Strings (8 page)

“
No. It’s a code word for,
‘I’m hungry.’”

“
I don’t mix business with
pleasure. Look, man, in case you haven’t guessed, it’s been a rough
night. I just want to go home and crash. Alone. Can I please have
that back?”

“
After dinner.” He walks
toward the burger joint around the corner on College Avenue. Okay,
I’ll admit it. I check out his ass. No shame in that. It’s not like
I haven’t seen it—or done it—before.

I catch up and fall in
step with him. He doesn’t acknowledge me. This guy is so weird. I
can’t tell if he wants me or wants to kill me. Either way, I’ve got
two perfectly good reasons to avoid him. But after my brush with
popularity in the bar, I
need
that napkin more than I’d like to
admit.

“
Why didn’t you tell me
you owned the hotel?”

“
I don’t own any hotels.”
He looks straight ahead.

“
Okay, then your
dad
owns the
hotel.”

“
How exactly is that
information relevant to two strangers meeting up for a
shag?”

“
Most guys would brag
about being rich.”

He turns his head enough for me to see both
of his eyes, but they focus on something past me. “I’m not most
guys.”

I raise a brow. “Clearly.”

The gentleman holds open the glass door to
the ’50s-themed restaurant. Wearing a tight white T-shirt with a
short black miniskirt in the dead of winter, the cute hostess with
all manner of piercings and tattoos escorts us to a black pleather
booth. She sizes up Shades, hands us two oversized menus, and
sashays toward her perch behind the register near the door. His
gaze latches onto her ass and burrows in with heat so strong, I can
feel it across the table.

She tosses a glance over her shoulder to
him. The harpy.

Where did that come from? Gotta be PMS.

Focus, Letty.

“
So, Daddy’s poor little
rich boy is buying me dinner, then giving back the napkin he stole.
Right?” I pray he hasn’t read the lyrics on said napkin.

He rests his elbows on the table and leans
forward a tad. “Let’s be clear. Last night was a bash-and-dash. I
heard you say it was your birthday. You were alone. I was horny,
and I felt kind of sorry for you, so I banged you.”

I drop my jaw and crank my
neck. “
Excuse me?
” Motherfucker did
not
just insinuate that I was a sympathy fuck. Not
after the reaming I gave his ass. And bash-and-dash?
I
was the one who
left
him
this
morning.

“
You said ‘no strings
attached.’” He targets me with his unnerving green
stare.

I meet his bid and raise it. “And I meant
it.”

“
I’m glad we agree.
There’s enough friction between our bands already. No need to cause
anything else to fester.”

A new kind of heat flames up my neck and
straight out my mouth. “The only thing that’s gonna fester is your
ass when you get taken to the hospital for emergency boot removal
surgery. But you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?”

“
I might dig it, yeah.” He
grins.

“
Yo, hep cat, 1970 called,
and they want their jive talk back. What are you? A Jimi Hendrix
throwback?” I cross myself and make prayer hands. “Not that there’s
anything wrong with the Great God Jimi, mind you”—I lift my face
respectfully to the heavens while choirs of angels sing in my
head—“but those words coming from your rich white boy mouth make
you sound like a total jelly roll.”

He shrugs. “I like to get down with the
jelly roll. But you already know that, don’t you, pussycat?” A
gleam sparkles in his eye.

Okay. I know how to play
this game. I settle into the booth and fold my arms over my chest.
“I wonder what Rax and Toombs would think about what I did to you
with that strap-on. Two rough-and-tumble dudes like them with a new
guy to break in? I doubt Killer Dixon’s
fans
would be happy to learn their
new sex god singer is a bottom for chicks with rubber dicks. That
would
not
look
good on your resume, buddy.” I snag a piece of ice from my water
glass and crunch it loudly.

The intensity in his gaze sharpens to a
laser point. The burn is tangible. “What makes you think they don’t
already know?”

