She-Rox: A Rock & Roll Novel (24 page)

June 20, 2007 Slade’s Pool

A limo driver brought T.J. to the house and all Eddie wanted to discuss was the YouTube video.

Lying out by the pool, she asked, yet again, “You sent Kai the video, right?”

“Of course I did—three times,” T.J. flared.

“Did he say anything, e-mail back, what?”

“He told me that he got the first one and not to send anymore.”

“That’s
it
?” Eddie shrieked at the hot sun.

“’Yep
.”

“But I was trying to apologize, didn’t he get that?”

“How do I know? This is Kai we’re talking about. Eddie, look, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but . . . girl, you need to drop this like it’s hot and get right back up like, no problem. You gotta stop the whining and the pining. You get what I’m sayin’ here? We are hangin’ out at Slade McAllister’s pool and you’re cryin’ about Kai. Back in San Francisco, if you
stayed
in San Francisco, I thought maybe it could work, but with the present arrangements, such as they are, the likelihood of you two getting together are nil. He’s in school, like forever, and you’re in L.A. getting you’re diva on. Now get over it and fast because I’m burnt. He’s an idiot for blowing you off, and you’re even more stupid for letting a hot piece like Slade get cold.”

“What’s with the boatload of jive talk? Is that what they teach you at design school? And as far as Slade is concerned, we’re just friends,” Eddie explained. “He’s got babes everywhere and an unofficial Mrs. McAllister.”

“That may all be well and true, but that guy’s eyes follow you all over the room when you’re around.”

“No they don’t.”

“Oh yeah they do. Trust me. I’m on the outside of this thing looking in, and Mr. Slade got a low simmerin’ boil for my girl.” The pallid expression on Eddie’s face made T.J. whip off her sunglasses and cry, “Do you expect me to believe that he’s cool with you staying at his place because he wants a song out of you and that’s it?”

Eddie glanced at her friend for only a second and turned away.

“Has he made a pass at you?” After a long pause, T.J. pushed, “He has, hasn’t he.”

“Yesterday,” Eddie confessed and pointing to the pool, she finished, “in there and only one other time before he left for his European tour.”

Laughing and clapping her hands, she cried, “
I knew it, I knew it
. I could
so
tell.” Taking a sip of her diet soda, she pressed, “So, tell me, I have to know—what’s it like kissing a mega rock star?”

“Well, Kai’s the only other person I’ve really ever kissed, like that anyway, and if you really want my honest opinion . . .” Eddie stopped talking, thinking it through, and, disappointing T.J., she said, “I don’t feel the same thing for Slade that I do for Kai. With Kai, my head just spins in circles, my insides turn to mush, but with Slade it’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Different in that he’s got this huge persona of being a rock god, and he’s most definitely a man of the world, but I don’t get the same body inertia I get with Kai.”

“O-M-G, Eddie . . . you’re in love.”

“Yeah, I kind of knew that.”

“You really don’t feel anything when Slade kisses you?”

“No, I feel a whole lot of things. It wasn’t just nice—it was
really
nice . . . and powerful. Don’t get me wrong about that, but here’s the problem . . . Is it Slade I like, or is it his cars, his house, his money, his fame? It’s all very heady in Slade World.”

“Last night, when you were upstairs, he asked me how you got that scar on the back of your neck.” T.J. touched on the subject, her voice holding great concern.

Eddie croaked “He asked me that same thing.”

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t tell him. I dove into the pool to avoid it.”

“Well, that stirred up his suspicion, I guess.”

“We’d better shut up, ‘cause I see him coming outside,” Eddie warned.

Thursday Night, June 21, 2007 – Eddie’s 17
th
Birthday

It wasn’t even ten o’clock and Eddie’s party of six had transformed into a bacchanalian fete. Nameless faces kept coming through the door.

Slade’s living room was standing room only, and as Eddie stood at the top of the stairs, T.J. pointed and exclaimed, “Hey, that’s Stacie Latimer.” Stacie Latimer, model turned actress, was dressed in a tiny t-shirt with chest advertising that appropriately read: “Tabloid Girl,” stretched across her round breasts.

“Yeah, apparently she lives down the street from here and is a really good friend of Bebe’s—they’re like yoga partners.”

“Huh—well, with a t-shirt like that on, she won’t have to do too much talking tonight. That pretty much sums her up. Who’s the dude over there with all the tattoos?”

“That’s K-House.” K-House, front man for the band “Libel,” was also with the Moonshine label.

“Oh, yeah, now that you mention it . . . it
is
K-House,” T.J. mused. Still gazing at the throng below, she observed, “That’s some spectacular stuff down there. Where’s your band? I gotta meet the other players from all the Jerry Springer episodes you keep feeding me.”

Descending the grand staircase, in black liquid leggings and thigh-high leather stretch boots (a birthday gift from T.J.) Eddie finally made an entrance to her party, but it wasn’t hers anymore. The cases of champagne, food spread and the giant cake done up in the shape of a black grand piano—the guests had presumed everything was there to welcome home the master from his European tour, which suited Eddie fine.

Taking a glass of champagne from one of the caterers monitoring the large dining table, T.J. handed it to Eddie, saying, “Here, let’s celebrate.”

