Jacob grabs the button of his jeans. “You saying I got a small dick? Because I assure you—”
“Keep your pants on, asshole. No one wants to measure your sad little noodle.” Chaser glances in Pamela and Andrew’s direction. “Even if you’re smuggling a tree trunk down there, she’s way out of your league.”
I cast a stink-eye Chaser’s way, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“That’s what you should do next.” Jacob leers at me. “Playboy. You’d make a great centerfold—”
“She’s not doing Playboy. Shut the fuck up,” Chaser growls.
While I have no interest in posing nude, for some reason, Chaser’s proclamation rubs me wrong.
There’s no time to protest it, though. The five of us are waved over to a roomy booth in the back of the club where we have privacy but still have a great view of the stage.
Chaser pulls me into his lap and kisses my neck. “You okay?”
I’m not spilling all my insecurities in the middle of our celebratory night, but I need to get one thing off my chest. “I find it amusing she made fun of me for being in Kickstart’s video, then eyed you like you were a hamburger.”
Chaser tips his head back. One corner of his mouth pulls up. “I’m at least a T-bone steak, don’t you think?”
I bare my teeth at him and let out a growly noise. He swoops in and captures my lips in a kiss. The club’s loud, but our heavy breathing and beating hearts are the only sounds I’m aware of for a few precious minutes. Chaser slides one of his hands over my bare thigh, stopping to play with the hem of my dress.
“Mind if we join you?”
Slightly dazed from Chaser’s drugging kiss, I slowly open my eyes and lift my gaze.
Andrew’s grinning face stares down at us. Pamela’s less enthusiastic expression makes me sit up straighter and yank my dress over my thighs.
“Yeah, totally,” Jacob says, sliding over on the opposite side.
Andrew and Pamela don’t move.
“Uh, sure.” Chaser nudges me out of his lap and stands to let them slide into the booth. Somehow, I end up wedged between Andrew and Chaser.
“So, Pammy says you’re both up for the same part?” Andrew asks me.
Surprised he cares, I shrug. “I guess.”
Alvin reaches over to shake Andrew’s hand. “Really cool to hang with you, man. Chaser and I used our last couple bucks to see Vicious Vandals when we moved out here.”
Andrew chuckles. “He mentioned it. That’s rad. I’m so stoked your band’s like headed right to the top.” He shoots his fist high in the air, in case we’re not sure where the top is located.
He has to be the first rocker I’ve met out here who doesn’t seem threatened by his “competition.” In fact, he spends a lot of time talking with the guys about different concerts, managers to avoid, and lots of other general business advice. It turns out Andrew Lane can talk. A lot.
The guys eat up every word. Even Chaser, who usually seems indifferent in these settings.
Pamela and I sort of look at each other and sigh.
Andrew takes a breath and glances over. “You two should sit closer, so we’re not boring you to death.”
Maybe with our seating arrangements, it’s the most logical move, but I’m totally unprepared for Andrew to put his hands on my hips, lift me up, and physically move me into the empty space next to him.
Nervous, I laugh and try to ignore the way he briefly stops long enough for my butt to brush over his lap.
Please dear God let that be a tree trunk in his pants and not his dick grazing my ass cheeks.
I land on the seat next to Pamela with a bounce. She flashes an almost apologetic smile and pats my leg. “Lord help us when they start talking music. Andrew never shuts up.”
Since I could listen to Chaser talk about music all day, I can’t help asking her, “How long have you guys been together?”
“A year?” She wrinkles her nose. “Maybe longer? It was after my Playboy spread for sure.”
“Eighteen months,” Andrew corrects without looking at us. He leans over the table toward Jacob. “The second I saw her in Playboy, I called my manager and begged him to track her down. That’s what Playboy and Penthouse are for.” He thrusts his hands in front of him and mimes flipping through a magazine or phone book. “Girlfriend catalog for rock stars.”
Gross.
While Garrett, Jacob, and even Alvin hang on every word, I cast a look Chaser’s way. His less-than-impressed expression is probably the only thing stopping me from crawling under the table to get away from this conversation.
