by Lisa Lace
Bad Girl
Lisa Lace
Contents
1. Lucas
2. Ivy
3. Lucas
4. Ivy
5. Lucas
6. Ivy
7. Lucas
8. Ivy
9. Lucas
10. Ivy
11. Lucas
12. Ivy
13. Lucas
14. Ivy
15. Lucas
16. Ivy
17. Lucas
18. Ivy
19. Lucas
20. Ivy
21. Lucas
22. Ivy
23. Lucas
24. Ivy
25. Lucas
26. Ivy
27. Lucas
28. Ivy
29. Lucas
30. Ivy
Lucas
There is one thing every great singer in Hollywood has in common. They started at Alibis.
The dive bar never changed its original, worn-out, tacky décor, even after it became the hot spot downtown for aspiring artists. Every Saturday night, it hosts the same open mic night it’s hosted for the last thirty-five years, except now the waiting list to get onstage is months long.
I don’t stand in line. I flash my business card at the bouncer, and he lets my junior associate and me walk right past the hour-long line into the building.
I talk over my shoulder to Nick, tutoring him as we walk down the long hall that leads to the main bar. “We won’t be the only talent scouts here. The performers you see tonight would sell a kidney to keep their spot. Everyone knows this is where you come to get noticed.”
We pass the dark and almost menacing mural of a fiddler in competition with the devil. It covers most of the corridor, stretching all the way across the ceiling and even continuing in places to the floor. It makes you feel like you’re passing through the gates of hell.
You can feel the adrenalin in the way the floor shakes from the vibration of loud music just beyond the double doors at the end of the hallway. Already, the air is humid from the sweat of a packed room.
When I push open those double doors to step into the club, it hits me like a wave—the smell of two-dollar shots, hard liquor, the heat of maybe two hundred bodies crammed into a room that used to seat only thirty, back when it was a jazz bar in the eighties.
It’s not a high-end kind of place. All around me are denim and leather. Women are wearing ripped jeans and stilettos instead of the cute little cocktail dresses you’d expect at one of the clubs uptown.
Nick frowns. “Doesn’t look like the sort of place you’d find any talent.”
“Trust me. Anyone who’s anyone was discovered here.”
We take our seats at a reserved table right in front of the stage. There are only six tables, total. Everyone else mills around the bar and at the back of the room. I nod to our right, where a pair of men in business suits are nursing whiskeys.
“Those guys are from Miller Records. I’ve seen them here before.” I lean in toward Nick so he can hear me above the crowd. “If anyone catches our eye, we’ll have to move fast.”
“Tell me again, what are we looking for, exactly?”
“Talent. Pure and simple.” I lean back in my chair, clasping my hands together on my knee. I’m keeping a low profile, wearing dark jeans and a white T-shirt. I don’t want to give off the I’m-a-producer vibe. I turn to Nick. “We’re looking for something raw, unfiltered. You can tell when someone with an average voice has become a pretty good singer through vocal coaching and practice. We don’t want that. We want a natural-born star. Someone whose voice stands out. The sort of talent that can’t be taught.”
Nick catches my eye and nods toward a gaggle of scantily clad girls ogling us from the bar. “They recognize you.”
I flick my eyes over to them. One of the girls, wearing black skinny jeans and a crop top that shows off a taut, slender belly, locks eyes with me while she closes her lips around the straw of her cocktail. Her blue eyes are hungry.
I look away, back to Nick. “I never know if they’re after a hookup or a record deal. That’s why I dress down at these things. I don’t need distractions when I’m working.”
I run my eyes over Nick, who’s wearing dress pants, a collared shirt, and a knock-off watch that kind of looks like a Rolex if you don’t know any better. “You should dress down, too. Nothing makes it harder to spot talent than getting spotted yourself.”
We stop talking as the emcee steps onstage. He has long hair tied into a topknot, with the sides of his head shaved, a beard, and tattoos snaking from his shoulders to his wrists. He lifts his hands to quiet the crowd.
“Welcome to our world-famous Saturday night Belt It Out event. We have some awesome acts for you tonight. Every one of them has waited months to take the stage for their chance to blow you away. So, let’s give it up for our first act—Danny D!”
A young man steps onstage with a two-piece backing band. He waits for them to play then starts singing a cover of some insipid pop song. I roll my eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Nick whispers. “He’s good, isn’t he?”
“I’ve seen a million and one guys like him. He might have an okay voice, but it can be replicated by any other twenty-something with a similar range. He’s cruise ship material at best.”
The next act is a man in his mid-thirties, working overtime to stand out, with a blazer over a bare chest, fedora, and home-choreographed moves that are cringeworthy to watch.
Nick glances across at me questioningly.
“Too old for one thing, and trying too hard for another,” I mutter. “He’s like a third-rate Bruno Mars.”
A band takes to the stage next. They have high energy, and they get the crowd going.
Once again, Nick looks to me, raising his eyebrows uncertainly. “Come on,” he says. “The crowd loves them.”