Eddie declined, stating, “I’ll celebrate later. I’ve got other things on my mind right now.” She grabbed a small bottle of Pellegrino out of an ice bucket and walked to the other end of the table getting a good look at her piano birthday cake. It was huge, black and a talented pastry chef had worked magic and made the monstrous cake balance on three black champagne glasses to resemble the legs of Slade’s Steinway. Someone had already unceremoniously cut into the cake and sticking her finger in, Eddie scraped up some of the icing. “Mmm, that’s pretty good.” Walking outside, she went in search of The Katz. “C’mon, they’re out here.”

Raven and Ginger, laughing at a story from Stevie Fritz, watched Eddie approach.

“This is my best friend, T.J. T.J., this is Raven and Ginger,” she introduced.

“Hi,” T.J. said in a bright voice.

“So, do you get to stay here at Slade’s as well?” Raven almost sneered.

“This is our last night. Eddie’s done with the new songs and Slade’s home so—”

Ginger, buzzed from the free champagne said, “Oh, you’re the sister of the guy that dumped Eddie, right? You’re the ex’s sister?”

“I am the ex’s sister, yes.”

“So,” she slurred, “we’re all dying to know, did Eddie have any luck winning back lover boy with that whole dog tag thing?”

“This again,” T.J. fussed. “I’ve sent him the video, but whether he has seen it or not is anybody’s guess. Kai’s a wild card.”

“Breaking up is so hard to do,” Ginger tritely sympathized.

“But with boots on like those, Eddie, who needs a boyfriend?” Raven buoyed.

“Sorry guys,” Todd said, breaking up their tight circle, “but I’ve got to borrow Eddie for a while.”

“Raven, will you introduce T.J. around while I—”

“No problem,” she answered, waving Eddie away. “Slade’s roadies are in the kitchen. We’ll drag her in there.”

A lively conversation fueled with Patron Black was underway when Tsu, short for Tsunami, one of Slade’s roadies, whined, “I’d like to strangle whoever came up with ‘
You go, girl.’
You go? You go what
. . . to the bathroom, to hell?”

“Oh, now that one we’re keepin,’” argued Cake. Cake was Stevie Fritz’s right hand man and got the name “Cake” because all the girlies wanted him and right now, he was scamming big time on a blonde, pouring her another shot and sliding it across the gleaming counter. He always got lucky when Slade threw a party at his house. “Mine’s ‘team anything’
,
” Cake offered.

“Booty call,” deplored Raven, approaching the kitchen-counter. “It makes my trunk sound like a wide load.”

“Good call,” added Jordy, “that’s the one I’m throwing in the fire.” Jordy was roomies with Cake. They shared an apartment in North Hollywood, were professional roadies, had been to every continent together and shared everything, including women.

T.J., emphasized, “
At the end of the day.”

Holding up his bottle, the skin head roadie they called, “Tank,” said, “At the end of the day, all I want is a beer.”

“We’re a society of sound bites,” Raven continued. “We could shorten our communication even more if we put a number to these sound bites. Like, I’m feeling pretty sixteen right now with a little number three thrown in, which would mean I’m a nineteen.”

Tank contemplated, “Then, depending on how high or low your score is, we could use a colored system like they do with Homeland Security as to how pissed off we are, say if you’re an orange or a yellow threat. We could simplify even further and just wear colored t-shirts. Then everybody would be forewarned if you were a bomb ready to explode.”

“Yes,” T.J. butt in, “We could all simplify, but the real problem is that people aren’t honest. We’re a pack of liars. Girls from my school swear they’re Christian or born again, but come Saturday night that same girl is rubbing her crotch up against some coke dealer in a nightclub. I can
see
her diamond crucifix dangling between her plastic boobs, and just once, I’d like to ask, “So, where’s your Bible, sweetheart? Didn’t it match the fishnets?”

Her candor won the praise of the small group as they laughed. She finished, “I mean I don’t care, just don’t B.S. me.”

Tipping his beer, Tank advised, “Beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing. We saw that in Iraq all the time.”

Tsu imposed, “It’s like the vegan wearing a leather coat.”

“Or the Donald Trump’s of the world looking in the camera, and, with a straight face saying, ‘Money can’t buy happiness,’” howled Jordy. “That’s okay, Mr. Hedge Fund, you go have a good cry in your Cristal.”

“Trying to rock out to anything
unplugged,
” T.J. mused.

“Amen, sister,” agreed Jordy.

“You gotta name?” asked Tsu.

“Tara June
.”

“Nah, that don’t fit. Where you from?”

“San Francisco Bay area
.”

“You got way too much spunk for plain ol’ Frisco.”

Heading past the tipsy phase, Ginger laughed, “Friskie.”

“And we have a winner,” beamed Tsu.

“You can’t call me that,” T.J. winced.

“Yeah, we can, Frisky. It fits.”

“What are you doing in Los Angeles?” asked Tank.

“I’m Slade’s personal houseguest, and you’re all cutting in on my turf.”

“Anything personal to Slade is personal to us,” he concluded.

“No, seriously, it’s my best friend’s birthday and Slade threw her this party.”

“Is that why there’s a big cake out there?” Jordy asked, pointing to the dining area.