“Which color do you want?”
When I leave an hour later and meet the eyes of the receptionist, hers hold enough fear that I know she knows who I am, and what I can do. I don’t say anything, walking through the automatic doors and into the cold. Flurries hit my bare arms and melt into stinging little bites as I make my way to the car.
Farah Devoroh slept with her husband’s subordinate to get back at him over a petty argument. Things may have been okay if she didn’t advertise it to the world. She didn’t think about that man’s family, or that he was set to retire in a few months. The captain of the police department has reach, and we learned it quickly. A routine traffic stop on a bogus infraction turned into planted oxy and cost him his pension. Hell, he was more at fault than she was. But he turned bitter, especially when they lost the house and no one would hire him. I came along after the affair, a completely unwanted surprise when they could barely afford to feed the two kids they already had. Poor turned into dirt poor and no one has stopped holding grudges.
Mom had worked three shit jobs at places that other cops frequented. Some were nice and left big tips. Some, none at all. Dad turned to drinking and let her do it. She let him sit on his ass through it all. I never got that. At least old Farah didn’t seem to be faring so well either. It fires me up that my parents are here, even if they don’t want to leave out of pride. What the hell do I do now?
Chapter 10
“Let’s go red.”
“Oh, but this is your signature color, are you sure?”
I nod and grab the gossip magazines in front of me to thwart any more conversation. The first thing I see is my face, the old me. She looks high, white blonde hair, nappy, needing a brushing like nobody’s business. She has thigh high leather boots, stockings that are ripped and pulling at the seams, and the caption is, “Has Popper relapsed?” No. No she hasn’t. I remember making the cuts myself in the comfort of my home straight out of the package. What the hell am I doing with my life? I look in the mirror, seeing the fashionable woman working behind me, feeling her pulling and tugging at the yard of hair afforded to her expertise. Turning back to the magazine, I keep reading about how Popper from Chimera is adrift in her career, relapsing into drug abuse and how “inside sources” are worried about her.
Fuck them.
I have never been addicted to drugs, are you shitting kidding me?! I’ve seen what the effects are, the chaos that ensues as a result. No thanks. Granted, I’ve done them. When you’re on tour and every adult around you is pushing them on you, telling you it’s part of the life, you do it at least once. I sigh and page through the rest of the vitriol that is mainstream media. Shortly after, I’m pulling my Facebook page up on the phone.
“Personal assistant? Slave? Did I catch your attention? Drop me a line.”
I hit send and think nothing more about it, other than I need a damn assistant yesterday. I’ve been back from Oregon for a day and the inaction to move my parents is already eating away at me. Also starting this new show has me shaking my leg in impatience.
Three hours later, I’ve exhausted the gossip rags and am ready to walk out the door. I’m never this inactive. I’ve even responded to a million emails from fans that I never would have thought to check before. I need an assistant. ASAP.
It’s not until I check out that I’m aware that I don’t have my wallet. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I murmur, waiting in line at the busy counter. I hold my cell phone desperately. “I’ll be right back. As long as it takes to get to Malibu and back, I’ll be here with a credit card.” The girl looks at me skeptically before my ‘hair artist’ comes up to her and whispers in her ear. I pass over my cell phone as a gesture of goodwill I don’t really think they’ll take, but they do.
I hop into my car and jet toward my house, racing as fast as I can. Fucking producers and their deadlines. I hit my privacy gate on a screech, almost hitting the wrought iron gate, punching the security code as fast as I can. I run in, grab my wallet where it had spilled over on the counter and run back to the door.
There’s a man standing in my doorway. “Who are you?” I blurt out.
“I’m . . . I came because I—”
“Oh! You saw the post, right? Well, come on,” I interrupt, making my way back to the car.
“I . . . what?”
“I posted on Facebook about needing an assistant. Wow, you’re fast. Do you need work? Get in, I’m about to be late.” I slam the door and barely wait for the guy to figure out that the door of my car goes up instead of out. He huffs and buckles his seatbelt as he settles in.
