Picture one of those hand crank meat grinders, and Savannah is cranking it gleefully around and around and around. A steady stream of hamburger meat falls into a bowl in wormy wet red chunks, only it’s not hamburger, it’s my brains.
“…and I told Kylie she should totally get a boob job, it’s a career decision, an investment, I got mine when I was eighteen, it’s so much easier to shop for dresses when you have boobs,” she giggles, “everything just, I don’t know,” she crinkles her nose, “fits better, you know…”
I nod. Well, it’s more like I’m nodding off. I suddenly snap my head upright so it doesn’t loll against my chest with my mouth hanging open. If you time it right, it looks like you’re paying attention instead of sleeping with your eyes open.
Savannah the Brain Grinder has been going on and on like this for over an hour.
I’m slowly dying inside.
Something about her voice reminds me of TV commercials. Not in a good way, like when you hear a good voice-over artist who knows how to modulate their delivery for maximum effect. I mean like when you’re watching a TV movie and toward the end, the commercial breaks are like eight minutes long, and you get that constant stream of useless advertising bullshit you don’t wanna hear because it’s ruining the movie.
I realize that’s exactly what Savannah is doing. She’s ruining my movie. Everything coming out of her head sounds like it was put there by TV commercials or whatever she reads in fashion magazines. If she can read, which I’m leaning toward she can’t.
That means everything coming out of her mouth is fed into her head by a satellite dish. She probably has a little DIRECTV receiver dish mounted inside her empty skull.
That’s my conclusion, anyway.
“…and we walked into the Tropicana, you know, the bar in that hotel behind the Roosevelt, on Hollywood Boulevard, anyway, Paris Hilton was having drinks at the bar and we had drinks with her, she bought drinks for everyone, she’s so much nicer in person…”
I notice at this point that Savannah doesn’t end her sentences. Life is just one long monologue for her with nothing but commas.
I’m kicking myself for talking Savannah into getting drinks here at the Monsoon. I should’ve suggested punctuation lessons instead. I’m pretty sure she was held back in kindergarten thirteen times before the educational system gave up on her and sent her out into the world to bore people with her comma talk.
Instead of taking Savannah back to grammar school like I should’ve, I told her that Monsoon’s has a great bar, which is true. But the real reason I wanted to drink here is because the restaurant is right across from Barnes & Noble where Victory is playing outside on the Promenade.
I kind of want to keep an eye on Victory. I still don’t have her number. Now that she’s out of her band, I don’t know when I’ll bump into her again. I need to score her digits before she takes off tonight.
I’m pretty sure if I put a life size cardboard cutout of me in my barstool and walk outside long enough to get Victory’s number, Savannah won’t notice I’m gone.
“…told her I can’t decide if I should move to West Hollywood so I can be near the Beverly Center and the shopping on Melrose, or stay in Beverly Hills in my parents’ three bedroom guest house,” She gets a faraway, thoughtful look, which on her is more thoughtless than thoughtful. “I don’t know, it’s so much easier when my dad takes care of everything, if I buy a house, then I have to clean it myself,” She laughs between commas and touches my forearm while rubbing her knee against mine under the table, “I mean, you know, hire the maids and everything, I hate doing that…”
Maybe I should go home with this airhead.
Maybe not.
I’m stuck because she drove us here in her Porsche. My bike is parked on her parents’ gigantic driveway in Beverly Hills. Most chicks love riding on the back of my bike. But when I told Savannah she had to wear a helmet, she said there was no way she was messing up her hair.
That should’ve been my cue to cancel the date. Because, when we got to the Promenade earlier, Savannah turned this into a shopping date. We’ve walked into every shoe and clothing store here. I could tell she’s probably worthless in bed four shoe stores ago, because everything is about her, her, her.
Funny thing is, if I hadn’t sucked it all up, I wouldn’t have bumped into Victory tonight.
Turns out Savannah isn’t completely worthless.
