by Diane Dooley
“Of me?”
“Of you asking for my number. That’s just not me, you see. I don’t do relationships.”
“I wasn’t asking for one.”
“I was being proactive.”
Chris scratched his head. “So you don’t do relationships, but you do do mutual masturbation up dark alleys?”
She grinned. “It wasn’t mutual.” She stretched out a hand. “But I’ll take care of that right now.” He pulled her to her feet and she led him to the bathroom.
Bad idea. He should walk away. One should not be tempted by women named Jolene, everybody knew that. But he went anyway and, hours later, as he lay wide awake in her bed, while little Jolene slept in his arms, he wondered. Why no relationships? And why did he even care? Was it because of the way she’d whispered “come for me, Zipman,” making him laugh out loud at the same time she’d brought him over the edge of ecstasy?
Or was it when he’d informed her he’d run out of condoms? She’d gone to a closet, grabbed a bag, and dumped a hundred or so condom packets into his crotch. Then, with a wild grin, she’d climbed on top of him and fucked his brains out.
He watched her sleeping. Most of the black makeup had washed off her eyes in the shower. She looked younger, more vulnerable, her face so relaxed as a small smile curled her lips. Exciting, mysterious and sexy, but no beauty, really. He studied her pointed chin, the nose that was a little too big for her face. Funny, though, how attractive he found her. She was dead to the world, sleeping off the three orgasms she’d shuddered and squeaked her way to. The sex had been good. Hell, it had been great. But the nicest part had been when she’d kissed him just before falling asleep. Finally, no lust, no passion. Just sweetness. She’d even said a polite thank you, before bluntly reminding him that she’d be gone when he woke up and to please not contact her again. She’d looked sad when she said it. But he’d agreed. Probably for the best.
The next set of lyrics came to him. She was a sweet Maggie May with a slice of Jolene, but when she slept in my arms, her face was serene. He kissed her cheek gently so as not to wake her up. With all the makeup gone, her skin was flushed and lightly freckled, a stark contrast from the thick black eyelashes, the strong dark sweep of her eyebrows, and the black spikes of her hair against the pillow. He sighed. He wished he had time to get to know her better. Sometimes, when she was excited or angry, she seemed to lose control of her English, lapsing in to some unintelligible Scottish dialect. He wanted to know the meaning of some of the strange things she said.
She stirred in his arms and he feigned sleep. If it was time for her to go, he didn’t want to have to say goodbye. He listened as she moved around the room, getting dressed. She kissed him before leaving. A soft touch of her lips, then a sad-sounding whisper.
“Game’s a bogey, Zippy.”
What the hell did that mean?
He got up and dressed as soon as she closed the door. On her pillow, he left a note.
I don’t want the game to be a bogey.
He added his cell number and signed it Zippy.
The ball was in her court now. Maybe she’d call. Maybe not. He left the room whistling, first “Maggie May,” which morphed into “Jolene,” then finally changed into the song he was writing. He headed back to the Chelsea, where his guitar was waiting for him.
Chapter 3
Band practice was its usual disaster of poorly tuned guitars and bickering over which song to start with. Lou walked in and took control. “Bluto, tune that bloody guitar. Alasdair, your bass doesn’t work unless it’s plugged in. Put down the vodka, Chiz, and pick up your sticks. Paolo, get your lips off the girl. Banshee, go find a quiet corner to sit in.”
She pulled up a chair and gave them her severest frown. “Let’s start with “Barlinnie Blues.””
“Can we do it reggae style?” Alasdair suggested excitedly, while the rest of the band groaned.
“No, we can’t. It’s a bitter condemnation of the Scottish prison system, not a holiday in the Caribbean.”
Alasdair, as always, fell into a sulk. Lou sighed. She should never have lent him her rocksteady reggae collection.
Bluto kicked into the opening riff, and Lou sat back. Was Zippy still sleeping in her bed?
Chiz missed his entrance. Bluto stopped playing. Alasdair turned his back on the band, continuing his almighty sulk.
Lou scowled at Chiz. “How much vodka?”
