by Elle Greco
“Like Elvis,” she finished for me, the frosty look on her face cracking a little. “I know those names. Satan’s Sisters.” I nodded. She removed her glasses. “Your shit’s good.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“When are you cutting an album?” she asked. “I’ll put you in my rotation.” She pointed to the speakers embedded in the ceiling. “Not in the morning though. Satan’s Sisters is definitely afternoon music. Mornings are for Björk and Portishead, chill shit until I’ve had enough coffee.”
“Not sure about the album yet,” I said. “We’re all doing independent projects at the moment.”
“Pity,” she said, shoving her glasses back on her face.
I looked back at the wall of posters and noticed the name of the promoter, Jonas Johnson. Then I looked back at her, and it was like my brain suddenly functioned.
“Wait. You’re Lydon Johnson,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
She took a breath and closed her eyes. On her exhale, she removed her glasses again and opened her eyes. “Yes, I am Lydon Johnson.”
“Holy crap!” I nearly shouted.
Okay, I was losing my shit. But Lydon’s dad, Jonas Johnson, brought a musical British invasion to the United States. He was a legend and known for having a keen ear for backing hit-makers. Lydon’s own taste was similar, but she got out of the game when she married Chad Billington, who was the front man for Ear Assassins. They were, like, Anthem huge when, at the height of their fame, Chad committed suicide. This was around five years ago, and after all the morbid press coverage, the world had lost track of Lydon. It appeared that she wanted it that way.
Vince knew Lydon and Chad. They were all part of “rock royalty,” as the press had called them at Chad’s funeral.
Lydon, to her credit, didn’t run me out of her store with my outburst.
“How’s Vince?” she asked instead.
“Okay, I guess,” I said. “He and my mom are divorcing, so…”
“So not really in touch with him, gotcha,” she said. “Pamela doing okay?”
“You know Pamela?” I asked.
Her head tilted as she evaluated my expression. “Pamela’s not doing okay.”
“Not really,” I admitted.
“Sorry to hear that, kid,” she said, glasses back on. “Life hands you shit to make sure you appreciate the not shit.”
Lydon was like a rock and roll version of Buddha.
“I guess” was all I had to add.
I walked through the cluttered store, my eyes scanning the books that were shelved in no apparent order. There were a ton of rock and roll biographies, cultural studies of music movements, some random business books, loads of self-help titles, and volumes and volumes of poetry. I pulled out a biography of Stevie Nicks. The fairy godmother of rock and roll had signed it herself.
I turned to look at Lydon. “Was all of this stuff yours?”
Her elbows rested on the counter. “I’m downsizing. This is just the first wave of crap. Plenty more in storage.”
“Wow, this could fill a—”
“A Beverly Hills mansion,” she finished for me. “Once it did.”
I picked up copies of Josh Bell’s No Planets Strike and Audre Lorde’s Coal (first edition!) and brought them to the register.
She looked at the books. “That’s ten even.”
“There’s got to be a mistake,” I blurted out. “The Audre Lorde has to be at least forty dollars. It’s a first edition.”
“You’re telling me you want to pay more?”
“I want to pay what’s fair,” I said, digging into my bag for my wallet.
The glasses came off again. “Storage units in LA aren’t cheap, and I need to unload stuff. I don’t have time to—”
I held up my hand and placed two twenties on the counter. Technically, they were Rafe’s twenties, since he gave them to me the other day to do a beer run that I never got around to, but I figured books before booze. And fuck Rafe anyway. (Not literally.)
Lydon picked up the bills. “Thanks. I appreciate your honesty.”
I fingered a flier on the counter advertising a studio apartment above the store. “Is that price for real?” I asked.
She pursed her lips. “You won’t feel that way when you see the place.”
“You’re not very good at sales.”
She cracked a tiny smile. “Yeah, I suck at it. But we do what we have to do, right?”
“Yes, we do.”
