“Hey, Burt.”
“Hey, Barbie Doll. How’s it going?”
“What do you want?”
“What? Can’t your favorite sister ask you how you’re doing?”
“Briiiit.”
“OK, I have a small favor, but it’s not a big deal. What are you and that fiancé of yours doing Thursday night?”
“Thursday night’s date night. We try never to miss date night. They told us in premarital counseling that we need to hold ‘us time’ sacred.”
“I’m not going to come between you and smoochy-poo’s date night. I merely have a suggestion of where you can hold said date night.”
“You ‘merely’ do, do you now?” teased Barbara and a fake, high-brow British accent. “If you say the club, that’s not exactly my idea of a romantic date night.”
“What if I make you a dinner reservation someplace that night? A surprise? It’ll be a high class establishment, I promise.”
The line went quiet.
“Barbara?”
“No Indian. Indian food doesn’t agree with my man’s stomach, and I have every intention of getting lucky that night.”
“You need to know when to stop with the details. I know we’re sisters, but there’s still a line.”
“Oh, whatever. So what’s at the club that’s so important?”
“I want Lander to meet Daisy, the new talent I booked. She doesn’t have a manager yet, and I know Lander would love her.”
“OK, stop groveling. It’s beneath you. Set up a dinner for us, and we’ll be there. And remember—”
“No Indian. Trust me, I will never forget that again.”
Everything was falling into place. Now she just had to get a hold of Daisy to sign the folder of forms she had taken with her after her impromptu meeting with Cord.
She called Daisy next, but Daisy didn’t pick up. Good thing she had her address. It was slightly creepy to just show up, but what other choice did she have? Luckily, Daisy had taken Brit and Vincent right by her apartment in Chinatown the day before. Brit knew what building it was—she just didn’t know the number.
Brit slowed her engine when she saw the familiar sights of Chinatown—the vibrant reds and golds, the blocky pictorial letters adorning every storefront. She rolled her window down, and the smell of fried food wafted in with the breeze. Convenient, she was planning on getting Chinese takeout that night anyway.
After driving around the block a couple times, Brit found a parking spot and expertly parallel parked herself into it. She had learned to drive in Amsterdam—she could confidently fit any size car into any spot given enough time.
The smell of delicious ginger and soy sauce simmering in oil was even stronger upon exiting the car, and Brit’s stomach lurched in desire. The game plan was to have Daisy sign the papers, drive her to Vincent to start rehearsing, and stuff every wonton-wrapped morsel Brit could in her mouth.
Daisy’s building was brick, and on the main level was some sort of specialized market for spices. Brit was instantly a touch envious. Imagine smelling that all day. As nice as Brit’s place was, she had to keep her windows closed and incense going to avoid the smells of cigarettes and scotch from the bar scene below. Brit was tempted to pick up some more incense from this cute shop, but she made a note to do that on her next visit.
First, Brit looked up from the spice shop. Above the shop appeared to be an apartment or two, but there were also steps that went down. She stepped up the couple stairs that led to the door next to the spice shop, the bottom of her ankle boots scuffing against the concrete as she hurried. Brit couldn’t make out the name on the faded white paper label behind the nameplate next to the buzzer. Checking her surroundings again, she was ninety percent sure that this was the building Daisy had pointed to. She rang the buzzer and stepped back enough to be able to smell the coriander and sage emanating from the spice shop.
No sounds of footsteps inside, so Brit traversed down the stairs that went below street level this time. This place looked like an apartment as well, but it had a knocker on the door instead of a buzzer and a mailbox hung next to it. Brit opened the metal lid of the mailbox, but nothing was inside. She let it slam and rapped three times with the metal knocker. She watched the window waist level to the right that had beaded maroon curtains over it. The aesthetic was certainly something she imagined Daisy having.