“Not much, Lou, I swear.”
“Let me see the bottle.”
Chiz held it up slowly. “See, still half a bottle left.”
How the hell had she managed to bring them this far? Chiz with his drinking. Alasdair forever wanting to do something different. Bluto and his careless laziness. Thank goodness for Paolo. He was waiting patiently for his band mates to get their shit together.
“Okay, let’s start again.”
Bluto started the opening riff again and this time Chiz hit his mark. Lou sat back. Would the Zipman try to see her again? What should she do if he did? Bluto hit a bum note, but kept going. Chiz was playing sloppy. Alasdair seemed to be trying to insert a rocksteady reggae beat into a bluesy rock number. Paolo was waiting for his moment. Bluto opened his mouth to sing the opening line. Then promptly forgot the words. He mumbled them until he suddenly remembered. Lou rolled her eyes. They were playing like a bunch of amateurs. This was going to be a long practice.
“Lou. Can I talk to you?” Banshee had pulled her chair next to Lou’s.
“Not now. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“It’ll just take a minute. I’ve written some songs, you see. And I wanted to ask your opinion. You know, get some advice.”
Chiz dropped one of the sticks, then fell off his chair as he tried to retrieve it. “Not now, I said,” Lou yelled at Banshee. Bluto launched into the chorus, but instead of singing “Barlinnie,” about Glasgow’s notorious prison, he sang “Balvenie,” an equally famous brand of whisky.
Banshee tried to shove some papers in her hand.
Lou shoved them back. “Will ye please just go the fuck away!”
The band jangled tunelessly to a halt. Lou looked at them.
Paolo had held out a hand and kept them silent. “Apologize, Lou.”
“What?”
“Apologize to Banshee. Now.” Paolo gently put his guitar back in its stand. “You’ve been rotten to her for no good reason from the moment you met her. Apologize.”
“But—”
“Last chance!”
They stared at each other. Paolo, always so calm and patient, was furious with her. “I’m trying to manage—”
“You’re no a manager, Lou. You’re a fucking dictator. A little Mussolini. I’m sick of it. We’re all sick of it!”
Lou glanced at the other band members. None of them would meet her eyes.
“I’ve got you this far—”
“Aye. Singing your songs the way you want them played. Wearing clothes that you want us to wear. Naming us stupid bloody Guyville. Picking out our instruments. And now. Now! You want to pick my girlfriend for me. I’m sick of it.” He walked over to her and paused a moment, before bending and kissing her on the cheek. “I love you, Lou. You’ve done everything for me. I know that. But I’m done. I’m done.” He turned and walked away.
“Paolo, wait.”
He stopped at the door. “I’m not like you, Lou. I can’t just live on music and the occasional one night stand.” He took Banshee’s hand in his, and Lou swallowed hard when she saw how tightly they held on to each other. “Maybe you should think about what else is important in life.” He and Banshee walked out the door without looking back.
Lou turned back to the band. “Am I really that bad?”
“Well, you don’t take too kindly to input,” said Bluto.
“Or feedback,” Chiz added.
“Or even suggestions.” Alasdair had finally broken his sulk.
Lou took a deep breath. “I’ll apologize to Banshee. And I’ll do better. I promise.”
Bluto propped his guitar against a speaker, then came and sat down next to her.
Lou rested her head on his shoulder for a brief moment. “I’ll book a practice for this evening. But first I’ll go back to the hotel and make things right with Paolo.”
Bluto took her hand. “I think it’s too late for that, Lou.”
She stared at him. “Och, don’t be silly. He’s just throwing a strop. I’ll take care of it. He wouldn’t leave the band. Not on the eve of our big breakthrough.”
Chiz pulled up a chair and took a swig from his vodka bottle. “He’s been talking about it for a while, Lou.”
“What? He never said anything to me.”
Alasdair pulled up a chair. “Aye, well, it was hard for him. Letting ye down, like.”
“Letting me down? What do you mean?”
Chiz took her other hand. “We all know how important this band is to you, Lou. After your mother died and you had to leave Uni and come home. Well, this was all ye had.”
