Victory RUN 1

by Devon Hartford

  What?

  Chapter 21

  VICTORY

  I hold back my tears until I’m outside The Cobra Lounge, strutting up the side street that runs north off Sunset, heading to where my car is parked. Tears river down my cheeks and drip from my chin.

  I can’t believe they betrayed me like that. Two years of work on the band! Two years! Thrown away in two seconds!

  Getting kicked out of Skin Trade feels like getting kicked out of my family. I love my family. I can’t imagine the shock I’d feel if they told me to hit the road. Wait, I can. It would feel like what I’m feeling right now. Total annihilation. Nuclear destruction.

  I falter and stumble in my heels, catching the toe of my platform on a crack in the sidewalk. I catch myself before I fall.

  I’m not going down.

  Yeah, it’s symbolic.

  I’m not letting those assholes back in the green room break me.

  No fucking way.

  And my relationship with Scott? Two wasted years. He is an absolute snake, a jerk, a joke, and a lie. Did I ignore the signs? Probably. Either that, or I’m the dumbest girl who ever dated a guy in the history of dating.

  I’m so mad at myself, I don’t think I’m the least bit sad. Disappointed, frustrated, and hurt. But I’m not sad. I have to start over at square one. Find a new band and work hard to build it up. It’s going to take a lot of work. This time, I’m writing all of the music. Too bad I have to find a singer to…

  (singsingsing)

  …sing them. I don’t even want to think about it right now.

  As for a new boyfriend? Forget it. Who needs men?

  Not me, sister.

  I pause for a moment. Where the hell did I park my car? Oh, who cares. The walk will do me good.

  “Hey!” someone shouts behind me, “Destiny!”

  Whoever it is can bite me. I need to go home and regroup. Home. I don’t even want to think about home. Home is the studio apartment I share with Scott.

  Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. I can’t stay there.

  “Destiny!” the voice shouts again. I hear boots clomping up behind me.

  I whip around and shout, “I’m not your Destiny, or whoever the fuck you’re looking for—”

  It’s Brown Eyes.

  Damn

  His dark deep-set chocolatey eyes search mine. This guy is gourmet man candy. The kind with a creamy middle I’d like to suck on. I stifle a giggle. What has gotten into me? I just got kicked out of my band and broke up with my boyfriend. I should be miserable. But I’m not.

  I smile at Brown Eyes and shake my head. In a friendly voice I say, “What do you want?”

  “Uh, I’m not really sure what happened back there…”

  I roll my eyes, “Me neither.” Is he talking about the scene between me and Scott, or the fact that I kissed him?

  “Well, uh, can I walk you to your car?”

  I’m baffled by his boyish charm. He doesn’t strike me as the type. He has Player Bad Boy written all over every inch of his gorgeous self. But I feel like we’re school kids and he’s asking permission to walk me home. Maybe he’ll pluck a flower from some random garden and ask if I’ll go steady with him. This is so weird.

  “What?” he asks earnestly.

  “Nothing,” I grin.

  “Which way to your car? Up the hill?”

  I look around and realize the street we’re on dead ends two houses up. “I, no. It’s down on Sunset.”

  He motions down the street toward Sunset with this courtly, gentlemanly gesture, and offers me his hand. “After you?”

  “Sure,” I smile, curling my fingers into his.

  “Can I carry your guitar for you?”

  At this point, he’s held it so many times, I’m not worried about it. “Yes, please,” I grin, handing it to him.

  The school girl, school boy image is now complete. Perhaps cookies and Kool Aid will be waiting for us when we get to my parents’ house. We can watch cartoons and music videos on YouTube together.

  A second later, we’re walking along the house lined street that could be any street in America, except for the fact that Sunset Boulevard is two blocks away. And we’re holding hands.

  It seems so natural.

  I like how it feels.

  It feels peaceful.

  The last thing on my mind is getting kicked out of Skin Trade and breaking up with Scott. I wince at the thought, suddenly afraid Brown Eyes will bring it up.

  He doesn’t.

  We say nothing.

  In our silence, everything is said.