Nothing here either though. Brit was about to give up and go in search of food when she heard faint music from inside the lower apartment. Acoustic guitar and a very quiet but familiar raspy female voice. Instead of knocking this time, Brit tried using her phone to call Daisy again. Sure enough, she heard the sound of a ringer from inside.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Daisy, it’s me, Brit. I’m outside your apartment.”
“What? You are?” The curtains moved, and Daisy’s cherubic round face peeked out with wide eyes and full lips in the shape of a surprised O. At the sight of Brit, she smiled and waved with her free hand and pointed to the door to indicate she’d be right there to let her in.
Brit hung up the phone and tossed it back into her purse, adjusting the file folder of documents underneath her elbow. Out of a side pocket in her bag, she pulled a pair of funky brightly patterned reading glasses and stuck them on top of her head.
The door clicked to unlock, and Daisy opened it inward with a sweeping hand of welcome to Brit. “Come in, come in, what a surprise! I would’ve cleaned up more if I knew you were going to come over!” Almost everything Daisy said was a breathy exclamation.
Brit stepped in and took in her surroundings while Daisy bustled around the room, moving a stack of papers from her couch to give Brit a place to sit.
Daisy’s studio apartment was decorated perfectly to show off every aspect of her personality. Her acoustic guitar leaned against a simple, streamlined white couch with a black frame that likely came from Ikea, and two other guitars—one shaped like a mandolin and another acoustic with a floral pattern painted on the front—hung on the wall. Below that was a giant, multicolored round wicker basket with a lid on it, a chipped ceramic vase, and a squat elephant standing between the two. Daisy’s bed was behind a bamboo partition wall dividing the two spaces. To the left was a tidy kitchen with door-less cupboards stacked with mismatched colorful plates and mugs and a square table with two chairs and a woven table runner draping off the edge.
“Man, Daisy, your place could be in a World Market catalog, but like, a way classier version. I love all your decorations. Did you get them around town?”
Daisy picked up her guitar by the neck and surveyed her space. She looked like a super hero in her element, wielding her weapon. “A few things. Most of them were passed down from my parents and grandparents, and actually came from China.”
“Authentic, even better.” Brit appreciatively ran her hands over a throw blanket draped on the side of a chair near the front door.
“Can I get you anything to drink? Daisy asked.
Brit sat down on the couch in the space Daisy had cleared for her and set the file folder on the coffee table-slash-ottoman in front of her.
“Some water would be fine. I don’t want to be here long. I just have some paperwork you need to fill out before your gig. Do you have any plans the rest of the night, by the way?”
Daisy bustled to the other side of her studio apartment to get Brit a drink of water. When she lifted one of the blue-tinted glasses off a high shelf, her crop top lifted up, and Brit spotted a scrolling flower tattoo on her back with Chinese figures above it.
“What does your tattoo mean?”
“Oh.” Daisy giggled. “It means ‘strength.’ I know it’s so cliché, but it means a lot to me. Does it help at all that I’m ethnically Chinese?”
“Who cares if it’s cliché if it means something to you? It’s really pretty,” Brit said with a reassuring wave of her hand.
“Thank you. Do you have any tattoos?”
“One.” Brit lifted up the back of her hair and
twisted around on the couch so that Daisy could get a good look at the back of her neck. At the base of Brit’s neck was a line of sheet music inked above her shoulder blades. “It’s the first few bars of my favorite song. I was considering getting more lines down my back, but I started with this.”
“Can I ask what song?”
Now it was Brit’s turn to be embarrassed. “It’s one of my dad’s.”
“Seriously? That’s really, really sweet. I bet I could guess which one.”
“You know my dad’s music?”
“I know the hits well,” said Daisy. “But I’ve listened to a few more lately. I figured that if I was going to be playing at his club and making friends with his daughter that I should probably learn more of his stuff.”
“Believe me, liking my dad’s music is not a requirement to being my friend. It’s not even a requirement for playing the club. My dad is such a laid-back guy, he’d probably let his nemesis play as long as they were nice to him that day. Not that he has a nemesis. Anyway, as you probably assumed, it’s the song he wrote for me—’Little Girl Mine.’ He wrote a song for all three of his daughters, and that one’s mine. Barbara has hers tattooed on her too. Don’t know if my younger sister did the same.”
