by A. m Madden
“Zane once told me that his family had many connections. He claimed he could probably help me out with trying to find an acting job. I believed him. I knew enough about the Zaslo family that they had many so-called friends in the industry. He has had a few roles on television and in a few movies himself. His résumé impressed me. I later found out he was fired from most of those acting jobs. He started Top Shelf as another way to get famous. His dad has helped him out over and over, and he’s made many enemies because of his son’s stupidity.” She pauses as if remembering something, and then shakes her head. “Anyway, he said he would help me. I was gullible enough to believe him. He quickly became my best customer, a regular. He liked experimenting. I had many nights with him and his friends. It’s not unusual to get requests for a threesome with two guys. Zane would book one a week.
“One night he asked me and Ginger to come to his place. When we got there, there were several other guys hanging out and partying. They were using coke and offered us some. I would occasionally partake, although I prefer pot. By the end of the night we had an orgy going. I made a fortune that night. It was all very professional with everyone using protection.” She looks up before adding, “Even when Zane fucked one of his friends, and vice versa.”
I keep my face impassive. She has no idea what I’m thinking. I can only imagine what all this has to do with me. I haven’t uttered one word yet, and don’t plan on it. When I fold my arms, leaning against the cabinet, she understands that I’m waiting for her to get to the fucking punch line of this goddamn joke.
“Zane is bisexual. The turn-on for him is straight men like you. He likes you, Trey…a lot. He’s been fixated on you since the day you met. He likes to think he is a master manipulator. Before I started having feelings for you, he propositioned me. He said he’d double my fee every time I took you to the private rooms. I was paid generously and he always dangled my career in my face for good measure. He would watch us through the two-way mirror. Each room is equipped, and we always have to disclose to our customers there is a possibility of someone watching. If Mario knew we never told you, I’d be fired. These past few weeks Zane would get off by watching you getting off. He didn’t want you to know yet. He said it was too soon. With time, he felt that he could persuade you to experiment with him and me in our own threesome. He wanted me to convince you.
“He’s had all three of his band mates. Ron was the hardest to convince. It took Zane weeks. When he finally participated, Zane pulled away and Ron got angry. With Zane it’s all about the chase. Once he gets them to agree, he walks away. They fought often after that. It resulted in Zane firing him, but not before Ron threatened him. Zane doesn’t handle threats well. Ron can thank Zane for his heroin addiction.”
What the FUCK!
“Why now?” I ask through clenched teeth. “Why the fuck are you telling me this now?”
“He’s getting frustrated. I keep telling him you aren’t into that. I warned him you wouldn’t stick around if you knew what he really wanted from you. He disagreed and said everyone has his price. Yours was getting into Top Shelf. Once he offered you that spot, he felt you would comply eventually…with my help, of course. The more I spent time with you, the more I enjoyed it. I wanted Zane to fucking disappear. His last demand is what sent me here to tell you everything. He plans on having a party and getting you really high.”
My nostrils flare from the anger that is coursing through my body. Here I thought I was playing him. That cocksucker has been playing me worse.
I point to the door. “Get the fuck out.”
She nods and walks to where I’m standing. “I’m sorry, Trey. This town is full of players. We all do what we have to in order to survive. I didn’t count on feeling the way I do. I hope you can forgive me.”
My response is to go to my door, open it, and wait. She walks past me silently, and I slam the door behind her.
Fucking whore.
Fuck me and my life.
I’m out. Nothing holds me here, no reason to stay. I sit for the next three hours staring into space, planning my move. If I see Zane again, I’ll kill him. I have no desire to see Kate or any of his posse. Sure, I’ll miss Bob, Mel, and Hank, but I owe them nothing. This is my life, and I owe no one any explanations or excuses.
I decide on New York. I’ll drive across the country and never look back. The decision on where to go is easy. It’s the furthest point I can get to before hitting water. The decision on when to go isn’t so easy. As I debate the when in my head, I pack what little crap I’ll be taking with me. Twenty minutes later, my lone suitcase and my three guitars are all neatly sitting by my door.