  I’m in candy wonderland again.

  Sweet heaven.

  Chapter 22

  VICTORY

  “There’s my car,” I say, pointing toward my eleven-year-old white Nissan Altima. I like that it matches my guitar.

  I pop the trunk and put my guitar inside.

  “Thanks again,” I say to Brown Eyes as I climb into the driver’s seat.

  “You gonna be okay getting home and whatnot?”

  “Sure,” I smile as I buckle my seat belt.

  He’s leaning against my open door when I realize that a rose colored fuzziness has been dampening my sanity whenever I’m around Brown Eyes. I realize I don’t even know his name.

  “Hey,” I grin, “what’s your name, anyway?”

  “I think I’ve seen God,” a helium shrill female voice says from behind Brown Eyes.

  He stands up and turns to face an expensive silver Porsche convertible. Two plastic blondes sit inside, plump lips strained over crystalline teeth as they drip all over themselves with desire for Brown Eyes.

  “You two stalking me?” Brown Eyes asks them with a cocky smile. He sounds like an entirely different person than the man I hastily kissed inside The Cobra Lounge ten minutes ago.

  “Yes, we’re stalking you,” the driver says. She’s as soulless as a photograph. The kind that has been Photoshopped to death. There’s nothing real about her.

  “Where’s your bike?” the passenger asks with an implied giggle in her voice. She is the mirror image of the driver, and equally flat and dimensionless.

  “Parked,” Brown Eyes tells them.

  Does he know them?

  Suddenly my opinion of him dissipates in a gust of distaste. That rosey haze pillowing around us earlier is replaced by granite walls. I don’t think I want anything to do with a guy who is friends with two blonde dumbshells like this.

  I pull my door closed with a bang.

  My instinct is to drive off and let them get friendly, but I’m parallel parked between an old Oldsmobile and an SUV that are both too big for their spaces. It’ll take a ten point turn to get out of this space, and I’ll look like an idiot as I go forward, reverse, forward, reverse an inch at a time. I don’t want the blonde audience. Not that it matters. With their Porsche in the way, I can’t go anywhere.

  I can address that.

  I crank down my window and tug on the back of Brown Eyes’ shirt. “Hey! Can you ask your girlfriends to move? I’m stuck.”

  I half expect him to be so entranced with the Tinsel Twins that he ignores me completely, but he surprises me and spins around to lean on my doorframe.

  “What’s up?” he smiles.

  Damn, he’s too handsome for his own good. The Tinsel Twins are living proof. But that doesn’t change my heated response to his hotness. I momentarily forget that I wanted to forget about him. “Um, I’m stuck here until that Porsche moves.”

  “Got it,” he winks at me smarmily.

  Based on his smarmy smile, I imagine he’s wondering how he can take all three of us home with him.

  He leans back against the doorframe of the Porsche and I notice his arms flexing. I want to simultaneously stroke his arms and slice up the blondes with the nearest piece of broken glass I can find.

  The line of cars backed up behind the silver Porsche start to honk impatiently.

  Brown Eyes points down the street, explaining something to the blondes that I can
’t hear, then stands up. The blondes pull ahead slowly in their Porsche and turn into the open space in front of a fire hydrant two cars in front of me with hazard lights blinking, obviously waiting for Brown Eyes to join them.

  He turns and leans back into my window.

  He smiles.

  Am I supposed to melt?

  I smirk sarcastically, “Do you need to go?”

  Am I disappointed that a guy this good looking is as interested in me as he is in the two hobags of artificial sweetener inside that silver Porsche? No. I think his sincerity earlier was as artificial as he is. The sooner he gets out of my way, the better. I should’ve guessed he was too good to be true.

  He frowns gently. I think he’s confused.

  I turn the ignition on my Altima and sneer, “You can move now.”

  “Hey, uhhh…” he stammers softly, now sounding like the man who held my hand earlier, “I know you had some pretty heavy shit go down with your band members tonight. Do you need any help or anything?”

  I arch an eyebrow, “Don’t you need to tend to your flock of admirers?”