“Dude!” Andrew’s eyes widen, and he sits back with a dramatic thump against the booth. “Kickstart needs to go on the road with us! It would be totally rad to have you open for us on our next tour.”
“Oh shit, we’d be down for that,” Jacob says without so much as flicking a glance to any of his bandmates.
I glance over at Pamela. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”
Chaser
Conflicted doesn’t cover what I’m feeling tonight.
I wasn’t lying about being a fan of Vicious Vandals. In fact, Alvin and I spent a lot of time studying their rise to success when we first moved out here. I have mad respect for their dedication and business sense. Hanging with Andrew Lane in the middle of The Palace like it’s no big deal is probably one of the cooler things to happen to Kickstart.
But when he touched Mallory, he came damn close to finishing out the night with bloody stumps where his hands used to be.
Vicious Vandals breaks up after drummer’s hands are ripped off and used to beat him to death.
Wouldn’t that be a sensational headline for L.A. Weekly.
The lights dim and people scream.
I can’t believe I’m about to willingly subject myself to a Wishing Well show.
“They’re such a bunch of fucking poseurs.” Andrew leans up against me and shouts in my ear.
“You see Christine?” Jacob asks, twisting around in his seat to search the bar.
Andrew shakes with laughter, slams his fists against the table and stomps his feet, bouncing up and down like an excitable toddler. “Oh, man! They opened for us at the Whiskey years ago, and I totally titty-fucked the shit out of her while they were on stage.”
Jacob leans over to high-five him.
A lesson I should’ve learned with Davey Revolver—never meet your heroes. They’re bound to disappoint you. Or in Andrew’s case, disgust me.
On stage, Brent runs out in his full-length black leather trench coat, screeching into the microphone and aiming his glossy pink pout at the ladies clamoring to get to him.
“Pammy used to fuck Brent, so she loves to shake her ass at his shows to remind him of what he’s missing.” Andrew turns. “Right, babe?”
She answers with her middle finger, which is pretty damn funny coming from such a pretty girl.
Andrew sets his elbow on the table and points to the stage, while leaning in closer to me. “Now, Danny Desmond’s fucking talented.”
“Yeah, he’s a good guitar player.” As much as Wishing Well’s music makes my ears bleed, I can admit Desmond has skills. Why he wastes his talent playing shitty party pop metal, I’ve never understood.
“I don’t know why he puts up with the whole big hair, makeup, sparkly white leather outfits bullshit. He’s better than that.”
The observation’s amusing coming from a guy who used to wear just as much, if not more, makeup on stage when he started out.
Andrew bumps my shoulder again. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a big fucking hypocrite because we did the big hair and makeup too. But that was back in ‘82 when no one else was doing it, you know? Now, it’s everywhere. No one’s original anymore.”
At least he’s self-aware. “Gotcha.”
He takes one of his massive hands and thumps me on the back a few times. “You’re pretty rad, Chaser. You always look like such a grumpy, scary asshole up on stage, but you’r
e all right.”
When has he seen us play and why didn’t anyone tell us? “Thanks.”
“Is it a chick thing?” he asks in a lower voice. Still loud enough to be heard by half the bar but it seems to be his best attempt at volume modulation. “Chicks always want to tame the scary dude.” He shifts his hand under the table and grabs his crotch. “I get ‘em because they all wanna find out if the legend of the monster in my pants is true.”
“Thanks for the visual.”
He bounces with more laughter and slaps my shoulder. “Aw, fuck yeah, you’re cool!” He leans over the table to grab the other guys’ attention. “Hey, why don’t you all come back to my place?” He juts his chin toward the stage. “Fuck this bullshit. Vinny’s coming over. We can all jam together. It’ll be fucking rad.”
Vinnie as in Vinnie Price? Vicious Vandals’ guitar player? Maybe that last thump from Andrew gave me a stroke. Am I hallucinating or are we about to hang out and jam with half of one of our favorite bands?
“That okay with you, babe?” he asks Pamela.
