“Liv!” I hiss.
“Let’s go, Victory,” she laughs and pulls my elbow while leaning into me. She mutters, “I think that guy likes my kink and is seriously considering my offer. We need to leave before I do something stupid.”
I stumble along beside her, “I thought you were waiting for friends?”
“You’re a friend, and you’re here. Mission accomplished!” she giggles.
I laugh as Olivia pulls me outside onto the sidewalk in front of Cafe 101.
“It’s so good to see you again, Liv,” I smile as we hug.
“You too, sister. Call me,” she waves as I walk to my car.
Chapter 61
VICTORY
Of all the job listings I found online, the one I’m most excited about is the one for the interview I’m driving to right now. I really want this job.
My old Altima cruises westward on the 10 freeway.
As always, the sky is clear, the weather is hot, and I’m in a good mood. It’s past rush hour, which is even better because traffic is light, leaving my mind free to roam.
I still haven’t heard from Julian since the night we kissed after our dinner date a few days ago. And what a kiss it was. I squirm in my seat just thinking about it. So why hasn’t he called?
Did I weird him out somehow?
Considering Julian was the one who threw himself at me, it doesn’t seem likely. And he promised to call me so I could come by his studio and listen to whatever super-important mystery recording work he and Max had to do that night.
Too bad he never did.
I was hoping Julian might be more than a handsome distraction and actually hire me to do more session guitar work, but he hasn’t done that either.
Good thing I’m not the kind of girl to wait around. Hence, today’s interview.
The ad I found for it online read:
GUITAR INSTRUCTOR WANTED. Stage and performance experience required. (got that) Advanced technical skills preferred. (got that too) Basic music theory knowledge required, extensive knowledge a plus. (yup) Must be able to work with kids of all ages. (I’m sure I’ll manage).
The name of the company?
Rock & Roll High School.
I’m super excited about my interview. I made sure to arrive early. No way I’m gonna screw up this opportunity.
I exit the 10
freeway at Cloverfield and drive into Santa Monica. I park on the street near the Rock & Roll High School building, which is crammed between a bunch of other random businesses on Wilshire Boulevard.
Ever since my Fender and my amps were stolen out of my car, I feel nervous about leaving it unattended, even on a busy street like Wilshire. Not that I have stuff in it. Everything is tucked safely away at Johnny and Karen’s apartment. But I still worry someone might try to steal my car. If that happened, I’d be done.
L.A. has a zero tolerance policy for carless musicians.
Luckily, I had enough money to buy a replacement door lock cylinder from a Nissan dealership. I borrowed Johnny’s tools and installed the new cylinder myself. Dad would be proud. I really need to give him a call. But right now, I have a job interview.
The front of Rock & Roll High School resembles a glammy eighties night club, which reminds me of RATT, Mötley Crüe, and Bon Jovi. Can’t go wrong with that trio of rocker bad boy bands. Works for me.
When I reach for the front door, it opens from inside. I take a quick step back to avoid getting smacked in the face.
The guy coming out the front door says, “Whoa! Sorry! I almost knocked you over.” He’s really tall and has short brown hair and beard stubble. He wears a short sleeve black button-down gas station attendant style shirt that has a white and red name tag patch that reads Dennis.
I look up and it’s Paul Gilbert. The Paul Gilbert. I blurt, “Oh my god! You’re Paul Gilbert!” I slap my hand over my mouth, bashfully embarrassed.
He nods and grins, “Yeah, I think so. I should probably check my I.D. Sometimes I forget,” he winks.
I can feel my inner fan girl explode inside my head, hammering her way out. I can’t stop her. “Oh my god! Street Lethal was the first album I ever owned! My dad gave it to me for Christmas when I was a kid. That album is a classic!”
“Wow,” he chuckles, “I feel old.” He looks me up and down and asks me skeptically, “You like Racer X?”
“Like Racer X? I love Racer X! I know every song on that album! I totally love Y.R.O.! I spent weeks figuring it out.” I’m just babbling now.
He nods and smiles, “You can play Yngwie Rip Off?”
“Well, not as well as you, “ I say demurely.
He frowns suddenly, “You look really familiar. Have we met before?” He sounds genuine, not like it’s a pick up line.
“No. I would’ve totally remembered meeting you, Mr. Gilbert,” I giggle nervously.
He chuckles, “Please don’t call me mister. Call me Paul.”
“Okay,” I say bashfully. Inner Fan Girl is jumping up and down, doing cartwheels, and the happy dance, all at the same time. I’m going to faint soon.
He rubs his beard stubble, “Yeah, I’ve seen you online somewhere. Playing guitar.” He cocks his head thoughtfully. “I think it was on YouTube.”
“Really? I don’t have any YouTube videos. Was it with my old band Skin Trade?”
He narrows his eyes thinking, “I’m not sure. Hey,” he smiles, “I’ve got to run. I’m late for an appointment. It was really nice meeting you. What was your name?” He holds out his hand.
I shake it. “Victory. Victory Payne.”
“Nice to meet you, Victory. See ya,” he waves casually.
“Bye!” I wave frantically, my hand flapping like a frightened dove as I watch him walk down the street.
Holy crap! Paul Gilbert! I want to chase him and hug him and thank him for being one of my biggest guitar heroes of all time.
But I have a job interview.
Paul Gilbert!
I take a deep breath to calm myself down. I need to act vaguely professional during my job interview. But, but, but!
Paul Gilbert!
I take a final deep breath before I walk purposefully inside Rock & Roll High School.