I nod slowly. “They’re great entertainers, I’ll give them that. But would you listen to this crap for an hour? They might do well in bars and at festivals, but I can’t see them selling records. They’ve only got live-act appeal.”
I’m starting to get annoyed with the night’s lineup. Alibis can be hit or miss. Some nights, the stage is studded with future stars. Other nights, it’s only wannabes and B-grade covers. It seems tonight is a bust.
That is until a female duo walks onstage. In their late twenties, one is dark-haired, the other blonde. Both are slim and dressed in clothes reminiscent of Woodstock. The brunette is wearing a floating, asymmetrical pastel dress and bangles up one arm. The blonde wears a flowing maxi skirt and a V-neck vest. Her hair is curly and full.
The brunette steps up to the mic.
“Hello, Alibis! We’re The Row Girls. We’ve got a great set for you tonight. Sit back, relax, and enjoy.”
She taps her foot for the count, and they start playing their acoustic-electric guitars in unison. From the first few bars, I can tell it’s going to be an original composition instead of a cover. I lean forward with interest.
The brunette starts singing first. I let out a slow, disappointed breath, and sit back with my arms folded across my chest. They’re duds.
I turn to Nick. “They’re actually doing something of their own. Shame they can’t sing.”
The blonde leans in to her mic. I immediately eat my words. Her voice is like Stevie Nicks, Adele, and Whitney Houston all rolled into one. The murmuring crowd quiets down. Barflies who’ve been rowdy all night turn around to see who’s creating the intoxicating sound.
Nick’s eyes light up, and he turns to me with a knowing smile. “That’s it, isn’t it? Raw talent.”
“That’s it.”
I listen,
captivated, as the pair continues their set. Three songs total. Their sound is soft rock with a folky feel. They remind me of Fleetwood Mac with a nod to Joni Mitchell. Their music is catchy, but the lyrics are haunting. They sing about falling on hard times, poverty, dreams, and sisterhood. It gets you right in the feels.
Their voices complement one another, but the blonde is easily the star of the show. I can already see myself putting her center stage, marketing her just right, and watching her soar. Before they’ve even finished their set, I’m walking toward the stage to talk to them. They’re the last act of the night.
They finish to rapturous applause. The band that came before them mumble viciously among themselves. You can see the envy in their eyes. Nobody can fail to recognize the star potential in the blonde onstage.
The women leave their guitars on stands and step down from the stage. I approach them before the Miller Records vultures can get their claws into them. Nick nearly trips on my heels, following behind me like an overeager kid brother.
“Ladies, what a performance!”
The Row Girls are off the stage. They look at each other with a smile. Up close, I get a better look at them. As well as being only an average singer, the brunette is rather plain. With the right makeup, she might be pretty. Her figure is pretty good, if a little boyish.
The blonde, though—a vision. Any LA stylist would kill to get their hands on her hair, which tumbles over her shoulders in loose golden ringlets. She has hazel eyes. They’re bright and make her whole face seem to shine. Her cheekbones are high and her lips full. There is the slightest spatter of freckles across her cheeks and nose. She looks like the wholesome girl next door, but I can picture her dressed in something with a little more kick in a promo shoot. She’d drive the men wild.
Including me.
I hold out my hand. “Let me introduce myself. The name’s Lucas. I’m a music producer at Fox Records. I have to say, I found your performance captivating.”
I’m talking to them both, but I keep my eyes fixed on the blonde.
“I’d like to talk to you further about the possibility of collaborating with Fox Records. Maybe recording a demo. The Row Girls…what are your names?”
The brunette eagerly takes my hand and shakes it wildly. Her eyes gleam with excitement, and her smile stretches from ear to ear. “I’m Jane.” She nods toward her partner. “This is Ivy.”
“Jane and Ivy…it’s a real pleasure. Who writes your songs, if I may ask?”
“It’s a collaboration,” Jane answers. “I write the music; Ivy writes the lyrics.”
I meet Ivy’s eyes. “The words had power. I’d like to hear more about what inspires you.”
Ivy lifts her gaze to meet mine. She doesn’t show her excitement quite as readily as Jane, but I can see an intense hope shining behind her eyes. I can almost hear her breathing coming faster.
“We’d love to talk.” She pauses. “Fox Records, you said?”
“That’s right.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my silver card holder. I withdraw an embossed linen card with my name and details in gold type and hand it to her. “Senior producer.”
Ivy takes the card and reads it. Her eyebrows draw together almost imperceptibly, but she fights to keep her expression neutral. “I guess we should give you our numbers, too.”
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a business card of her own. It’s a cheap glossy card covered in pink flowers and guitars. It has both women’s numbers beneath the band’s name.
I take it and place it atop my own business cards, snapping the case shut, and pocketing it. I offer Ivy a pleased smile. “I’ll be in touch.”
“We look forward to it.”
Ivy
I get off the bus one stop after Jane and walk the rest of the way home through Skid Row. Lucas asked me where I drew my inspiration from, well, here it is—the poverty, homelessness, graffiti, and despair that fills the streets of Downtown LA.
