She-Rox: A Rock & Roll Novel (12 page)

“No, I’m not going out there. He hates this stuff.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes he does.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“You wanna bet?” Eddie challenged.

T.J. opened the bathroom door. “Kai, you love my designs, don’t you.” It was not a question.

“Yep,” he responded, absolutely bored.

“See?” T.J. sparkled.

“Now, ask him if he likes them on me?”

“And you love them on Eddie, right?”

“Not really.”

T.J. yanked Eddie by the wrist and pulled her into the center of the bedroom, nearly pulling her off her heels. “You don’t like this? She’s made to wear this stuff!”

Eddie stood in the middle of the room, facing Kai as he took in the full exposure and flash of leg. The dress fit like a glove and all Kai could think was that he had to go back to Stanford and leave her to the vultures in L.A.

“It’s awfully short,” he said.

“And, so,” T.J. wondered.

Exasperated, Kai sputtered, “It’s—not—that—she—doesn’t look good, it’s that—where’s she going to wear that thing anyway?”

“It’s her New Year’s Eve dress, duh!”

“Why do you insist on dressing
my girlfriend
like some cheap tramp?”

Eddie went back into the bathroom and locked the door.

Kai whispered, “Get out, now, T.J.”

“This is my room.”

“I said,
g-e-t o-u-t
.”

She left.

It wasn’t the first time Kai had dealt with frustrated females slamming doors in his face. He went down the hall and picked up his Christmas gift.

Getting back, he looked at the door, still locked. He tapped on it lightly. “Eddie?” There was no answer. “Are you crying?”

“Over you . . . No,” she eked out.

“Eddie, please open the door.”

“I can’t. I gotta change out of this party dress because we all know how much you love it. Maybe it would be better if you just went away so you didn’t have to see me looking like such a sleaze bag.”

He used the only tool he had in his bag. “Well, I’ve got this problem. I got you something for Christmas and I really want you to have it. It was made just for you, but I can’t give it to you if you don’t open the door.”

“It was made just for me?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not another dress is it?”

“That’s funny.”

“You called me a cheap tramp, Kai.”

“No, I
did not
call you that. I asked
T.J. why she always had to dress you like one, because you’re not.”

“You called me your girlfriend.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Eddie, please open the door so I can give this to you.”

“Kai?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll open the door but you have to promise me something.”

“Anything
.
”

“I don’t want to hear another word, ever again about what I’m wearing, especially if T.J. made it. If you ever feel the need to express a negative opinion about what I have to put on for a photo shoot, a gig, New Year’s Eve—I don’t want to hear it. You got that?”

“Got it
.
”

Eddie heard the click of the door and saw Kai’s face leaning against the jam. “Let’s just forget this, okay?” she asked.

He held up the blue bag with the magical words, “Tiffany & Co.” printed on it. Eddie shook her head. “Give it to someone else.”

“Eddie, please just open it. Geez, I’ve never had to do so much pleading in my
life
.”

After she gave him a telling look, he offered, “Tell you what, just open it and if you don’t want it, you don’t have to have it, okay? Just look at it.”

She took the bag, opened the box and watched the dog tag swing on its chain. As it circled, she caught a glimpse of the engraving: UNUS FORTIS STRICTIO INFINITUS.

“What does this mean?”

“‘Unus fortis’” means ‘one chance’ and ‘strictio infinitus’ means ‘bound forever’. It means exactly what it says. I won’t compete with anybody for you. Unus Fortis, one chance – that’s all you get. You can’t have me and the rocker boyfriends.”

“I don’t have rocker boyfriends.”

“That’s right—you don’t. You’ve got a boyfriend with a hundred and ninety-two I.Q. that’ll use anyone of those denim and leather idiots down there to gladly wipe his ass.”

“I don’t have anything for you.”

“I don’t need anything,” Kai stated. “I don’t need a thing telling me how crazy my brain gets when I’m with you. I feel it. I feel all of it, Eddie.”

Los Angeles CA, December 29, 2006

G-Force was first to get back to the Kat House.

“Ginger, get your stupid suitcase off my foot!” crabbed Gretchen.

“I didn’t mean to, it’s just heavy.”

“I don’t know why you feel the need to cart all that crap back here. You should have left it in Nebraska.”

The treks back to the Cornhusker State inevitably meant that Ginger would import more of her belongings back to California. Her possessions back home had been complaining that they, too, wanted a fun-in-the-sun lifestyle, especially her wind up ballerina that played “Dancing Queen.”

Looking around, Gretchen noticed the mail neatly stacked on the side table instead of being scattered all over the floor from being delivered through the slot in the door. She began sorting the meaningful from the junk and stopped when she saw a large formal envelope addressed to Esther Von Drake. Her curiosity piqued, she opened it. Apparently, Esther Von Drake was cordially invited to a New Year’s Eve Party that was being thrown for Slade McAllister. It was a kick-off party for his Bad Blood European Tour at Chateau Marmont.

Ginger, seeing the impressive stationary asked, “Hey, what’s that?”

“We’re going to a party,” Gretchen drawled, the wheels clicking in her scheming brain.

“Really, who’s party?”

“Slade McAllister’s
.
”

“
Shut up,
” Ginger yelped, snatching the envelope out of Gretchen’s hand. With a look of horror on her face, she wondered, “
How
does Eddie know
Slade?
” Her look turned to one of devastation, as she groaned, “We can’t go. We aren’t invited.”