Shit. Course change. “Was sex with me a
dysfunctional-rich-person thing? A Band-Aid for your negative
father complex? Here’s my take on it. You tried to top me from
bottom because you have to be in control—a byproduct of years of
privileged living, no doubt—but you also wanted a walk on the wild
side, so you agreed to take a bumming as some sort of rebellion
against your daddy.”

“
Ah, Letty. I’m a piece of
glass to you. Guilty as charged.” He smirks and looks
away.

“
Are you ready to order?”
A bored-looking waitress taps her pen on a pad of paper.

“
Yeah. You got any Boston
butt?” I nail Shades with a glare. “I
love
to tear up some Boston butt.
Maybe with a side of shredded cheese. Mmm, mmm good.”

“
We sell burgers
here.”

“
Fine. Gimme one of those
with some fries. And a chocolate malt.” Since he’s paying, I may as
well go wild.

Wait, he’s paying, right?

Shit. I have exactly ten bucks to my name. I
start plotting my getaway.

“
I’ll have the same.”
Shades passes the menus to the chick, and she wanders
off.

I study Shades’s bored expression. Well,
this is going great. Since this may be my last chance to put it all
out there, I cut loose another barrage of burning questions. I’ll
probably never see him again. Nothing to lose. “Tell me something.
Did you know who I was when you picked me up last night? Was it
some kind of head game for you? The truth.”

He meets my direct stare. “I had no
idea.”

“
Hell of a coincidence,
don’t you think?”

“
Yep.”

“
You don’t sound
surprised.”

“
I’m not.”

“
Because—?”

“
Because you’re not Lucky.
I am. Things
always
go my way, even when they don’t.”

“
I don’t
follow.”

He drapes an arm across the back of the
booth. “You don’t follow good luck? It’s a pretty simple
concept.”

“
Perhaps an example is in
order? I
am
just
a girl, after all.”

“
I’ve been playing bass
since I was a kid. I wanted to be in a band—mostly because I knew
it would chap my dad’s ass if I didn’t follow in his footsteps.
Teenage rebellion thing. Whatever. But as I learned more and more,
things changed. Turned out I actually
enjoyed
music. Creating, playing—the
whole scene. Totally pissed my parents off, but at that point, I
was like, ‘Fuck ’em.’ I’m decent at something that doesn’t involve
hostile takeovers or wearing a suit. I’ll take it.

“
Before I knew it, I got
good on bass. I discovered I could carry a tune. I thought, ‘Shit,
maybe I can make an honest career out of this.’ So I kept at it.
Joined a few bands. Got some experience.

“
I hooked up with a couple
of cats when I moved here, but I wasn’t feeling their vibe. I told
them I wanted out after this last gig, and they were cool with
it.

“
We open for Killer Dixon.
After the show, I talk to Rax. Just casual shit. Nothing
music-related. But once he warms up to me, he says he and Toombs
are thinking about booting their singer. He likes my style and my
voice. Maybe we can get together and jam sometime. Cool. Whatever.
I figure he’s full of shit.

“
A few days later, I get a
phone call. Killer Dixon is auditioning musicians. So I go and
play. They like what I got and offer me the frontman position on
the spot. We rehearse. I learn their songs. We write a few more.
Things gel. And here I am.

“
See? Lucky.” He opens his
hands like the world is his fucking oyster. Must be nice to have it
so good.

I frown. “It takes more than luck to make it
in this business. I guess if you have plenty of cash, you’re set.
Musicians like me have to work our asses off to get anywhere, and
when we do break through to the next level, there’s a whole new
tower of shit waiting to greet us. Nothing’s easy for us little
people.” God, he makes me feel small. I hate that feeling.

He scowls, and the pitch of his voice rises.
“That’s exactly why I’m doing this. I want to prove to my dad and
all the doubters that I’m more than a snotty rich kid with no
talent. I’m here to show him I don’t need his money to make it.
Whatever it takes to win, I’ll do it, but I won’t grease any palms.
I’m playing fair because it’s the only way to earn my old man’s
respect.”