Now I just have to figure out how to get rid of her.
Chapter 33
VICTORY
It’s another couple hours before the crowds are so thin there’s no point in staying.
When I pack up my guitar, I see one of the same gangs of teenagers passing by who’ve been coming and going all night. I’m surprised security hasn’t kicked them out of the Promenade based on their behavior. Two of them have skateboards, and skateboarding isn’t allowed inside the Promenade.
Most of the other groups of teens I’ve seen all night are a mix of guys and girls. This group is all dudes. I can tell they’re wound up tight.
One of them drops his skateboard near where I’m sitting and starts practicing his kickflips. His buddies cheer him on.
I wouldn’t mind except Kickflips sucks, no matter how much his grungy black Vans shoes, giant t-shirt, and the backwards ball cap on his head scream California skater. He keeps tripping all over his board. On one attempt, his board gets trapped between his legs, standing straight up. He almost lands balls first on the nose of the board. I stifle a chuckle.
A couple of his buddies join him, doing ollies or rail slides off nearby benches.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize they’re showing off. I can tell because they keep stealing glances at me between tricks.
In my head, I hear lyrics for Avril Lavigne’s song Sk8er Boi, but these probably aren’t the guys Avril was singing about. These particular sk8ers are total spazzes and not at all cute.
Time for me to go.
My guitar case has more money in it than I expected to make tonight. A lot of it’s change, so I have to pull it all out before I put the Contrares in the case. I don’t want to scratch the guitar on the coins. It would be easier to get the money out if I set the guitar down, but the top of the drum throne isn’t perfectly flat, and I’m paranoid the guitar will fall off, and I’m not going to put it on the cement, so I hold it in one hand. I wad up all the bills with my free hand and stuff them in my purse.
I forget what I’m doing for a second, and the guitar is sticking out behind me as I’m bending over for the bills when one of the skaters blows by behind me, nearly hitting the bottom of my guitar.
“Hey!” I shout, “Watch it!”
The skaters laugh. I know they’re playing with me.
“Why don’t you guys go down to Venice and skate at the skatepark where you’re supposed to?”
“It’s too far,” Kickflips whines.
“It’s two miles,” I counter. “And you’re actually allowed to skate there. They’ve even got pools.”
“You can’t skate there after dark,” one of the skaters says.
These guys are idiots. “You can’t skate here ever. Why don’t you go break the rules at an actual skatepark? Then you’re only half breaking the rules.”
None of them respond. They just skate near me, circling like skate sharks. I should ignore them.
Still holding the Contrares in one hand, I tip my guitar case so all the change pools in the bottom corner. Then I toss it by the handful into my purse. I don’t know how much I made, but it’s at least a hundred bucks. I’m sure Junior Jackson and Little Miss Clarkson made ten times as much, but whatever.
Once I get all my money in my purse, I lean over to put the guitar in the case.
“WATCH OUT!!” one of the skaters shouts as he bombs past me.
I stand up suddenly, looking around for what the problem is.
A half second later, one of them slams into my back and I fall face first onto the concrete.
Luckily, the Contrares breaks my fall.
CRUNCH!!
I’m right on top of it and one of the skaters is on my back. “Get off of me!” I shout. I twist and roll him off of onto the concrete like a sack of sk8er garbage.
“Oh shit!” one of the other skaters gasps.
The one who was on top of me groans, “Fuck, my wrist…”
“Fuck your wrist!” I scream. “You broke my guitar!” I stand up and shake the broken guitar over him. The spruce top has been caved in near the bottom. The bridge has popped clean off and the springy strings spray out in every direction. “It’s ruined!”
It turns out, the guy on the ground is Kickflips.
What a surprise.
He doesn’t even notice my guitar. He’s busy rolling around on his back and moaning while he holds his forearm to his chest protectively. “I think it’s broken…”
“I’m going to break your other wrist, dumbass! Look what you did!”
He’s in too much pain to care.