“You want to take a look at the apartment?” she asked. “Morning isn’t exactly prime time around here.”
“I’d really love to,” I said.
She opened a drawer under the cabinet and pulled out a set of keys. “Stairs are this way.” She nodded toward a second door near the entrance of the store. “Follow me.”
We climbed two flights and came to a landing with two doors facing each other. She motioned to the one on the right. “I live on this side, with my son Charlie.”
“In a studio?” I asked.
“I’m not that daft,” she said. “It’s a two bedroom.” She shoved a key in the lock of the other door. “This is the studio.”
The door swung open, and we stepped in. Studio was right. It was maybe three hundred square feet, with a kitchenette running down the wall to the right and a large bay window straight ahead. It was freshly painted a creamy white with gleaming hardwood floors. The granite countertops also looked new, as did the line of cabinets, which were shaker-style and painted a lovely dove gray, giving a nice contrast to the dark counters. The sink was on the small side, but it fit the space. The appliances, while about half the size of normal kitchen appliances, were stainless steel and still carried the store stickers. And there was a small dishwasher.
“This is cute,” I said. “Is that a closet?” I pointed to a set of folding doors.
She nodded. “Not a bad-sized one, considering the space. We lost some square footage because of that, but closets are nice to have.”
I opened the door and realized she wasn’t kidding. It was a small walk-in closet, organized for folded items and accessories and a good-sized area to hang things.
“I need first, last, and a security deposit,” she said. “So the up-front costs are not cheap, but the price is fair, I think.”
“You could get more for this,” I said.
“You want to pay more?” she asked.
It was my turn to laugh. “Not really.”
“My lawyer says I need to ask prospective tenants to fill out an application and I need to do a credit check. Will I find anything bad?”
“You probably won’t find anything. I don’t have much in the way of credit.”
“I didn’t either,” she said. “You learn fast when you’re thrown to the wolves.” A shadow passed over her face, and she turned away from me and looked out the window.
“You should know, I play—”
“No amps after nine. Charlie has a bedtime.”
“Not one of those rock and roll moms?”
“I hope he’s an accountant,” she said. She wasn’t joking. “No drugs, by the way. I have zero tolerance for that.”
I knew Chad had struggled with drug addiction besides depression. So that wasn’t surprising.
“Don’t do them,” I said.
“Good. If you are lying to me, you’re out on your ass. I’ll have the lawyer draw up the lease, and then you can pick it up.”
“Can you send it to my lawyer? I’m just signing a deal, and the money’s going through whatever it is the money goes through.”
“He’s fronting you cash?” she asked, her face went hard.
“No.”
“The interest these lawyers charge is worse than a loan shark. How long until you get the money? I can’t hold on to this place, but it’s not like people have been tearing down the door to rent it.” I cocked my head to the side, surprised since the price was so right. “Oh, and I almost forgot. There’s no off-street parking. That a problem?”<
br />
That explained it. Parking was everything in LA.
“I don’t have a car right now, so not a problem.”
“How do you get around LA?”
“I walk.”
“You walk in LA? I thought only crazy people did that.”
“En Fuego is not that far from here.”
“En Fuego? You working with Bobby Gee?” I nodded. “He’s good people.” Her face went somber. “Just stay away from Gary Grimm. He’s not good people.”
When I nodded my agreement, she turned and exited the apartment. I followed her out and closed the door behind me.
“Leave me your attorney’s information, and we’ll sort all this out,” she said over her shoulder as she descended the stairs.
“Good, cool,” I called after her, hoping that Mike ironed out the contract details fast. I wanted this apartment.
I needed to get away from Rafe.
20
“Welcome to Boutique à la Bobby,” Vivienne greeted me. I came to a sudden stop in the rehearsal room’s doorway. Vivienne had commandeered it, turning the room into a replica of a swank Beverly Hills boutique. She’d stuffed the space with rolling garment racks. Folded clothes towered on every flat surface. Shopping bags were stacked four deep against the far wall.