Lou shook her head. “No, no. It wisnae like that.” She thought, taking herself back to that time. “Paolo was sixteen. I wanted something to keep him out of trouble. And you lot, too. You were all into music. The band was just a way to keep you on track. It was never about me.”
“Aye, lass.” Bluto patted her hand. “That’s the way it started. That was eight years ago.” He sighed. “But along the way…it wasn’t about us anymore.”
“It was. It was too!”
Chiz snorted. “Remember that song ye made us do?”
“The Bloody Rag!” they all intoned in unison.
Lou ducked her head. Not the best decision she’d ever made, to have the boys do a song about the challenges of being on your period. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible song.”
“It was a brilliant song,” said Alasdair. “That catchy melody. When you played the recording for us, we thought it was clever and funny.”
“But it wasn’t when we did it,” said Chiz. “I couldn’t show my face in the pub for months.”
“But we were all much nicer to our girlfriends after that,” Bluto added, with an encouraging smile.
Lou squeezed Chiz and Bluto’s hands. “I’ll do better in future.”
Alasdair grabbed the vodka bottle and took a swig. Then another. “Lou. It’s over.”
She shook her head.
Alasdair handed her the bottle. “It is, lass. The way Paolo sees it, you gave up Uni and your dreams to move home and get a job and take care of him. And then you poured everything into the band. He’s being cruel to be kind by breaking up the band. Then you’re forced to get a life of your own and pursue your dreams.”
Lou took a swig off the vodka. “Pursue my dreams? I dream of the band. How does breaking it up—”
“Louisa Marzaroli!” Bluto turned her face to look at him, not gently. “When you went away to Uni what was your plan?”
Lou looked at him, confused. “Study music. See if I could get a career out of my songs.” She shrugged. “Teach if I couldn’t. Your point?”
“And then your ma got sick. You came home to take care of her. You buried her. You took a shit job and took care of your wee brother and his pals.” He kissed her cheek. “Eternally grateful, by the way.”
“Still not seeing your point, Bloot.” She scrubbed at her eyes. The big galoot had made her cry.
“And all that desire to create, to teach, to lead…” He looked upward, searching for the words. “That desire to fucking be something. All that got poured into the band, when it should be you on that stage, singing your songs about menstrual cramps and the fucking price of tampons, and the state of the prison system, and the death of your ma, and…and…and—”
“Okay. I get your point now. But—” She grabbed the vodka and drained the last of it. “The stage fright, Bloot. I cannae dae it. I cannae.”
“Jesus Christ, woman. If I can get up on a stage and sing about going on the pill to make the bleeding slow down, in front of a crowd of drunken Scotsman, then you certainly can, madam.”
“Months before I could show my face in the pub again,” Chiz repeated, with a traumatized expression.
“All my brothers still slag me about it,” Alasdair added.
Lou buried her face in her hands. “I thought you all liked being in the band.”
“I do,” Alasdair said. “But I’d rather be in a ska band.”
“Metal band for me,” said Chiz.
Bluto bounced in his chair. “I want tae join an American band.” He forgot about Lou and rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming. “New York City is fuckin’ fantastic. And the women. Sweet Jesus, the women…”
Lou turned to her old friend. “Et tu, Blute?”
He grinned at her. “Let’s go for a wee drink, hen. You’ll feel so much better with a drop more voddy in your body. I’ve heard of a great wee bar just down the road.” He took her by the arm and escorted her out of the building, turning in the opposite direction from the hotel, as the other two followed.
It was still sweltering. The heat rose from the pavement in a slow wave of damp air. Suddenly the last thing Lou wanted was another drink. “I think I’ll just go back to the hotel. See if I can calm Paolo down. It’s stupid. This is our big break. Even if he does really want to leave the band, it would be better to do it after the show. Go out with a bang.” Lou smirked. She had exactly the thing that would appeal to Paolo’s romantic nature. One last great show. After that he’d be enjoying himself too much to consider leaving. Plus, if they put on a great performance, the label would be sure to sign them. Finally, after all these years…money!
