by Zoey Derrick
Despite the monumental amount of alcohol we consumed last night and that I hardly slept, I feel great this morning. Maybe that’s why I feel great? Still drunk. When I did finally manage to pass out, it was nearly four and I didn’t wake again until after eleven.
Which means I have been running around nonstop since noon, and I am finally ready to go. Suitcases are packed, laptop, iPad and new work cell phone are on the charger. Calls from personal phone forwarded to work phone, though I am still taking it with me since I don’t have time to transfer my contacts. My personal phone is partially paid for by Bold, one of the perks I guess, but some months that stipend is hardly enough to cover the actual work related use. Being a PR Rep means I am on call 24/7, 365 days a year. I’ve actually only been awoken in the middle of the night once, but I have had more than a few weekend calls. For the most part, between 7 in the morning and 10 at night, I’m fair game. All of my clients and their ‘staff’ are given explicit instructions about what constitutes an after 10 or weekend emergency. Though I guess, going on tour puts me at their beck and call all day every day.
Sam is on her way over with Chinese takeout, and I have two bottles of wine ready to rock. We chatted a lot last night at the bar and Jess did a great job of making me feel guilty about ditching the vacation plans. But once I told her this is a major career boost for me, she dropped the guilt trip. Miraculously, it only took me one time of reminding them that I can’t discuss my job with them and they let it go after a promise that at some point they will figure out what the hell is going on.
“Addie,” I hear Sam call from the front door.
“In the kitchen,” I holler back.
“Girl, you need some help with that?” I ask her as she lugs her suitcase up the steps.
“Nope,” I hear her grunt followed by her suitcase falling on my hardwood floors. I come around the corner of the kitchen and she is standing at the top of the steps, huffing.
“You’re so full of shit. We could’ve gone down for your stuff, you know?”
“Nope, I got it.” She gives me a wink.
“Is that all?”
She looks down at her suitcase dubiously then back at me. “Uh yeah, why?”
“You’re staying here for twelve weeks, remember?”
She rolls her eyes. “This is mainly for this weekend. I told bitchface that I’d be back on Sunday. I haven’t told her that I am disappearing for three months. Besides, my apartment is ten minutes away from here. Not like I’m leaving town for twelve weeks like some people.” She sticks her tongue out at me.
I laugh and shake my head at her. “You do realize that while I’m gone, you’re more than welcome to move all your stuff in here.”
She looks around the apartment dramatically. “Like I can afford this place.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Wine? Then we can discuss your moving in.”
“Yes, please.” She grabs the two bags of takeout that I can smell all the way over here. It smells really good. Reminding me I haven’t eaten much today.
Once we’re in the kitchen, I grab plates and pour the wine into two very large goblets. Hmm, maybe I should’ve bought a couple more bottles. That one bottle fit into two glasses. “Trying to get you drunk,” I say sliding the glass to her.
“That will definitely do it, though with Chinese food, you never know.”
I hold up my glass. “Cheers.” We clink and dive into divvying up the food. “So is Jess pissed you’re staying here?” I ask her as we both reach for the egg rolls. I hold my hand out for her to go ahead.
She shrugs and takes a bite of her egg roll. “I don’t really care if she is or not. She’s got her own place, no reason for her to stay here.”
“Well, you have your own place too,” I remind her.
“Yes, but it is occupied by bitchface.”
I roll my eyes again. At this rate my eyes are likely to freeze looking at the back of my head. “So if it’s so bad living with her, why haven’t you moved out already?”
She gives me a half smile. “I feel bad because I know she couldn’t afford it on her own. I think half of the time she’s just pissed off because her grandiose plans fail. Either that or her latest fuck toy screwed her over. Ultimately, I just think she’s a really angry, jealous person. Hence why I didn’t tell her I was staying here. She’d get all whiny and I’d rather fill her head with bullshit, like having a new boyfriend and I’m spending all my time with him.”
“What would happen if you moved out?”