The longer I wait, the more I start to lose my nerve. The thought of leaving without a goodbye to my friends starts to prick my heart with pure guilt. They were very good to me and helped me out these past few months. I really feel bad that I’m leaving them. The feelings I am experiencing right now are so foreign, I don’t know how to handle them. This is exactly why I can’t get attached to anyone. People complicate things. Relationships clog perspectives.
What’s the point? We all die alone anyway.
A normal human would take five to six days to drive from L.A. to New York. That’s taking into consideration breaks and rest times. This fucked up angry human only took four. I could have probably done it faster if my piece of shit truck cooperated. It barely got me here. Since I didn’t need it in L.A., I decided I probably wouldn’t need it in New York either. The Oregon plate it sports contradicts the lies I’ve been telling.
Lies.
That’s what my fucking life has become. One big fucked up lie. And as exhausted as I am with this charade that I’m playing, I know it’s only the beginning. I know that I’ll be running forever. I sometimes wonder if I just went back home, what would they all do? The idea makes my skin crawl. The thought of being back in that godforsaken town is what keeps me running.
I never belonged there. I really didn’t feel like I belonged in L.A. either, but here I am in New York for less than a week and I already love it here. Twenty-four hours in, I knew I belonged here. For the first time in a long time I feel optimistic and hopeful. Maybe, just maybe, I found where I fit. If not, I already know that I’ll hate leaving New York.
I found an extended stay hotel that I could afford. From the looks of some of the apartment listings I saw, it’s probably cheaper staying in the hotel. New York is way too expensive…from rent, to the overpriced slice of pizza sold in the greasy joint across the street. I know how to pick my battles when it comes to spending my cash. Just as in Vegas, I felt it was important to spend a few more bucks on a better hotel, if for no other reason but to keep my shit safe. I was able to live in L.A. without touching my stash. So, as far as I’m concerned, I’m ahead of the game. It’s a good thing I am, because this town is gonna cost me a fortune.
I spent the first week not doing much, other than sleeping all day long. It felt good. At night I’d venture to different neighborhoods, scouting out bars featuring live bands. I kept to myself, barely speaking to others. I’ve just been sitting and watching. The last bar I found looked to be promising. They were advertising their weekly open mic night. The crowd favorite gets a one hundred dollar cash prize, and their performance is recorded for demo purposes. So here I am with my guitar, ready to blow these ass-wipes away.
I add my name to the list and sit quietly in the back waiting to be called. Acts shuffle on and off the stage. They range from singers to piano players to bands. The bar is jammed with young professionals looking for weeknight relief. Men still in shirts and ties, women in short skirts and clingy blouses. They sit and drink like fish as the talent entertains them.
When they call my name, I saunter through the bar like I own the joint. The emcee asks if I have anyone playing with me tonight. “We normally don’t get bass players performing alone.”
“Just me,” I respond arrogantly.
“Okay, Trey Taylor-Just-Me. Show us what ya’ got.”
I plug in, taking my time. A female yells something, I have no clue what, and the crowd erupts with catcalls and laughing. What-the-fuck-ever, I’m about to shut them up. I start with the opening riff of Hysteria by Muse, I then morph into Fool in the Rain by Zeppelin and end with Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns N’ Roses. With each riff, the crowd loves me more. The laughing and catcalls turn into something else...something fierce.
My fingers fly over my strings, caressing and flicking as if it’s a woman’s clit. I stroke and tease until she’s screaming my name, but it’s not a woman it’s a guitar. It understands me better than any fucking thing on this earth. This lacquered wood instrument may as well be a woman. If it had a voice, it would demand more of my touch.