“Whatever you want.”
Once it’s decided we’re all coming home with him, he can’t sit still another second. I have to scoot out of the booth fast or else it’s clear Andrew has no problem crawling over my lap. He slaps a hundred-dollar bill on the table, even though all we’d ordered so far was a pitcher of beer.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” he chants at about a hundred miles an hour, while clapping his hands like he’s training a bunch of rogue puppies.
Keeping one eye on Andrew, Mallory slides out of the booth, carefully pulling her dress down and taking my hand.
Whatever material Pamela’s dress is made of sticks to the vinyl booth, but I don’t think that has anything to do with the way she very deliberately stops and spreads her legs before standing, making it clear to everyone in a five foot radius that underwear had not been part of her wardrobe choice this evening.
For fuck’s sake, I’m only human, and it’s right there.
Completely unfazed that she just flashed her pussy to everyone on this side of the bar, she grabs her purse and hurries to catch up with Andrew.
“I could’ve happily gone the rest of my life without knowing she’s not a natural blonde,” Mallory mutters. She narrows her eyes and clasps her hand over my jaw. “Close your mouth before you drool on yourself.”
I shake her off. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting that.”
Jacob blinks and sways on his feet. “Dude, beers with Andrew Lane and Pamela Scott flashed her pussy at us. We’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Or hell,” Mallory mutters.
Chapter Thirteen
Mallory
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Chaser asks as we head back to our place to get his bike.
Okay, probably isn’t the right word, but I don’t want to ruin such an exciting moment for Chaser. “It isn’t every day you’re invited over to one of your idol’s houses.”
“Idol might be a stretch.”
Sure.
“Let me run upstairs and change.”
He follows me but seems jittery. “Are you sure you want to go over there?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’ll be fun.”
It takes almost an hour to get to Andrew’s house in Hollywood Hills. The driveway’s packed, and music permeates everything on the quiet little street.
“I bet the neighbors love him,” I whisper.
Chaser takes my hand and squeezes. “We won’t stay long.”
“I’m fine.” I glance at the house. “Just don’t leave me alone with—”
“I won’t.”
Andrew’s living room is set up like a stage. That’s the only way to describe the scene. He has two full drum kits, a white baby grand piano, mic stands, a keyboard, and a row of guitars. Some sort of music equipment strewn in every corner of the room. Gold albums and lots of portraits of naked women decorate the walls.
Another black-haired, shirtless rocker is busy hammering out notes on his guitar but pauses to nod at us when we walk inside.
Andrew stops bashing his drums and stands. Commanding as a king, he points his drumsticks at us and yells, “Chaser Adams meet Vinnie Price. Vinnie, that’s Chaser and his chick.”
Chaser’s jaw twitches.
Vinnie holds out his hand. “Cool to finally meet you.” He glances my way.
Chaser nudges me. “This is my girlfriend, Mallory.”
“‘Candy Jar’ girl. Right. Hey, Mallory.” Vinnie sort of half-waves at me instead of shaking my hand, which suits me fine. “I hope you don’t get too bored. Pam headed straight upstairs when I arrived.” He leans in and adds in a lower voice. “She hates our all-night jam sessions.”
“Nah, I got her this huge fucking gas-powered vibrator. She’s busy,” Andrew yells. “It’s cool.”
I blink and stare at one of the few blank spaces on the wall, wishing I could erase that information from my brain.
“Asshole!” A black, patent leather boot flies out of the stairwell, thunking against Andrew’s head. He laughs and tosses it over his shoulder.
Even in flannel pants, a tight T-shirt, and no makeup, Pamela is disgustingly beautiful. She waves her perfectly manicured middle finger in Andrew’s direction. “He’s kidding.”
“Help yourself!” Andrew yells, pointing a drumstick toward the coffee table.
My gaze follows the direction of his sticks to five Tupperware containers set out on the table. The lid of the middle container is off, and I’m pretty sure that’s a sandbox worth of cocaine I’m staring at. In my lifetime, I’ve seen baggies, I’ve seen bricks, I’ve seen vials of the white powder, but I have never seen anyone store it in Tupperware.