The other skaters circle around us, rolling slowly on their skateboards, gawking it all in.
Don’t they ever get off their skateboards?
“Dude, are you okay?” one asks while circling.
“That was a nasty fall, bro,” another says.
“Fuck,” Kickflips moans, “I can’t move my fingers.” He holds up his hand to show everyone. The hand is bent at a weird angle from his wrist.
I say, “You guys need to take your buddy to the hospital.”
“We don’t have any money,” one of the other kids says.
I can relate. But I say, “He still needs to go to the Emergency Room.”
Kickflips groans, “I don’t have insurance.”
Why does this suddenly feel like it’s becoming my problem? I glance at the Contrares. It’s ready for firewood. What am I gonna do?
“Five-oh!” one of the skaters blurts. “Cops!”
His buddies skate off toward Wilshire Boulevard and turn the corner, gone.
“Nice friends,” I grumble to Kickflips.
Two cops on foot jog up to us.
This is lame. I was all ready to go home and count my money while kicking my feet up and sipping on a hot cup of…shit. I don’t have anyplace to go. Oh well. May as well spend my night here with Disaster Dan, a.k.a. Kickflips.
Man, this totally blows.
It takes only about two minutes to explain to the cops what happened. They can see I’m a performer.
“Do I have to hang around?” I ask one of the cops.
He’s really tall but has a boyish face and one of those military haircuts. “No. Paramedics are on the way. You’re free to leave whenever you want, miss.”
It’s funny him calling me “miss.” He can’t be more than fifteen based on his baby face. “Thanks,” I smile, shaking my head.
Free to go where? To the bubble bath waiting for me at my mansion? Actually, that sounds nice. I convince myself that’s exactly where I’m going.
I’ll deal with the disappointing reality of my cold car later.
Babyface smiles, “Sorry about your guitar. I wish there was something we could do.”
“Me too,” I smirk.
“You could try taking him to small claims court.”
“He told me he’s broke.”
“Sorry,” Babyface shakes his head and gives me one of those thin smiles that says, “I feel bad, but I’m not actually going to help you out.”
I roll my eyes, “Thanks.” I pick up my drum throne, and the guitar, which is now in its case. What am I going to tell Johnny? That he can take the money out of my paychecks? Which I will no longer be receiving when the shop closes, which will be long before I payoff the guitar?
I’m cursed. That’s the only possible explanation I can think of.
Fucking Scott.
Is he some kind of silver eyed Voodoo King who put a hex on me? He needs to be stabbed.
Man, I need a drink. Despite the cash in my purse, I really can’t afford one.
I laugh quietly to myself as I trudge to my car. Someone will probably jump out of the darkness and snatch my purse before I get to my car, which I parked in one of the garages on 4th street. I spent twelve bucks on the garage because I told myself my car would be less likely to be broken into. Not that I have much left to steal.
I walk to Wilshire and go half a block to the alley that runs between the parking garages and the shops. I scan the shadows for purse snatchers.
Seeing none, I proceed.
Twenty feet into the alley, I hear the scrape of boot heels behind me.
I spoke too soon. I glance over my shoulder and see a huge hulking figure in the shadows behind me. I can’t make him out because he’s passing through a dark area between lights, and there’s not many in the alley to begin with. My heart seizes.
Yeah, I’m totally cursed.
This is too lame for words.
I quicken my pace, put the drum throne under my arm holding the guitar case, and reach into my purse for my rainbow rape knife. I pop the blade open before withdrawing it slowly. I let it dangle casually at my side.
If Boot Heels tries anything, I’ll drop the drum throne to free up my arm holding the guitar case. Now that I’m not worried about the Contrares, I’ll gladly use the case to bash with one arm while stabbing with the other.
I’m not going down without a fight.
This is your unlucky day, Boot Heels.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Everything slows down as I hear the pace of the boot heels accelerate behind me. I will bash the bones in those boots into powder if they get too close. My heart hammers in my ears and time turns into syrup.