“How did you carry all this?” I asked. My eyeballs bugged out of their sockets. Vivienne’s giggle snapped me out of my stupor. “Seriously, I can’t try all this on.”
“Of course not,” she said. “These are just my pulls. You have total veto power.”
I chewed on my lower lip and entered the room with a hesitant step. Vivienne yanked me in the rest of the way, closing the door behind me with finality.
“You look like you are in need of retail therapy,” she said.
“I don’t shop.”
“You don’t say?” Her laugh was like a wind chime. “Come on, girl, let’s get you sorted.”
She started yanking hangers off a rack.
“I’m really more of a jeans and tee kind of woman,” I continued, running my hands along a pair of silky harem pants. Presley would die for those.
She crossed the room and started poking through some bags. “Okay, well, we’ve got skinny jeans, low riders, high-waisted—” She stopped and assessed me from her bent angle. “Selvage. Skinny boyfriend. I know everyone says high waists are making a comeback, but you have the best bod to pull off something narrow. And high waists are not punk rock. Not in jeans.”
“I have plenty of jeans,” I said.
“I can tell,” she responded, a groomed eyebrow curving up. “But you need a pair that screams rock star. And right now, they don’t. They kind of scream skate rat. That look doesn’t work for you.”
“Really, don’t sugarcoat it,” I said.
She cringed and mouthed, “Sorry.”
“I don’t even know what I’m dressing for.”
“The listening party.”
“What listening party?”
“Bobby and Jamie Sage are setting it up.”
My head snapped up.
“Whoops,” she said, clapping her hand over her mouth.
Jamie had agreed to produce the EP, and we had studio time booked for tomorrow. But no one had said anything to me about a listening party.
My hands went to my hips, and I leaned toward her. “What’s going on, Viv?”
“Shit,” she said. “Don’t tell Bobby I told you, okay? Promise?”
“Promise,” I said.
She let out a breath. “Sage is super hot on you and is pushing Bobby to go all Mach ten to get an EP out there.”
“But we haven’t even gone in the studio yet,” I said. I had no idea why I was arguing with her. The argument was with Sage and Bobby. But she was in the room.
She liberated a bra and panty set from a bag and shoved them into my hands. “Here, try these on with…” She turned another box over and a tumble of jeans escaped. She picked through them and pulled a pair. “These.”
“Where do I—”
“I’ll turn around,” she said.
“But I can’t—”
“No one will come in,” she said. “Bobby knows this room’s on lockdown.”
“Right.”
I was out of excuses. Vivienne turned her back, and I stripped out of my comfy “skater” jeans, baggy concert tee, and my Hanes Her Ways. Then I shimmied into the black lacy number. The boy shorts were kind of adorable, I had to admit. The bra left little to the imagination. It was embroidered mesh with thin ribbons of black silk that barely obscured my nipples. At least underwear wasn’t meant to be seen.
Vivienne turned and appraised me. “That shit is hawt, girl.” Before I could be embarrassed, she shoved the jeans at me. “Try these.”
I pulled the pair of Rag & Bone selvage-style jeans over my hips and risked a glance in the full-length mirror Vivienne had set up. The slim fit was flattering, giving my normally flat ass a rounded shape. The low rise of the jeans meant that the band of lacy underwear peeked out of the top. I tugged it up to cover it.
Vivienne came up behind me and yanked the jeans back down and then pulled a fitted gauzy top over my head. Like the bra, it left nothing to the imagination.
“You can see the bra!”
“You don’t cover up a bra like that, sister,” she said with a wink.
“You can see my nipples!” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I can’t go onstage in this.”
Her face was pensive. “You look sexy as hell, but I get it. You need to feel like you. Hang on.”
She dug through more bags and procured a shirt that had been Frankensteined from several concert tees. A Tom Petty tee was cut to a plunging neckline. The back was an old Hogs & Heifers shirt. They were sewed up the side into a form-fitting shirt that skimmed the few curves I had. It was sleeveless, the T-shirts knotted together at the top of the shoulders. The edge of the bra peeked out from the deep V of the top. It screamed sexy, but it covered my boobs.