“So you saw my Facebook post. What are your references?” I ask, cutting someone off and getting a horn blared for my efforts.
“I’m . . . I saw your post and I . . .” I barely notice what he’s saying, trying to cut someone else off to get to the exit I need to get there faster
“That’s great. So you know how to arrange things and make appointments. That’s basically all I need you to do. If you can walk in there and pay my bill you have the job.”
“What, where?” he asks before I slide into a spot, performing a parallel parking job that would have taken anyone else ten minutes to navigate.
“Hurry. Take this!” I shove my black AmEx card at him, not at all sure that it will work but knowing that I need my phone back for sure.
The guy shoves his hand at the door, and I note that I cleared the curb by mere inches. He jogs in and is back out before too much time has passed. He tosses the phone and card back at me, which I barely catch.
We’re off again.
“What’s your name?” I ask, only now realizing that I have no idea who the hell is in my car.
“Jacque,” he says quietly. Jacque, I repeat in my head, sounding decidedly French, but knowing it won’t come out that way. I’m horrible with accents.
“And you saw my post about needing an assistant?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He licks his lips. “I needed a job and saw your post. Kinda crazy to post an opportunity like this on Facebook. There’s millions of people out there.”
“Right, right. But who shows up at my door? Unless you’re crazy. Are you? I have enough batshit in my life.” I snort at my joke, which Jacque obviously doesn’t get.
“Nah, I’m just glad I caught you while you were home.”
“Yeah, I forgot my wallet. Listen, did you bring a résumé?” I ask, switching lanes suddenly.
“It’s in the car. I wasn’t sure I had the right address.”
“How did you get that, anyway?”
The guy shrugs. “Hollywood Stars map. You’re kind of hot right now . . . I mean, in a gossip kind of way, not that I think you’re hot.” I fight my smile and look at him out of the corner of my eye to see him mouth “Oh my God” as he faces the window.
“Listen, let’s just see how this goes. I have a meeting today for something that could be big for me. So I need to look put together and competent.” My car dings at me and I see that I’m almost on E. Fucking great.
“Is that why you changed your hair color?”
“Among other things.” I change lanes again so that I can exit to get to the nearest gas station. My cell phone rings. Only Batty’s people ever call me, so I accept the call on the steering wheel.
“Where the hell are you, Sadie?” Batty’s voice rumbles with his displeasure. I fight to keep from closing my eyes at what that voice does to me.
“I’m on my way.”
“You’re fucking late, after I stuck my neck out for you on this.”
“I am not late! I have ten minutes. I will be there.”
“What is that beeping noise?”
I bare my teeth at the road and slide into a BP on fumes. “I’m getting gas, then I’ll be there.” I press END on the call, cutting him off as he calls my name.
I sigh and look over at my newly acquired employee. “You want anything?”
He shakes his head and small wisps of hair fall from his stubby ponytail. “Nah, I
’m good.”
I pop the door. “Great. You pump, I’ll pay. And fucking hurry.”
After I grab drinks, I tap on the window and give the cutting motion to Jacque. That would have to get me there. I have no time left. There are two people in front of me, so I start bouncing on the balls of my feet. My eyes scan the magazines and settle on the cover of the Times. Wearing a black suit and bold red tie, the by-line is “Finnigan Brennick: The Music Industries Biggest Threat and Greatest Ally.” He looks imposing and as intimidating as I’ve ever seen him. I reach out and flick his face with my fingers.
“Isn’t that your boss?”
I look over my shoulder to see Jacque holding a Mountain Dew in his hand. “Sorta.” I hold up the Dr. Pepper in my hand. “I figured you as more of a DP man.”
“Only if the Dew isn’t an option.” He glances at my choice and smirks. “Fanta? Really? You know that has no caffeine in it, right?”
I roll my eyes and turn back around, finally able to pay for the gas. “Trust me, you don’t want to see me on caffeine.”