“Says who?” Gretchen asked. “If we show up with this invitation in hand, we’re ‘Esther Von Drake plus one’ as far as the rest of the world is concerned. It’s Slade’s kick off tour
and
New Year’s Eve. Everybody at that party is going to be so lit up they’ll never know and it’s sure to be off-the-hook wicked. Do you want to miss out simply because this envelope is addressed to Eddie?”

“No. Not really,” Ginger mewed, “but what about Eddie? It’s her invitation.”

“She probably won’t even get back till after New Year’s Day. She’ll never know.”

“What about Vince? Is he coming with us, too?” Ginger challenged. There was sure to be rock royalty and his tagging along would make getting cozy with a label or studio executive nearly impossible. Vince’s star power simply wasn’t bright enough for G-force. They needed a mogul and Vince was no mogul.

Gretchen thought about this hurdle and craftily said, “We’re sick. We brought back a terrible flu bug.” Putting her hand to her mouth, she coughed, “We must have caught it on the plane ride back.”

“I am not going to lie for you anymore,” Ginger stated, tired of the deviousness.

Gretchen picked back up the invitation, waved it, fanning her face, and wheedled, “Think about it – you’re holding a glass of champagne and everybody is screaming, ‘
Five-four-three-two-one, Happy New Year!’
and you are standing just close enough to Slade to give him the sweet taste of a Kat. Wouldn’t it just make Kristy Doogan back home kryptonite green if you kissed Slade McAllister, rock legend, at his New Year’s party? I’ll even take a picture with my brand new Pink Blackberry.” Vince had given Gretchen a Blackberry for Christmas.

Ginger had to think about that one. It could be the Cinderella scenario she had always dreamed about. It was high time somebody
rocked her world. She was a hot female drummer. All the guys wanted her. But she wanted her own Slade, a significant other who was, well, significant, famous—someone who lived in the Red Carpet World. Not wanting to give into her sister’s plot just yet Ginger remarked, “It’s not even your invitation. And why are you opening up Eddie’s mail anyway?” The word “mail” jarred her memory. Eddie had been asking the girls in the house over and over about her missing mail. She fired, “You’re the one opening Eddie’s mail!?”

“
No,”
Gretchen defended, “I’m not
opening
anything.”

“But you’re doing something with it.”

“It’s where I’ve been putting all her mail,” she advised, sweetly.

“Which is?”

“Right here,” she said whipping open a concealed vacant drawer of the small side table in the entry way. “See, it’s still all there, unopened.”

Ginger looked at the disguised drawer filled with Eddie’s mail and staring at the pile, she said, “Isn’t that like a federal offense or something?”

“It’s a federal offense if I open it. But it’s here at the correct address, the owner of the mail resides here and she can collect it any time she wishes.”

“Why are you doing this to her?”

Gretchen went mute. She didn’t want to discuss this, but the look on Ginger’s face meant she better give an explanation. “I
can’t stand
little Miss Perfect,” she exploded. “She comes in here all grand with her piano and her songs. Oh, she may be talented, but she is
so
not cool, except maybe with some bald headed music professor who farts Beethoven. So what, who cares! And what’s with making us learn a new song
three days
before the Whiskey gig? She
had
to have a spotlight number. Aren’t you and Raven at least a little bit worried that she’s taking all the shine for herself? This is
our band
, not hers. At the rate she’s going, her big contribution to the world won’t even rate an asterisk on my ass.”

Trying to squelch a future band fight, Ginger mentioned, “That song she made us learn in three days got us a write up in Critical Mass. Now Astral is happy, Vince is ecstatic, we get to do a new demo and we’re still here in the house.”

“What’s the big deal? It’s just her stupid mail. It’s not like I did anything so bad that she’d, like, quit the band or something.” Gretchen saw the look of scorn from her sister. “Stop looking at me like that!”

Ginger took the mail out of the drawer, then told her sister with disbelief and disgust, “I’m taking this downstairs and putting it on Eddie’s bed. Leave
it
alone and leave
her
alone. Be careful Gretchen. You’re setting yourself up for some big trouble. This mail, the New Year’s invitation, faking sick to Vince, the Grammy – you’re asking for it.”

December 30, 2006, 3:37 p.m.

Eddie stood at the terminal, watching all the bags slowly come up on the conveyor belt and drop on the turnstile. As she watched for her own, she was deep in thought about the new job. What would this Ian Clark be like? She spotted her bag, and yanked it off the turnstile, and wheeled it out of the terminal. She was at the curb, waiting for her shuttle, when her phone rang.

“Hello!?” she practically screamed so she could be heard above the surrounding noise.

“Eddie?”

“Yes, who’s this!?”

“It’s Todd.”

“Who?!” she yelled.

“Todd Rivers
.
”

“Sorry, I’m at the airport. I’ll call you back!”

The shuttle arrived, she found a seat, and spent the next fifteen minutes being jostled to and fro. Looking out the window, she picked apart Kai’s words, his actions, and tried to decide if all his displays of affection were genuine. And the Latin stamped into the silver tag . . . was it merely a sentiment? Section RR of the vast parking lot came into view. She dismounted and looked for number 46, her parking slot. She wondered who it could have been on the phone and snapping her fingers, she concluded, “It’s my new boss.” She threw the bags into her car, then hit the redial button.

Todd saw Eddie’s number and answered, “Hello—how was your trip back to San Francisco?”

“It was better than I thought it would be,” Eddie said, noting how friendly this Ian was.