Chapter 62
VICTORY
Since it’s summer, I’m not surprised to see several kids sitting on chairs in the Rock & Roll High School waiting room. The kids are between the ages of maybe seven and sixteen. Most of them have guitar cases in front of them. One boy, who can’t be older than eight, has drum sticks in hand and is beating out time on his denim covered knees to whatever music is pumping through the white earbuds of his iPod.
This is my kind of place.
Some of the kids have moms with them. Most of the moms have that overdone casual look of upscale west side L.A. Moms. Perfect makeup, overly tan, manicured nails, and expensive brand new workout clothes. It’s a fact that almost everyone in L.A. works out at the gym or the yoga studio or takes kick boxing or runs or rock climbs or whatever.
There’s an empty seat next to the mom beside the little drummer boy.
I ask, “Can I sit here?”
She nods.
“Is that your son?” I nod toward Little Drummer Boy, who has spiky blond hair with lots of product in it.
Her lips pull back to reveal teeth that are billboard perfect, “Yes.”
“He’s really good.”
She does’t seem talkative, so I sit quietly.
I hear muted electric guitars, faint drum playing, and a bass guitar from the back of the building.
Lessons are in progress.
There’s no receptionist, but I’m sure someone will come out into the waiting room eventually. If they don’t I’ll knock on the door leading to the rest of the building when it gets close to my interview time.
The waiting room walls have posters of rock bands from The Beatles all the way up to the Black Veil Brides. There’s framed gold records of classic albums like Led Zeppelin IV, AC/DC’s Back In Black, and Iron Maiden’s Powerslave, which I assume are fake. And there’s a few different framed electric guitars. One is a replica of Eddie Van Halen’s famous red Frankenstein guitar with the black and white criss-crossed stripes.
A few minutes later, the door in the back of the waiting room opens and a twelve year old rockabilly-styled girl walks out. She has ponytails, black plastic hipster glasses, and wears a red and white gingham square dance dress with puffy shoulders and a flouncy skirt. She hauls a big Gretsch case with both hands. The case is so big compared to her, she rocks awkwardly from side to side but she’s determined to do it herself. I imagine her peers give her crap for dressing like she does. I admire her courage.
For some reason, she seems familiar. I don’t know why.
One of the moms sitting in the waiting room stands up. She’s dressed in a stylish navy business suit. She says to Gingham Girl, “Ready, Chloe?”
Chloe nods, “Uh huh.”
The mom says, “How was your lesson?”
“Awesome!”
The two of them walk outside.
It’s getting close to the time for my interview.
The door opening on the hallway to the back of the building is still open. Maybe I should go look for someone? I half expect one of the kids to stand up and go in for a lesson, so I wait for a minute. When no one does, I stand and walk over to the hallway door.
I lean through the door frame and almost break my nose on someone’s rock hard chest. The logo on the black t-shirt says Rock & Roll High School. My eyes climb up into the burning brown eyed gaze of Kellan.
“Victory?” he asks, surprised. “What are you doing here?” He doesn’t sound very happy to see me. Oh well, that’s his problem.
I say sarcastically, “Uh, what are you doing here?”
“I work here,” he frowns.
“You do?” I ask, surprised.
He sneers, “Yeah. So, why are you here?”
“I have a job interview,” I say firmly. I’m not backing down just because he sounds all pouty.
He shakes his head, “Don’t tell me you’re my eleven o’clock?”
I nod and sneer, “Yep.”
Then I remember how mad I am at Kellan for the way he called me a stupid waste of time to whoever he was talking to on the phone the night I moved my stuff out of his place. I also told him I needed space, which
was the truth. Ironically, that was two days after I met him and kissed him. Wow, I think that’s the shortest relationship I’ve ever had. Ms. Sensible laughs merrily and admonishes me that two days does not a relationship make. Damn right. There’s nothing between me and Kellan.
He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, “Rich told me someone was coming in for an interview. He didn’t say it was going to be you.”
“Surprise,” I wrinkle my nose and grimace.
I don’t know if I want to do this. Looking up at Kellan’s beautifully brooding brown eyes, his handsome face, and that manly manliness he’s always projecting, I can feel my chest fluttering against my will. I’m suddenly way too hot.
It’s very hard to stay mad at him when he’s so crazily cute.
The pressing question is, is it a bad idea for me to work with Kellan?
Duh.
Maybe I should leave and spare us both.
But I need a job, it pays well, and maybe I won’t be working directly with Kellan. I mean, I’m teaching kids guitar, not Kellan. Maybe our schedules won’t coincide and I won’t see him.
I can hope.
He sighs, “Can you wait out here for another few minutes? I have to do something first.”
“Sure,” I say flatly.
Maybe he’s hoping I’ll leave. Maybe I should. Or maybe he’ll run out the back door and never return. That would be fine by me. Then I can work here without any hassles.
I take a seat in the waiting room and wait. While I wait, I look repeatedly at the front door and fight it out inside my head.
Ms. Impetuous: I should go.
Ms. Sensible: I need a job.
Ms. Impetuous: The door is that way.
Ms. Sensible: I owe Johnny and Karen six grand.
Ms. Impetuous: Kellan is an ass, and I can reach the front door knob from where I’m sitting.
Ms. Sensible: I really need money to buy my own guitar to replace my stolen Fender and I’d rather not wait tables or answer phones someplace.
For once, Ms. Sensible makes good sense.
Ms. Impetuous doesn’t care.
Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3 Page 30