She shrugs. “No clue. The lease is up in two months and lately she’s been prattling on about moving back to Michigan or wherever it is that she’s from. Says that this acting bullshit is exactly that, bullshit.”
I snort. “Is she any good?” I ask honestly, not that I’d do anything about it. Sam looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “That bad?”
She nods. “Something like that. Not to mention the fact that she keeps asking me to talk to you and hook her up. She thinks that if she can get an agent, she’ll have better luck. But she can’t get an agent because she either sucks or she’s a bitch to them. She has an entitlement complex, thinks she’s entitled to whatever she wants.”
I scowl at Sam, “Entitled? Ha! Hardly. You don’t just get handed acting jobs or celebrity, you have to work your ass off for them. She wants you to talk to me. You’re kidding, right?” She shakes her head. “Okay, first of all, I don’t do actors, so I haven’t a clue what they even look for. Second of all, if she really sucks, it comes back on me and she’ll turn around and blame you. Lastly, as much as I hate to admit it, Hollywood thrives on good looks and she…”
Sam cuts me off with a fit of laughter. “Oh my god, you have no idea. I heard her mumbling something about getting into porn, just to make ends meet…”
I interrupt her with my own laughter. “Tell me you’re joking. The porn industry rejected her?”
We both break down into a full on giggle fest that lasts us more than a few minutes and a couple of stomach cramps. Don’t get me wrong, bitchface, as we lovingly call her, isn’t all that ugly. But she isn’t attractive either. She has a very plain Jane style and she gives off the wrong vibe. Her name is Liz, and we really shouldn’t make fun of her, but if you knew half of the shit she’s done, you’d agree with us.
After a long night chatting with Sam, I settle into bed with my thoughts roaming around 69 Bottles and the tour. Though the tour lasts for twelve weeks, there are a lot of open dates between shows. For the most part, the shows are all on Wednesdays through Sundays with travel days being Mondays and Tuesdays. The travel time is minor considering how many cities the tour is stopping in. Top that off with the fact that all 30 of the 32 shows that have gone on sale, sold out in less than fifteen minutes. Whoever put this together did it right. I wouldn’t have put so many cities, like Oklahoma City, Kansas City, Des Moines, Minneapolis and Chicago, so close together date wise. Each city is within reasonable driving distance, I might have just expanded to multiple shows in Des Moines and drew in people from Minnesota, Illinois and Missouri.
However, the Minneapolis show has me most excited. The band is playing their smallest venue, First Avenue, which anyone who’s anyone, or trying to be anyone, plays there. In fact, 69 Bottles has played there before, just not as the big names they are now. Plus they have the coveted Sunday spot. The venue is small, so tickets are expensive. I know, I looked. The cheapest ticket was like $345. The most expensive, including VIP experience, was over $1500.
The packet contains information on each venue, including size, number of tickets sold, number of band owned tickets and number of VIP tickets available. Being a VIP means exclusive front row access along with backstage passes. Most venues limit these tickets to less than 200 people. Some have more or even different levels.
I don’t make it much further into the package because the next thing I know, my alarm is going off and it is four in the morning. Hello, hangover. You nasty, nasty bitch.
I knew wh
en I opened that third bottle of wine that I was really going to be in trouble, and now I need to get my shit in gear and get the hell out of here. Shower, check. Hair-I flip my hair in the mirror in front of me, check. Make-up, fabulous as always. Professional attire, for today, double check.
I wouldn’t say I’m an overly attractive woman, in fact, I’d say I’m average. With ice green eyes, and luscious, kissable lips. I’m five seven and I weigh about one forty-five, a little over weight, but it gives me some nice curves and a fairly decent ass. The only thing fake about me are the D cup sized tits that enhance my chest. Believe me, I needed it. Before I went under the knife for implants, I barely registered an A-cup and with my height and size, it was awful to look at. At least it was for me.