  He cocks his head in the direction of the Porsche, “Who, them?”

  My other eyebrow raises up to join it’s sister.

  He shakes his head and smiles, “I don’t know them.”

  “That’s funny, because they acted like they know you.”

  His grin dimples, “They want to know me. But do I want to know them?”

  “Wow, you’re worse than my boyfrie—” I stop myself. Yes, Scott is also this cocky. But he sure as hell isn’t my boyfriend anymore.

  Brown Eyes’ face softens. “How long were you guys together?”

  “Two years.” Do I really want to talk about this with a total stranger? A hot sultry muscled stranger who can play guitar? I’m torn.

  He says firmly, “You’re better off without him.”

  I nod. If I talk, I’m going to start bawling in front of Brown Eyes. I still love Scott. The hate hasn’t erased it. Yet. It will, in time. But not tonight.

  Brown Eyes smiles, “Are you sure you don’t need any help tonight? Or just someone to talk to?”

  Craziness takes my wheel and I say, “Wanna help me move? I’ll buy you pizza. Isn’t that the usual price?”

  He smiles and shakes his head, “What, out of your boyfriend’s place? Tonight?”

  “Yeah.” I’m not going to sit around and hope Scott changes his mind about us. I’m done.

  “I’ll follow you on my bike. It’s parked in front of The Cobra.”

  “Want me to drive you to it?” I don’t want him getting sidetracked by the plastics in their Porsche. Does this mean I’m a tad jealous and possessive already? Maybe it does.

  So what if this turns into a rebound fling?

  I deserve it after what I’ve been through tonight.

  Tonight, Brown Eyes is all mine.

  The blonde dumbshells in the silver Porsche can suck it.

  After he climbs into my car, I drive past the Porsche and I notice Brown Eyes wave at them.

  One of them shouts, “Where are you going?!!”

  I pretend to ignore them, but a sly smile spreads across my lips and in my head I’m flipping them both off.

  He’s mine, bitches!

  Chapter 23

  VICTORY

  Brown Eyes follows on his black motorcycle as I drive my Altima up the windy road in Silver Lake that leads to Scott’s apartment. The streets are narrow and crowded with cars. Most of the people living around here work in the film business or are musicians. I like my neighbors.

  I’ll be sad to say goodbye. Not that I’m going to have some formal goodbye party. I’m stealing out of here like a gypsy in the night.

  Speaking of stealing, I should steal something of Scott’s that’ll really piss him off.

  It’s the least I can do.

  I park my car in the first available space. Since we live in a studio apartment, we don’t even get a space. It’s not like a big apartment complex anyway. It’s a hundred year old house divided into several different units. The owner lives on the top floor. Scott and I share a little room you enter from the back of the house. It has a bathroom with a shower, but no kitchen. We cook on a hot plate and do dishes in the bathroom sink. It’s cheap. That’s what counts. For me and Scott, music always came first.

  I feel a pinch of grief as I lock my car door and march up the old stone steps to the house. Who am I kidding. It’s no pinch. My grief is crushing. But I don’t want to deal with it right now. Right now, it doesn’t exist.

  I push it down.

  But it isn’t cooperating. I waver on the steps and lean a hand against the stone railing to steady myself. I squeeze my eyes shut, holding in the tears. I can’t believe Scott dumped me like this. I’m going to sit down and cry.

  “Hey,” Brown Eyes says, jogging up the steps behind me.

  “That was quick,” I sniff.

  “It’s easy to park a bike. Even in L.A. You should get one. You’ve already got the right outfit.” His eyes rove up and down my body.

  I’m reminded that I’m still wearing my stage costume. Yes, I look like a rock and roll hooker, or assassin, depending on how you look at it. But I’m dressed in leather from top to bottom.

  “Thanks,” I say. Time to get this over with.

  I trudge up the rest of the steps and we walk around back. The light on the side of the house is out again. I keep telling the owner I’m going to get raped one night. He doesn’t seem to care.

  I open the flimsy door, which is a hollow interior door. It doesn’t even have a deadbolt. Just a lock in the knob. Fort Knox it is not.