“That bad?”
“Not the way you’re thinking. My body does the opposite. I get tired and will fall asleep.”
“Dude. That totally sucks.”
“It really does. Let’s jet, Frenchy.”
We get in the car, and I hit the GPS for the studios. “Wait, no. I saw you had that guy’s name under Batty. I don’t know what your deal is with nicknames, but count me out.”
“Fine,” I mumble, confused that I would try to give him one, if only to crack a joke. I hate Popper. I also know these people are all going to think of me as her until I set them strait, in the most unPopper way I can.
BATTY-
I toss my phone on the couch next to me and look around the room one more time. The laugh that fills the empty space sounds decidedly evil. Sadie’s going to lose her fucking mind.
Chapter 11
“Popper, fabulous you could make it. We’re working with the other artists right now. Make your way to the trailer with your name on it down this row. Hair and makeup should be waiting,” says a woman with a headset and clipboard that’s probably surgically attached.
We go through the big trailers and start to get to the smaller ones. When I finally see my name, I know my face is as bright as my new dye job. I swing the door open so hard, Jacque has to put a hand out so that it doesn’t smack him in the face when it bounces back off of the outside. I stomp up the rickety steps and fist my hands.
“Did you know you had Playboys on your rider? I can have someone update it to exclude items from your previous band mates. Not to mention, there’s terrible advice in here. It’s suggesting tongue fucking. You hate that,” Batty says without looking up. He turns another page and bounces his foot resting on the other knee.
I hear a quiet “holy shit” behind me.
“Jacque can see about the rider.” I stalk toward him. “You can see about this trailer. The other judges have identical trailers and I get a fucking Winnebago?”
Batty finally locks those grey eyes on me. I watch as he takes in the new hair. “Red, is this natural?” My eyes lower to a glare, making him smirk. “It explains so much.”
I growl and throw a hand out to knock the magazine out of his hand, but he’s too fast. He catches my wrist and pulls me toward him. Our faces wind up inches apart, with me on my knees facing him on the couch. “Fix it.”
“Who’s Jack?”
“Jacque is my personal assistant.” I look over my shoulder and gesture him forward with a head twitch.
“Since when?”
“Since I hired him. Where’s my hair and makeup people?”
Batty eyes his apparent new foe before answering. “I sent them out to get coffee so that I could meet with you in private first.”
“Oh, she can’t have coffee. The caffeine is . . .” He gestures over his shoulder toward the door and starts backing up. “I’m just gonna wait outside.” I watch Jacque escape before cutting my eyes to Batty. He wastes no time reaching for me again. I end up straddling his lap, because he doesn’t stop adjusting me until I’m exactly where he wants me.
“Now. Tell me who Jack is,” he demands.
I lean in close and ask quietly, “Are you jealous? Is that what this is? Are your eyes turning green?”
“Shut up. I’m not jealous of a backpack wearing, flip flopping adolescent with a ponytail, for God’s sake.”
I throw my head back and laugh loudly. If I wasn’t so amused I would have seen the look in his eyes as he absorbed the sound. As it was, I just caught the irritated tightening of his lips. I shake my head slowly. “But he’s my age. Maybe I need someone with more reckless tendencies.”
Batty rears up to get in my face. “What you need is your ass paddled, by me. You need someone who won’t kiss your ass, or demean you.” His voice gets lower and he whispers against my jaw, “You want me. I’m rough, and demanding and you fucking love it.” He falls back to the couch just as my eyes were sliding shut. “Just because I realized your potential before you did doesn’t mean I don’t respect you. I expect you to do the same.”
I’m momentarily at a loss for words. Someone as affluent and strong that has seen me fuck up more times than I would like to admit respects me? That’s just crazy talk, and I can see now I’m completely in trouble with him.
“He’s just my assistant. I met him today.”
Batty nods his head slowly, sliding his thumb over my bottom lip. “I believe you. I’m sorry I lost my temper the other night.”