After Dan’s death, I needed something to help boost my confidence, so I got them done. Think what you want, but it was a huge boost for my confidence. If you’re wondering if I’d do it again, my response is mixed. If I knew the pain I’d endure, I wouldn’t have done it, but because I know the end result, even a few years later, it was all worth it. Besides, since then I’ve gained a little weight and they’re no longer the super firm, totally fake tits you see in porn.
Anyway, enough about my boobs, moving on. Today I’m wearing a dark gray pencil skirt with a white button up silk blouse, open to show just a little cleavage with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows. It is March in Los Angeles, so the weather is chilly. For now, I’m planning on wearing my jacket. I have no doubt that once the press conference begins, I’ll still be wearing it.
Regardless, I manage to sneak out of the house with my luggage in tow after triple checking that I had everything I needed. I threw the fat envelope of death into my messenger bag. Since it’s still dark outside, I doubt I will get any reading done in the car on the way over. I’m taking a car because I’m not leaving my car downtown for three months. I’d rather leave it downstairs in the garage. Plus I left the keys with Sam, she said she’ll drive it a couple of days to and from work for me. I think she just wants to drive the blue devil.
Despite my ginormous salary, I drive a brand new Nissan Rogue. It’s not the most expensive car and I could certainly afford something bigger, better and fancier, but fuck it. I chose to spend the money on my condo instead. Ironically, I spend more time in my car than I do my condo.
God, I am off track today or at least subject to zoning out. Something I like to do when I’m nervous. Why would I be nervous? That’s easy, I haven’t a clue what I’m stepping into, what is going to happen at the press conference and well frankly, I’m freaking out about spending twelve weeks on a bus with five men… the only female, with five men… Yup, let’s just leave it at that.
“Good Morning, Miss Beltrand.”
“Oh, hello, you’re early.”
“I’m Darius, I’ll be your driver today. I understand that we’re headed downtown to LA Live?”
I nod, “Pleasure to meet you Darius, yes.”
He bends down and takes my luggage from me, putting it into the trunk of the sleek black town car parked in front of my building. I keep my messenger bag and purse with me as he opens the door so I can slide in. “We’re going to avoid the highways this morning. There is a lot of traffic out already.”
I smile at him. “You’re the driver, so whatever way you think is best, have at it. We have plenty of time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiles and closes my door. Within a moment, he is sliding into the front seat. If I wasn’t hung over, I’d think that Darius was quite attractive. Caramel colored skin, very black hair and a wicked sexy goatee. Not to mention tall and well-built and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was packing. I take comfort in that.
“There’s some water in the pull down on the console, help yourself,” He says over the seat.
“Perfect, thank you.” I open the compartment and pull out a nice cold bottle of water. I manage to down the entire bottle before we get out of my neighborhood. Stupid wine. Now I remember why I prefer the hard stuff. At least I can wake up without much of a hangover, like I did yesterday morning. I certainly drank more Tuesday night than I did last night.
“Miss Beltrand, we’re here,” Darius says and I look out the front windshield at a mob of people. It’s not even seven in the morning and already the horde is out in full swing.
“Can you get me close to that gate, where the security guys are?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Darius begins his approach and compliments of the deeply tinted windows and the swanky car, people part the mass, screaming at the car. Obviously they think that I’m someone important. I watch the security crew at the gate as they make a circle, pushing people back and one of the guys approaches Darius’s window. He rolls it down. “I have Miss Addison Beltrand in the car.” The guy does a check of his clipboard, flips a page. Jesus, how many people are coming through this gate?
“Does she have her credentials?” I hand my badge, compliments of the massive envelope of death, to Darius who hands it to the security guard.
“Okay, you can pull through; to your right you will see other cars, go ahead and park there. You’ll need to come back through here when you leave.” He gives my credentials back to Darius who hands them back to me. I tuck them back into my bag.
“Yes, sir,” Darius replies and the guard waves his hand. I watch as the gate manually swings open then I finally see the “rent a fence sign.” Obviously this isn’t normal for this area of town. When you live in LA, downtown isn’t a place you visit very often, but this is a great open location to kick off a bus tour because the highway is only a few blocks away.