I’m all ready for the stab and bash, if it comes to that. But I’ll try running first. It often works.
I put my head down and sprint like crazy. I imagine I’m a cheetah going for broke. Not a gazelle. I’m never the stupid gazelle. But everyone knows that a big ugly hyena can kill a cheetah, so speed is of the essence.
I drop the drum throne and it clatters against the asphalt in the alley. It’s worth maybe fifty bucks. I’m worth way more.
“Hey!” Boot Heels shouts. “Wait!”
Is he kidding? I’m not waiting around to chat.
The stairwell to the parking garage is fifty feet in front of me. I can get there before Boot Heels catches up to me and run up to the fourth floor where my car is parked, but not without dropping the broken Contrares. Considering it’s totaled, it’s not worth dying for. Johnny will understand.
Sorry, guitar, it’s you or me, buddy.
“Hey, Victory! Wait up!”
I stop in my tracks and whip around, “Kellan?”
“Who did you think I was?” he chuckles.
“Holy shit!” I set the guitar case down and fold into a squat, clutching my arms to my stomach. I’m ready to puke, I’m so scared. “You almost gave me a heart attack!” Adrenalin mainlines in my veins. “Fuck! You scared the shit out of me!”
“Sorry,” he grins as he bends to pick up my drum throne.
I’m beyond surprised as I look up at him, “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” he smiles.
“More like stalking! I thought you were a rapist!”
“Not my style,” he grins. “Although I’ve had a few women try and rape me in the past.”
“You wish,” I spit.
He shrugs, “I’m not asking you to believe me. I was there. I know what happened.” He gets a wistful, faraway look. “I always have to remind them no means no. But drunk chicks can get pretty insistent. What can I say? I’m always in high demand.”
Why do I believe him? I shake my head and suddenly picture Kellan’s head inflating to the size of a hot air balloon because of all the hot air that comes out of his mouth, and he floats away into the sky, never to be heard from again.
I blurt out a laugh.
Kellan grins, “What?”
“I’ll tell you later,” I shake my
head. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I came to collect my debts.”
“Debts? What debts?”
Kellan acts hurt, “You forgot already? You still owe me a pizza.”
“Still hung up on that?” I joke.
“I’m a hungry guy. I eat a lot. I’ll take free pizza anyplace I can get it. I mean, pizza I earned. You’re not going back on your word, are you?”
“No,” I sigh, standing up slowly. Now that my adrenalin is fading, the nausea has kicked in. My guts are in knots. I drop my knife to my side, hoping he doesn’t notice. I feel sort of stupid having it out, but I don’t want to call attention to it. I’d slip it into my purse all ninja like, but my hands are shaking too much. I’d probably slice a hole in my bag, which I can’t afford to replace. I’m not about to use trash bags or paper grocery sacks for a handbag. That’s going too far.
“What’s with the knife,” he motions with his hand.
That didn’t work. I smirk, “You.”
“You gonna cut my shit?”
“If necessary. Keep your distance.” I raise the knife half heartedly then drop it to my side. “I’m exhausted.”
“You probably should eat something—”
“I couldn’t eat a bite. My stomach is totally—”
“—in need of pizza,” he interrupts, “I bet you haven’t eaten since you got to the Promenade.
He’s right, but I roll my eyes, “You don’t quit, do you?”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Nope. You need to eat.”
Changing the subject, I say, “Hey, what happened to your date?”
“Her?” he chuckles, “I took her home and put her away in her display case.”
I frown, “That sounds like a creepy serial killer comment.”
“I meant the one she has in her own apartment. You know, like she’s a doll and shit, all fake and whatnot? Her batteries ran out. How’s that?”
“That makes her sound like a sex toy.” I shake my head and smirk, “Are you sure you’ve had sex with an actual woman? I mean, with lines like that, you’re not getting into anyone’s underwear.”
Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3 Page 16