“I didn’t know you had another sister,” said Daisy.
“Most people don’t. I don’t talk about her that often. Barbara talks to Saffron more than I do. We have different moms but the same dad. She’s in the states, so we don’t see her that often. She doesn’t make an effort, and I don’t make an effort, so you can see how that goes.”
Daisy filled the glass with tap water and added ice cubes that clinked on the sides of the glass when she set it down on the ottoman next to the file folders. “What’s all this?” she asked. “What are all these papers?”
Brit moved her reading glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose. The pages came into focus in front of her. She should probably get the prescription of her contacts adjusted. “It’s all very standard. These are things a manager would normally take care of. Trust me, I hope after tomorrow you’ll have someone to manage all of this. But for right now, we need your signature on everything.”
“Wow, when I did open mic nights, I kind of just walked in and started playing.”
“You’re in the big leagues now. These are standard tax forms. Pretty much like the ones you fill out when you get a new job.”
“You had a job?” Daisy asked incredulously. “I’m really sorry. I did not mean it to come out like that.”
“No problem. My father thought it would be a good idea for me to earn all the handbags I buy. For a short time, I worked at a high-end department store, so I could afford my hobby. That only lasted about six months, but I do remember filling out those annoying tax forms. Anyway, this next form is the contract, you know, a lot of legal jargon saying that you won’t sue us if something happens. We’re not responsible, blah blah blah. Do you want a lawyer to look over this or anything?”
“No, no, I trust you.”
“Good, I don’t want to pressure you, but we are kind of under a time crunch. You need these, so we can pay you for your gig. And I really want to show you the rehearsal space tonight. I think Vincent is going to be there. I thought at the end of your set, you could do a song together.”
“That would be great, but we have to find something we both know.”
“I completely agree,” said Brit.
When all the forms had been signed, Brit’s stomach growled again.
“Have you eaten?” asked Daisy.
“I have not. I was actually wondering what the best Chinese place was around here.”
Daisy snorted and laughed.
“Is that a dumb question?” asked Brit.
“No, there’s just so many, which I’m sure doesn’t shock you, but my favorite is this hole-in-the-wall place just around the corner. I haven’t eaten either. Let’s get takeout, and then you can show me this rehearsal space.”
“That would be amazing. Oh, and guess what? I invited Abednego Lander to come to your show, and I talked you up, so I’m really excited about that. But don’t get stressed out. I know he’s a big deal, and it would be a big deal to get signed with him. But he’s my future brother-in-law; and I’m not saying I have sway with him or anything, but he is the nicest guy you will ever meet. If you think my dad is nice, Lander is even nicer. Lander is like the hip version of my dad these days. And less of a stoner, which is nice.” Brit shut her mouth after the word vomit, confident she didn’t need to convince Daisy any further.
“Are those the last of the forms?” asked Daisy.
Brit closed the file folder, sat back against the couch, and held the folder against her increasingly hungry stomach. “Those are the last of them. Ready to get a bite to eat?”
“Definitely, you’re going to love this place, I think.”
Brit followed Daisy up the steps to street level. She opened her car to toss the paperwork in.
“Nice parking job,” said Daisy. “I don’t even have a car. I’m more comfortable parking my moped.”
“I don’t blame you, but I’ve had lots of practice.”
They walked down the street to an almost literal hole in the wall where Daisy covertly ducked in between an opening in a brick wall that led downstairs to a little place below street level. Daisy barely had the door open when Brit smelled sweet soy and ginger again and everything she’d been craving for the last hour and a half. Brit didn’t know what to order at first—she wanted everything—but she settled on her usual chicken fried rice and egg drop soup. Since she was starving, she also threw in a shrimp egg roll on the side. When their order was ready, they grabbed the bags and hurried outside.