  The door swings open. “Welcome to my palace,” I say.

  I flip on the lone overhead light and it paints everything in a bland glow. The single room contains an unmade queen sized mattress, a wardrobe style moving box where my and Scott’s clothes hang, stacked plastic drawers I bought at Target for the rest of our clothes, a pile of shoes, one of those half-size refrigerators, a hotplate, paper plates and plastic utensils, a few glossy band posters and photocopied show fliers of local bands on the walls, and little else.

  “Nice poster,” Brown Eyes says, nodding at my Jimi Hendrix poster.

  “Oh, thanks,” I smile.

  “You gonna fit all this in your car?” Brown Eyes asks. It’s a joke but I don’t laugh.

  I want to laugh, but I can’t. If I try, I think I’ll cry instead.

  I tear a black plastic garbage bag off the roll in the bathroom and start stuffing my clothes inside. Brown Eyes gets a second bag without me asking and starts helping.

  He asks, “Anyone ever told you ya live like a stripper?”

  I frown, “Anyone ever told you that you act like an ass?”

  “Frequently,” he chuckles and opens a drawer full of my underwear.

  “Not those,” I bark.

  “Why, are they your boyfriend’s?” he quips.

  “No,” I chuckle and smile genuinely. “They’re mine, silly.” I start grabbing handfuls and stuffing them into my bag.

  “In that case, I should totally help.”

  Before I can stop him, he lifts up a pair, twists his fingers into the waistband, and pretends like he’s flossing his teeth with them.

  “What are you doing?” I gawk.

  “Something stuck in my teeth,” he grins.

  I roll my eyes. “Into the bag,” I command.

  He smiles and tosses them into my garbage bag.

  “If you see any bras,” I grin, “don’t touch them.”

  “Why, are they all sweaty and gross?”

  I shake my head and grimace, “No, I just don’t want you trying to put them on like an athletic cup or whatever.”

  “For my giant balls? I never thought of that. If they’re good for boobs, they’re good for balls, no doubt.”

  I roll my eyes, “Just don’t touch them.”

  It takes all of fifteen minutes to pack everything up. He jokes with me the enti
re time. It keeps me from thinking about Scott, and I’m thankful for that.

  We end up using three garbage bags which sit hunched together on the edge of the bed. The third bag holds my shoes and haircare paraphernalia: dryers, curlers, brushes, product, scrunchies, etc. And the paper plates and plastic utensils. Scott can buy his own. Jerk.

  “Crap,” I say.

  “What?”

  “My makeup bag is still at The Cobra. My amps are still there too.”

  “We can go get them,” he offers. “I’ll totally help.”

  “Uh, no, I can do it.” I pick up one of the garbage bags with both hands. It weighs a ton, but I can manage.

  Before I can say anything, he winds his hand around the tops of the other two bags and lifts them with one arm like they’re weightless. “Here,” he says, motioning to the one in my hands.

  “I’ve got it,” I say and head out the door.

  “Suit yourself.” He slings the two bags over his shoulder. “After you.” He follows me outside. “Oh wait, you forgot your Hendrix poster.”

  Before I say anything, he sets his bags down, walks inside, and peels the poster off the wall.

  I wasn’t going to worry about a five dollar poster. Not that I have five dollars to spare on another one.

  While rolling the poster in his hands, he says, “Can’t leave this behind.”

  I smile, “I guess not.”

  He walks outside, hands me the poster, and pulls the door shut. “Want me to lock it?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m hoping someone will steal Scott’s stuff.”

  “Dirty laundry and an old mattress?” he asks skeptically, picking up the garbage bags.

  “Well, maybe some hoodlums will trash the place and use up all of Scott’s security deposit.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Not gonna happen.”

  “We could trash the place?” I suggest. “Write ‘Helter Skelter’ in red spray paint all over the walls? Maybe Scott will think I’ve been murdered and he’ll feel bad.” I doubt it.

  “I like the way you think,” he grins. “Total Hollywood Babylon. But no. Let’s get your amps.”