Bluto still held her arm. Alasdair and Chiz were watching him. He pulled out his mobile and checked the time. “Should be long enough now,” he mumbled.
Lou caught the furtive glances between the three of them. They were up to something. The penny dropped. “You bastards! You’re in on this.” She broke away and started to run back toward the hotel, the second time in as many days that she’d had to sprint down 23rd Street. Only this time the heat was even more unbearable and she was wearing heavy boots. She had to get to Paolo in time, despite the band’s delaying tactics. They knew she’d be able to talk him around. They knew it! The soles of her heavy boots pounded the hot pavement ever slower as she avoided the overheated citizens of New York City. Rivulets of sweat poured down her back.
She had to stop one block from the hotel to lean against a lamp post, her head swimming. She could see the steps to the hotel, could see a yellow cab parked at the front door. She pushed herself into a stagger as Paolo and Banshee climbed into the cab, carrying their bags. “Paolo,” she called out weakly. But the cab pulled away from the curb and, by the time she reached the hotel, it was just one more splash of yellow among all the others.
Lou stumbled through the hotel doors into the icy blast of the air conditioning, then took the lift to her floor. A note had been taped to her door. It was from Paolo. She read it then crumpled it up. They were headed for Mexico to get married, then were going to start a new band and a new life together. Eejits. They’d run out of money within the week and would be calling to ask for her help. But by then it would be too late. Their big opportunity would have passed, never to be offered again. She pushed her way into her room and collapsed on the bed, eyes filling with hot, angry tears. All the work of the last eight years. For nothing. She grabbed a pillow and gave the poor thing the beating of its life.
Rolling onto her back, she grabbed her mobile from beside the bed. Time to make the dreaded phone call to the label. It would at least give them time to get someone else on the show. She grimaced, then punched in the numbers.
* * * *
Four hours later Lou was back at the rehearsal rooms, waiting.
Bluto strolled in looking slightly the worse for wear. “I love this city!” he announced. “Why did ye drag me back here? You caught up with Paolo in time?”
She shook her head. “The label’s sending us a session musician to
fill in for him. I left a message for Paolo to get his arse back here. If he doesn’t?” She shrugged. “Flashy lead guitar players are ten a penny. We’ll replace him.”
Bluto sighed, then stumbled. He sat down heavily on a ratty couch. “Will ye never let it go?”
“The band? Why would I do that after working so hard all these years?”
“We’ve given you eight years of our lives, Lou.”
She stared at him, so angry she started to splutter. “You…you’ve given me? I’ve given you eight years of my life!”
Bluto stared back, his face almost a stranger without its usual toothy grin. “You’ve made us do all the things you wanted to do, but were too scared to.”
She almost wavered, the hard truth staring her in the face. “Where would you be without me, Bluto? I ask you that? Drunk in a gutter with a dozen ex-girlfriends and a few bastard brats to ignore?”
He nodded slowly. “Mebbe. Or maybe I’d be in a band doing my own songs, playing the music I want to play, instead of being your little puppet on a string.” He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. “We all love you, Lou. But ye need to let us go. If you can’t get up on stage and do it for yourself, it’s time for you to manage a different band.”
“But—”
“Stop making us hurt you! Please.”
“Bluto, this is our big break. You can’t just jack it in. You can’t.”
He stood and approached her, cupping her cheek with a large, rough hand. “This will be my last show, Lou.”
The door to the rehearsal squeaked open and they both turned their heads in its direction.
Lou felt her jaw drop open. “I don’t believe it.”
Bluto grinned. “Is that no your bad boy from the other night?” He ruffled her hair, then put his arm around her. “Seeing a man more than once? Getting soft in your old age, Lou-Lou?”
Lou gawked at Zippy. He was glowering at her—and, she realized—at Bluto. He must think… She pushed Bluto away. “What the hell are you doing here?” She looked down from his angry eyes to the guitar case he was carrying.
“Don’t worry. I’m not here to see you. The label sent me. Told me to ask for the manager. Lou, I believe his name is.”