Once on the street, Brit sensed something was wrong. Someone’s car alarm was going off. Wait, that wasn’t someone’s car alarm—that was her car alarm!
Brit dropped the takeout bag on the sidewalk and sprinted to where her Audi was parked. Daisy followed in pursuit of Brit’s retreating figure. In despair, Brit found the front passenger side window broken with glass everywhere. There were scrapes near the lock, which appeared to have been jimmied before the glass broke. She didn’t have anything inside of any material value, so she couldn’t understand why anyone would try to break in until she noticed the file folder gone. She went to grab her phone, but she noticed that was gone too. Where did she put her phone? Then she remembered in horror she had in fact dropped the phone under the file folder because it was in her hand instead of in her handbag.
“Oh no, we have to go to the police,” said Daisy.
Brit didn’t want her plans to be affected, so she grabbed Daisy’s phone and called Vincent. He agreed to meet Daisy. Then, Brit called the police.
Not sure what else to do while she waited for help to arrive, Brit called Cord.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CORD ARRIVED FIRST, and after he couldn’t find a suitable parking spot, he stopped his car illegally in front of Brit’s. He got out, concern etched on his normally serious features.
“Are you OK? Is everyone OK? Your car is not OK.” He stopped short and frowned at all the spilled glass on the sidewalk and on Brit’s front seat.
“I’m fine. Daisy’s fine. We were getting dinner, takeout, and we came back to find this. We were only gone maybe fifteen minutes. They took my phone. I have to call the phone company or something.” The situation was starting to make Brit delirious and disoriented.
Cord held her elbow, and it steadied her immediately. Her boots felt rooted to the pavement. “Is there anything sensitive on your phone?” he asked.
Brit hadn’t even thought about that. She was so worried about the paperwork that she had been so excited to finish, and she thought replacing her phone was no big deal. But there was stuff on there she didn’t want anyone to see. She had contacts, of course, private numbers of pop and rock stars who she had met over the years. Somewhere in there she had future itineraries of musicians, personal notes, and pictu
res. So whoever stole her phone, if they could crack her password, would have all that information and her pictures.
“Some sensitive information, yeah. And some pictures, of course.”
“What kind of pictures?” asked Cord.
Too frustrated, scared, and angry at the world to have room for a shred of embarrassment, she answered with a sarcastic tone Cord didn’t deserve. “Oh, just pictures every girl probably has on their phone, Cord. Can’t really tell what you look like till you take pictures naked and in your underwear. Got to make sure everything looks OK.”
Cord turned a shade of magenta that rivaled the color of Brit’s hair.
Another car pulled up across the street and stalled for a moment while a figure jumped out.
“Uber!” Vincent called as he slammed the door.
“What’s he doing here?” asked Cord.
“I thought maybe he could help out or keep Daisy company while I figured this out.”
Daisy put up her hands, apparently surprised that anyone remembered she was still there. “No, no, I’m fine! My apartment is right there.” She pointed behind her.
“I know. I just wanted my plans to work out despite all this. If nothing good comes of this, at least this show can still happen. Can you guys just do that for me?” She was trying to keep the edge out of her voice—she was trying not to cry—Brit figured she sounded more pissed off than anything. Or maybe desperate.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” asked Daisy.
“Thanks, Daisy. I’m OK. I’ll be fine. I can figure this out. It’s nothing a phone company, a cop, and a credit card can’t fix, right? It would make me feel a lot better if you went with Vincent in case this guy’s still out there. You can get a little work done and talk about the show. I know it feels weird, but I want something good to come out of this.”
“OK, well, here you go.” Daisy handed her the bag of takeout, which Brit had forgotten about.
Cord took off his jacket and wrapped it around Brit’s shoulders. She inhaled deeply out of surprise and enjoyed the scent that filled her nostrils. She wasn’t even that cold, but she must have been shivering. The June night had taken a turn.
Brit with the Pink Hair (The Rockin' Austen Series, #1) Page 7