I mean, I guess if you’re storing it in such large quantities, freshness is a concern.
Pamela drops down on the floor cross-legged and carefully chops up a few lines. When she’s finished, she hands me a silver straw.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Andrew races over, scoops the straw out of Pamela’s hand and hoovers up everything she just laid out.
Well, that explains so much.
“Help yourself,” Vinnie says to Chaser, waving his arm at a row of guitars in stands against the wall. “We weren’t sure if you’d bring your own.”
“First three are mine!” Andrew calls over his shoulder. “Use whatever you want.”
Pamela leans into her boyfriend, and they spend a few minutes licking each other before she snorts a few lines of her own.
I shift my gaze to Chaser, but he seems to miss that my eyes are screaming get me away from these crazy people and flashes me a thumbs up.
Vinnie plays a few notes I recognize as one of Kickstart’s songs. “‘Hammer to the Heart’ is a killer riff,” he shouts to Chaser.
Chaser watches Vinnie with round eyes and slack jaw, telegraphing how shocked he is that Vinnie knows any of the notes to one of his songs.
Vinnie plays it a few times, stumbling over the same section of notes. Finally, he stops. “Tricky fucker, though.”
“Uh.” Chaser hefts one of the guitars in his arms and demonstrates. “Yeah, there’s a skip from D while still hitting the B string.”
“Oh, fuuuck. Very fucking cool, bro.” Vinnie slaps Chaser’s shoulder and tries the riff again on his guitar.
Andrew races back to his drums and joins in.
“Jesus H. Christ, they can be at this until eight in the morning.” Pamela rolls her eyes.
“It’s fun watching them.” As weird as the night continues to be, I can only imagine how exciting it must be for Chaser to play with one of his favorite bands.
“God,” she drawls in the most condescending tone ever. “You are new at this, aren’t you?”
“Have you dated other musicians?”
“A few. They’re all the same. Big kids with big egos.”
“And big dicks!” Andrew yells.
“He misses nothing, huh?” I say quietly to Pamela.
“That’s an understatement.”
Except for the excessive licking, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of love between the two of them. Although, every once in a while, Andrew will stop playing, yell, “Hey baby,” and blow a kiss her way. She reaches up to catch every single one.
It’s sweet in a totally strange way.
The guys launch into a classic rock song, each of them interpreting it in their own unique style, culminating in a cacophony loud enough to rattle the windows.
“Who’s your agent?” Pamela shouts.
“Marilyn Stewart.”
“Oh, she’s good from what I hear.”
“So far.”
“I started with Plume Talent, but they’re mostly modeling gigs, and I think I want to focus on acting.”
“Have you been on a lot of auditions?”
“Not really. I’ve been taking acting classes with Vera Walters, though, trying to prepare myself. Where do you study?”
When I first arrived in Hollywood, acting lessons were suggested, but since I landed parts right away, I sort of skipped it. Now that I’ve been to more serious auditions, maybe it’s time to buckle down. Feeling foolish and unprofessional, I admit, “I haven’t found a class yet.”
“Oh, you should come with me! You have to audition to get into her classes, but Vera’s great. You’ll love her.”
Somehow, whether I want to or not, I feel like Pamela and I will be spending a lot of time together in the near future.
Chaser
Mallory’s half-asleep when we finally wind down.
“Yo, I got plenty of room.” Andrew points to the stairs. “Guest room, first door on the left is all yours if you want to stay.” He turns his sticks toward Jacob, Garrett, and Alvin. “You wanna ride my couches, that’s cool. Got plenty of ‘em.”
“That okay?” I whisper to Mallory.
“Sure.” She yawns.
I wrap my arm around her, pulling her tight to my side as we say goodnight to everyone.
Upstairs, I close and lock the bedroom door behind us. “Sure you’re okay with this?”
Without answering, she pokes around the room, searching behind the television and mirror.
Blow My Fuse (Hollywood Demons Book 2) Page 7