As we come through the crowd and the gate, I can see two buses. Neither are openly marked, which is a good thing if you ask me. But it also leaves me to wonder which bus I am supposed to be on. They’re exactly the same. Except that one of the buses is pulling a trailer that’s nearly as tall and wide as the bus itself. Must be equipment.
Darius does as the guard asked and pulls off to the right with the other cars. “Let me go ahead and pull your luggage, then I will come open the door for you.”
“Sounds great, thanks, Darius.” I busy myself with putting papers back into my messenger bag and grab another bottle of water from the pull down. I might need it. Downside to joining so late, I don’t know what’s going to be on board the bus.
Once I’m done stuffing my messenger bag, I take a look around. At one of the buses, the one without the trailer, standing on either side of the door are two, rather tall, muscled up men in black suits. The Ray-Bans they’re wearing complete the ensemble and I feel like I’ve walked onto the set of Men in Black. I wonder which one is J and which is K. One of the guys has a deep, dark complexion and looks oddly familiar, but I can’t place him.
I feel the car shift and hear the trunk close. Darius is at my door, pulling it open. Ironically, the crowd goes crazy thinking that I’m someone important and I roll my eyes. “Oh sweethearts, you’re about to be completely disappointed,” I mumble to myself.
I climb out and almost instantly the crowd dies down, though there is still a dull roar of murmurs from the waiting fans as they realize that I am me and not one of the band members. Darius laughs.
“I couldn’t agree more.” I slip a hundred dollar bill into Darius’s hand. I included a tip in the credit card charge for the car, but meh. He’s done good. “Thank you for your company, your service and for putting up with this madness.”
He smiles, not looking at what’s in his hand and I commend him for that. Most drivers peek. “Anytime, ma’am.” He slips me his card. “If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call. For curiosity’s sake, who’s in the buses?” I see him smile slightly.
“That would be 69 Bottles.” I watch his eyes get wide and a smile spread across his lips. “A fan, I see?” He just nods. “Thank you again, Darius, it was a real…”
“Addison?” I hear someone shout.
“It was a pleasure, Darius.”
“Th
e pleasure was mine,” he says with a grin and off he goes around the front of the car. I turn, looking toward the voice that hollered for me. Given that the girls’ cheers have picked up some, but not to an overwhelming amount, I assume that whoever has called my name isn’t a member of the band.
Coming toward me in long, confident strides wearing ripped jeans, a tightly fitted 69 Bottles t-shirt, a pair of shit kickers and a wolfish grin is someone who is vaguely familiar to me, but I can’t quite place him either. I know him from somewhere, but where? He’s extremely good looking.
Darius pulls out from in front of me just as the man approaching reaches the opposite side of the car. “Hi Addison, welcome to the madhouse that is 69 Bottles.” He smirks. “I’m Kyle, the band’s manager.”
“Hi Kyle. So I take it, this,” I gesture toward the waiting crowd, “is normal?”
He laughs with a beautiful boyish grin, a faint blush in his cheeks, weird? “This is minor. I was on the bus and when I heard the collective downshift in the volume of the crowd, I figured it had to be you pulling in.” I cock my head at him, my hair falls over my right shoulder and his eyes light up. “Let me help you with your stuff, I’ll show you to your rack, help you get settled.”
I nod. “Are they all here?”
He shakes his head, “Not yet. We’re still waiting on Mouse.”
“Mouse?” I ask questioningly.
“Uh, sorry. Calvin, he’s the lead guitarist.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to pull back the surprise I feel at the name.
“We call him Mouse, actually everyone does.”
“Why’s that?”
He laughs. “You’ll see.”
Well, okay then. Kyle bends down, picking my duffle bag up off the ground, throwing the strap over his shoulder and pulls up the handle on my suitcase. “I need the duffle on the bus, the suitcase can go…”