I keep my eyes closed behind my shades, allowing the music I make absorb into every cell of my body. It courses through me, pumping my heart and feeding my hunger. It gives me the strength and the confidence that I’m lacking. By the time I pluck my last note, my breathing is hard and fast as if I just had mind-blowing sex. To me, playing is my foreplay to fucking. It makes me hard as a rock and ready to release. It riles me up as much as a woman’s lips, hands, tongue.
The euphoria that comes from playing dulls my senses. I’m vaguely aware of the noise rising in the small bar. It isn’t until the emcee asks the crowd if they liked what they heard, do I realize the noise is for me.
“Fuck me, Trey.”
“Tease me, Trey.”
“Take me, Trey.”
The emcee laughs into his mic and shakes his head. “Well, it seems we got ourselves a crowd favorite tonight. Do we even need to bother with a vote?”
A collective NO assaults me as I stand awkwardly on the small stage. While I’m playing I could also be stroking my cock for all to see, and I wouldn’t be the least bit embarrassed. The instant my music ends, I’m out of my element and ready to disappear into a colorless vapor. An eternity passes as the emcee provokes the crowd, asking if they are sure, naming act by act to dissuade their vote. They won’t have it, making it clear I am their choice.
“The winner of tonight’s Open Mic Night is Trey Taylor!” He hands me an envelope. “Congrats, kid. You can pick up your demo tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I mumble before practically running off the stage. I unplug, grab my case, and head for the door. Strangers touch me as I walk by, both men and women alike.
No sooner do I get out the door and onto the street when someone calls out, “Hold up.”
I turn to see two dudes walking toward me. “Dude, you were awesome. Where’d you learn to play like that?” The one with spiky hair asks.
“Self-taught.” I measure them both up. The spiky haired one is tall with blondish hair and looks like a rock star wannabe. The other is taller with dark hair and looks like a runway model wannabe.
Spiky puts out his hand and says, “Hunter Amatto. This is Jack Lair. Our band is called Devil’s Lair.”
I shake both their hands, skeptical of Hunter’s claim. They have a band? For all I know these idiots play weddings and bar mitzvahs. “Well, good luck to you,” I say before turning to make my escape.
“Wait.” Hunter takes a step closer and tries again. “We just lost our bass player. We’re in need of a replacement. You’d be a perfect fit, man.”
Jack folds his arms, waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, he adds, “Can we buy you a drink?”
I shake my head and say, “I gotta go.”
They exchange a look before Jack nods. “We get it. We didn’t mean to ambush you. We’re playing at a new place called Granite tomorrow night. It’s the place to be. We won the slot in a battle of the bands. Unfortunately, we’re working with a temp bassist. Come by and check us out, we’re on at eleven.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to make it.”
He offers his hand again, and I wait a few seconds before I accept. “Name me at the door. That’ll get you in.”
I stand, staring at their retreating backs as they walk back into the bar. Of course I’m leery. It took me weeks to find a band in L.A., and I almost had to lick balls to do it. These two are practically handing me a gig on a silver platter. There’s something trusting about them. If they were looking to yank my chain, they would have pushed harder, but then again it can all be a ploy.
Fuck, I’ve got nothing to lose. Looks like I’ll be checking out Devil’s Lair tomorrow night at Granite.
Granite isn’t what I expected. From the outside it looks like a warehouse. The line that wraps around the building showcases an assortment of mostly hot chicks anxiously waiting to get in. There is no fucking way I’m waiting in that. Jack’s name better get me in or I’m gone. I step toward the massive dude sitting on a tiny stool at the door. He watches from his perch, arms folded, muscles coiled and ready to pounce.
I approach, expecting him to tell me to get in that fucking line.
“Yeah?” he asks before I get the chance to speak.
“Jack Lair.”
He looks at his clipboard, flipping some pages wordlessly. When he moves the velvet rope aside he instructs, “Elevator on the left, top floor.”
The first two floors are the dance club. Even from inside the elevator, I can feel the wall vibrating from that god-awful music. The top floor houses a rooftop bar with a glass wall that shows a view of downtown Manhattan. It’s very fancy and upscale. I feel completely out of place. My black jeans, black T-shirt and black shades are all coming up short, not that I give a fuck.