The gangs and bums might scare other people, but I’m used to them. I walk through the dark streets with my head held high and one hand gripping the canister of pepper spray in my purse—just in case.
I didn’t always live in this part of town. Before Dad lost everything, we lived in West Hollywood. You might have thought my family’s fall from grace would have stolen the stars from my eyes, but moving to Skid Row only made my dreams of Hollywood burn brighter.
After a ten-minute walk from the bus stop, I arrive at the grubby apartment building where I live with my dad. The elevator is out of order, as usual, so I climb the stairs to the fifth floor. There’s a used needle on the steps and unsavory odors in the air. I lug my guitar case up the stairs, finally pushing my way into our apartment.
Like everything else around here, our apartment isn’t much to look at. The wallpaper is ancient. It peels off the walls like it’s trying to escape. It was once beige, but now it's more gray. The small windows that overlook other high-rise buildings don’t let much light in. Instead, the rooms are filled with the unnatural glow of bare lightbulbs. It looks like a prison.
Dad is waiting up for me when I get in. He’s sitting in his well-used armchair in front of the fifteen-inch TV, his cane leaning against his left leg. He’s wearing his favorite brown robe, which is pretty much all he’s worn since his stroke.
“You didn’t have to wait up for me, Dad.”
“You know I worry about you hanging around bars late at night. I hate the thought of you walking back from the bus stop alone.”
I smile. “You don’t need to worry. I was with Jane most of the way.” I lean my guitar against the door. “And Alibis is a nice joint.”
Dad’s lips curve into a knowing smile. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Ivy. I’m familiar with Alibis.”
“Then you should know it’s the best place to be if you want to get noticed.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m dying for some coffee. You want a cup?”
“No thanks, I just had one. The last thing I want is to be needing to piss all night with my leg the way it is. I almost didn’t make it to the bathroom last night.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Lovely.”
I head into the kitchen, pulling a mug down from an old wooden cabinet above the stove. The door is a little wonky. The grooves in the surface are filled with grime. I make a mental note to go at it with some bleach after work tomorrow. I fill the kettle, wait for it to boil, and make a steaming mug of instant coffee. I take mine black and drink it down while it’s still scalding, just the way I like it.
Dad heaves himself up from his chair and limps after me into the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane. Half his face is permanently twisted since the stroke. He looks like Popeye chewing on spinach. His salt-and-pepper hair, which used to be combed back into a classic rock star style, is rough and wild. He looks as worn-out and disheveled as the homeless man who camps in our apartment doorway from time to time.
“Did you go to physical therapy today?”
He scoffs, waving a hand in the air. “Of course not.”
“Why not? We talked about this.”
“We don’t have money for that sort of crap.”
“You hate being cooped up in here, but you’re your own worst enemy. If you did the exercises, you might be able to get back out there again. Find some work.”
“And who’d hire a limping old coot like me, hmm? We don’t have money for any more PT.”
“When you were going, you were doing so well.”
“The insurance only covered eight sessions.”
I place my half-empty mug down on the counter with a frown. “I know. It’s ridiculous. But still, I want you to go. I said I’d pay. I’ve got enough for your next two sessions.”
Dad wraps his arm around my shoulders and offers me a warm smile. “You look after your old man.” He sighs. “But we both know we’ve got more important things to spend that money on. I’d like to see you treat yourself once in a while, too. Use some of that money to buy you
rself a nice dress or something.”
I swirl around in my floating skirt. “I like what I’m wearing just fine, thanks.”
Dad’s eyes grow sad. “You deserve better than secondhand bits from thrift stores.”
“But where else can you find an authentic sixties skirt, hmm?” I flash him a smile. “I feel like Janis Joplin in this outfit.”
“She’s got nothing on you, kid.”
I pick up my coffee and head out of the tiny little closet of a kitchen into the pokey living room. I flop down on the crocheted blanket I bought half-price to cover the stained beige sofa and bring a bit of color into the room. I kick off my ankle boots and curl my legs up underneath me. I can still smell the bar on my clothes.
“So,” Dad asks, hobbling back over to his chair, “was it a good evening? Sell any CDs?”
I bite down on my lip. I want to tell Dad about Lucas, but I know he’ll lose his mind.
Lucas Fox. I close my eyes and picture the suave, handsome music producer who approached us in the bar. He was the sexiest damn man I’ve ever seen, but he might as well be the devil in Alibis’ entrance mural for the deal I think he’s going to offer me.
“Actually, Jane and I were approached by a producer.”
Dad sits up in his chair eagerly. His careworn expression opens up, his eyes growing wide. He slams his fist down on the armchair with a smile. “Yes! That’s my girl. Which label?”
I look down at my lap, shifting my weight awkwardly and avoiding my dad’s eyes. I clear my throat before I answer. “Um…Fox Records.”
His excitement quickly turns to rage. He spits out his words. “Fox Records? Don’t touch them, Ivy! Stay clear away. Bastards—the lot of them. They’ll stab you in the back as soon as look at you. They’ll suck you dry of everything you’ve got then throw you aside. No, Ivy. Don’t go down that road.”