I roll my eyes. “I was pissed, but I guess I needed the kick in the ass. I saw my parents, that’s why I need an assistant. If I’m working on this show and traveling I can’t get them settled as fast as I want to.”
“You could have asked me. I would have gotten you someone qualified for the job.”
I stand up and walk over to the mirror, still shocked to see a red head staring back at me. “You were right that I need to grow up. I can get my own employees.”
Batty stands as well and sighs. “Alright, babe. I’ll go let your employee in, along with the hair people.” He fingers a lock, sending goose bumps up my neck. “I really do like it.” He doesn’t bother closing the door when he leaves.
Jacque comes barreling in, almost tripping over the last step. “When you flicked that picture of the Times and I asked if he was your boss, sorta is such an understatement I can’t even get over it!”
Batty raises his eyebrows from where he hasn’t closed the door yet. The other staff file in and start exclaiming over my hair choice and how they didn’t bring the right shade extensions and color pallets for this major change. The wardrobe lady takes one look at me and starts shoving racks out of the room for the interns to hopefully catch. I settle back in my chair and speak directly to Jacque over the chaos.
“Do you have a cell phone?” He nods his head and leans closer. “I need you to research the best retirement homes in the U.S. and possibly western Mexico. I want to know whose ass I have to kiss to get my parents into a facility. If you get a pen and paper I can write down their ailments so that you can cross reference the facilities to their needs.”
From my phone, I look up the list of the ailments the doctors mention my parents suffer from. Jacque’s face is pale. “You okay, bud?” I reach over to tap his arm, but he flinches away before I can touch him.
“I’m good. Yeah, you want to move your parents. Okay.” He slides out of his backpack then pulls out an iPad from inside. It’s older and has scratches all over the frame. I make a mental note to get him a new one if he makes it past the ninety day mark.
My attention, or more literally my face, is pulled away as I get astringed, sponged and airbrushed, then regular brushed, plucked and dabbed for the next thirty minutes, and that’s just my face. My hair is tugged, curled, teased, and ironed until it’s finally sprayed to a glistening perfection. Along the way, I managed to let them know I didn’t want the Popper image. I explained that I quit
the band and was ready for a change. The end results aren’t anything that I was fearing, which was either straight up Popper, greasy hair and all, or the exact opposite, a la Christina Aguilera. My hair had more body than usual; it’s all wavy and styled in a way that’s supposed to look effortless.
The wardrobe woman calls for everybody to get out then orders me to strip. I guess I can’t even wear the panties I came in. When I walk out of my trailer, it’s extremely anticlimactic. I feel like a whole new, sexy as hell woman, without the usual trashy linked to it, and there’s no one around. “You clean up real good, Sadie.”
Except Jacque. “Thanks. Do you know where we’re going?”
“Yeah, I think so. Everybody went this way.” I follow him down the rows of trailers and equipment semis, pissed all over again.
“Find out how to get me an equal trailer. This is not 1959, and I’m not standing for it.”
“I didn’t think it was about being a woman.”
I glare at him and he flinches. “It’s not. I still want to be treated fairly. And get my rider pulled too.”
We enter through double doors that make the room look pitch black inside, giving nothing away. When my eyes adjust it’s just another long hallway that gives way to a concession room with buffet tables. “Get something if you’re hungry,” I say, and Jacque wastes no time taking the offer.
I wander around the mingling crew, some busy with tasks, some BSing in groups, none of them seem to notice me. Leaving the room, I follow another hall into what turns out to be the set. There are stands for audience seating along the walls and a huge platform that is the stage.
“Excuse me, ma’am, you’re in my shot.”
My eyes go from the complete intimidation that is prime time TV manifested to land on Fandy from Rolling Bridges. Only the hottest rock group since the Rolling Stones. I almost snort at the comparison in my head, but I see the red light on the camera just in time.
Forgetting Popper (Los Rancheros #3) Page 6