I scan the crowd and don’t see Hunter or Jack. I’d like to observe from afar, and not have them know that I decided to come check them out. I’m thinking if they suck, they’ll never know I was here. I sit in the farthest corner from the stage. It’s a few minutes before eleven. I timed it purposefully.
A scantily clad waitress approaches immediately. “What can I get you?”
“I forgot my I.D.”
She studies my face and smiles. “You’re of age, right?” she asks with raised eyebrows.
“And then some.”
“Whatcha having?”
“Bud.”
She winks and walks away, purposefully shaking that fine ass in those short black shorts.
The tables that line the front of the stage are filled with chicks. I’m guessing they are more interested in the men than the music. My waitress comes back with my beer and hands it to me. “Like DL?”
“DL?”
“I guess you’re not a fan of Devil’s Lair? Their fans call them DL.”
I nod, pretending to be interested. “I thought this is their first time here.”
“Oh, it is, but their fans follow them around. I happen to be a fan, so I know first hand. I was so excited when I found out they were playing here tonight.”
Another table summons her over, and she announces she’ll be back. While she’s gone the lights dim and the announcer introduces Devil’s Lair. The girls in the front lose their shit as the band takes the stage. Jack steps front and center, smiling wide as he takes the mic in one hand. He immediately starts flirting with the girls in front, even before the rest of his band get into their positions. Hunter sits behind his drums and smiles even wider to the fan club up front. I’m fucking impressed they have groupies. Then again, so did Fuck-Face in L.A.
The dude to Jack’s left makes me laugh out loud. He’s a ginger who is as pale as a vampire. He has his own little cheering section, in spite of his apple pie looks. The dude to Jack’s right is an average guy who looks like a dwarf in comparison to the drummer and lead. He’s short, stocky, and extremely mismatched. The girls pay no attention to him.
Jack’s banter is laced with crude suggestions, and the chicks are going wild. He laughs at their zealousness, revealing a perfect set of dimples. He counts them down, and they open with a Linkin Park cover. I recognize the song. It’s fairly new. They play it well before going into three that I don’t recognize. My guess is that these songs are theirs. They’re good, true rock. I actually like their music better than Top Sh
elf, which leaned toward metal.
The little voice inside my head tells me to ditch this place, but the longer I sit, the more I’m subconsciously lean towards joining Devil’s Lair. The waitress comes back to check on me. She leans in and whispers into my ear, “Like them?” When I nod, the movement brings her lips even closer. “They’re awesome.”
She straightens and smiles wide, miming toward my beer. I nod again and she heads toward the bar. When she returns with my beer, her phone number is included in the exchange. I lift the bar receipt that says, Sherrie 212-555-5690. When my head tilts up to meet her gaze, she winks and walks away.
DL’s set is a good mix of old and new. They favor classics and play them spot on to the originals. When they play their own material, most of the crowd sings along.
I’m impressed.
Their set runs about an hour, and they leave the stage with their fans begging for more. There’s another band playing after them, so DL can’t oblige. The bar lights brighten, and I watch as they interact with their admirers. The waitresses flock over and bring them drinks that weren’t ordered. Hunter stands and scans the bar. His eyes almost immediately settle on me in the back. He says something to his band, and they all stroll over.
“I’m surprised, you came,” Hunter says as he approaches.
Jack introduces me to the redhead, “This is Scott Malone.”
Scott leans over and shakes my hand. They all sit around my table without an invitation.
“So? What did ya’ think?” Hunter asks a second after their asses hit the chairs.
“You guys are good,” I admit. “Where else do you play?”
“Mostly bars in SoHo. Occasionally, we’ll go uptown. We have a small mob of fans that follow us,” he thumbs to the groupies sitting up front. The chicks all take turns turning to stare at the rock stars they just witnessed.