Wank, wank, wank.
Mr. Moneybags has officially crawled under my
skin. He’s not in it for the music. He’s in it for the pussy. All
male musicians are. “Your dad gave you a fucking tour bus. How is
that playing fair?”

“
It was his parting gift.
I couldn’t say no. That would be insulting.”

I shake my head. What a hypocrite. “I rest
my case.” Yep, Shades is exactly like every other spoiled rotten
Richie Rich I’ve ever met. What a disappointment.

He shifts in his seat, and apathy
neutralizes his expression. “I’ll be straight with you. I don’t
care if Cherry Buzz Float comes along for the ride or not. In fact,
I’d be a lot better off if you didn’t. But, if you do, we’ll show
no mercy. If I have to mop the stage with your sweat at every gig
to win more fans, I’ll fucking do it. I’m here to win, and I’ll
walk all over you, your friends, and anyone else who gets in my
way. So, no offense if I kick your ass and thoroughly humiliate you
on stage every night. It’s nothing personal.”

“
I think you overestimate
yourself.”
You smug prick.

“
I don’t. Jillian says
we’ve got a record deal in the bag. It’s just a matter of finding
the right label.”

I laugh. “Jillian said that because you’re
loaded. She’ll kiss your ass from here to Kingdom Come as long as
you keep shitting green her way.”

“
She said that before she
knew I had money.”

What? No fucking way. “Wait a minute.
Jillian didn’t know who you were when you joined Killer Dixon?”

He shrugs. “When she heard our new tunes,
she said it was a shame we couldn’t go on the road because we’d
make a fortune. That was when I told her I had a bus.”

Shit. Then Killer Dixon
might be worth a shit after all. Jillian must
really
believe in them. She doesn’t
give compliments. Ever.

So, inviting us on tour wasn’t a dollar
sign-driven ploy to help Cherry Buzz Float. It was the opposite.
Jillian felt sorry for us and used her pull with Killer Dixon’s
newfound cash cow to drag us along behind.

Jealousy tangoes with my
hope circuitry and shorts it out. In this moment I hate Shades and
his stupid fucking band. I hate them because they’re better than we
are. And I’m supremely pissed at Jillian for taking pity on us. We
don’t need pity. We need
belief
. Belief that we know how to
rock with the best of them. Belief that we’re not the talentless
hacks I suddenly fear we are.

I scoot out of the seat. “I gotta go. I’ve
lost my appetite. Thanks for…” I look at the empty table, my empty
hands, and my empty fucking life. “Nothing.”

He holds up the napkin as I race past.

Squeezing my lids shut to keep the tears
from falling, I toss over my shoulder, “Keep it. I don’t need
it.”

Interlewd One

Radio silence on the Cherry Buzz Float front
continues for several days. I assume the worst because I’m too
chickenshit to call Jillian. I know what she’ll say anyway, and
frankly, I don’t want to face the truth.

I’m fucking devastated.
Another gigantic stop sign in the endless, pointless cycle of my
career. People wonder why musicians and artists turn to drugs and
alcohol. Why they blow their fucking heads off or drown in their
own puke.
This
is
why. If bad reviews, snubs from record companies, and lukewarm
receptions from fans don’t kill you, mutiny will.

I put so many years into this band, and one
deadly blowup from Kate vaporized everything I worked for. I feel
like I’ve lost a limb.

After spending the week curled in the fetal
position, drowning in a well of self-pity, I sprout a pair of
pea-sized womanballs and steal a day-old newspaper from work. I
figure it’s time to get serious about my life since the music
segment of this comedy show has been cut due to lack of funding.
Plus, the lease agreement on my shitty apartment in Crack Alley
ends in a couple months. It would be great to make enough money to
upgrade to Dream-On Heights where the roaches are smaller and the
junkies only come out at night instead of sitting on other people’s
stoops all day long.

Morning coffee in hand and tattered slippers
on my feet, I plop down on my moth-eaten sofa and turn eagerly to
the classifieds section. Let’s see…credit union assistant manager.
Truck driver. Hospital pharmacist. Communications technician.
Accounting supervisor.