“Simple black booties should do it,” Vivienne said, handing me a pair with four-inch spikes. I looked from her to the boots and back to her again. There was no way I could walk down the hall in these, never mind wear them onstage. “At least try them.”
I flopped on the only chair not covered in clothes and tugged them on. Vivienne motioned for me to stand, and I wobbled to my feet, a hand on the back of the chair for balance. She leaned back on her heels and evaluated me.
“What do you usually wear on your feet when you perform?” she asked.
My eyes moved to my beat-up Converse sitting next to the heap of my clothes. Vivienne let out a lengthy sigh.
“You know what? You’re so leggy to begin with, you don’t even need much of a heel,” she said, turning to the mountain of shoe boxes. She handed me a pair of black booties with a kitten heel. I swapped the shoes out and stood without the aid of the chair.
“Much better,” she said. I took a tentative step forward, then another, graduating to regular steps when I felt positive I wouldn’t land straight on my ass. She clapped her hands together and squealed. “You look fabulous!”
I braved a look in the mirror. She wasn’t wrong. The deconstructed concert T-shirt and more fitted jeans gave my usual uniform a sexy edge. The addition of kitten heels gave the rock and roll outfit a dose of Hollywood glamour, dressing it up just enough for it to work at an industry gig.
I’d probably kick them off when I started playing, but I wouldn’t share that with Vivienne.
Vivienne pawed through a rack of clothes, tossing items on the couch. “So, spill. I see your hottie stepbrother around a lot.”
“He’s not really my step—” I started defending myself.
“I know,” she said. “I’m a fan of Rogue Nation. I’m embarrassed to say I know the entire story, about Vince taking in Rafe after his dad died and all that.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, pretending to be super interested in the bags of lacy, silky undies she’d procured.
“So
, like, are you guys a thing?” My head whipped around to look at her. “I wouldn’t blame you, you know. He’s hot.”
“I know,” I admitted with an eye roll. “Rafe is sex on a stick.”
Vivienne burst out laughing, and our conversation, thankfully, ended with a knock on the door. “You decent in there?”
It was Bobby.
Vivienne dodged piles of bags, boxes of shoes, and discarded clothes on the floor and opened the door. She stepped out of the way, and Bobby swept into the room, trailed by Rafe. Both men stopped just inside the door, their eyes sweeping over me.
Bobby shifted his weight from foot to foot, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, evaluating. I glanced at Vivienne, her chest lifting and lowering in a staccato movement. She wiped her palms down the sides of her pencil skirt. She was nervous.
Vivienne had a lot riding on me. So did Bobby and the record label. I had my head so far up my ass with my own problems that I hadn’t bothered to see what was going on beyond me. Jamie Sage was a big deal. It just about guaranteed that my music would chart in the Top Ten. And En Fuego needed a Top Ten artist. That wasn’t lost on me.
Maybe I was good enough.
“Marvelous work, Viv,” Bobby said.
Vivienne’s eyes lit up, and her body relaxed. “Thanks, Bobby.”
“You think you can work some magic on Damon? Kid could be a heartbreaker, but he looks like a Comic Con reject. Teenage girls don’t like that. All those superhero shirts. It’s like he’s running around in his Underoos.”
Damon was one of Bobby’s new acts. But he was barely old enough to be out of the “underwear that was fun to wear,” which explained his sartorial choices.
“You bet I can,” she said, her fire-engine-red lips breaking into a wide smile. I smiled back at her. She deserved her shot, and I was happy to help her get it.
But I was still kicking the shoes off when I played.
Rafe leaned against the wall, his body relaxed but his eyes heated.
“Bobby, I’m going to take Jett home now, okay?” he said, his eyes not leaving mine. It wasn’t a question.