Red nods and gazes into my eyes. Her pupils are dilated like black dimes, like she’s trying to suck me right into her heart where she’s already making a nest for the two of us.
Shit, I shouldn’t have said anything about the kids. I need to lie more. I should’ve told her I was out of work and lived with my parents. Or was married or gay. Anything but the truth. Shit.
Her eyes narrow thoughtfully, “Is that why you asked me earlier at The Canal Club if I was a musician? Because you had a bad experience with one?”
Damn it, she figured
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it out. Red is too smart for her own good. And why did she have to fucking ask that? I sigh heavily.
Excited, she says, “You did, didn’t you?”
Now she’s getting all Dr. Phil on my ass. She’s going to pry and pry until she gets to my wounded
(Giselle)
heart and try to fix me. I hate that shit.
“No,” I say. “It’s just that a lot of musicians
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are flakes.”
Red combs her fingers through my hair, “Well, you don’t have to worry about me, Kellan. I’m not a musician.” She swings her legs off of my lap and slinks up to me, pressing her breasts against my muscled arm. She nuzzles my cheek affectionately. Then she licks my ear for awhile, which I usually enjoy, but I’m not into it at the moment. She nibbles on my earlobe then purrs softly, “Would you like to go to bed?”
No.
Moment of truth.
You know those scenes in movies when they’re on a spaceship or a submarine, and someone triggers the self destruct mechanism? Everyone onboard runs around desperately, trying to get to the lifeboats or escape pods before the ship blows into a billion pieces?
That’s what I’m feeling right now.
The only difference is there’s no Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! or blaring warning klaxons going off while the lady computer voice does the countdown. Instead, Red’s apartment is dark save for the street lights peeking through her blinds, and it’s totally silent.
The tension builds to maximum as I stretch this out, knowing what’s coming next. I’d like to enjoy the calm before the storm.
But I can’t wait forever.
3…
It starts with a big sigh on my part.
2…
Red senses it instantly. She pulls back reluctantly.
1…
I lean forward. In a low voice, I say, “I have to go.”
0…
I can’t help but look her in the eyes. Her pupils are now pinholes, shielding her heart from further attack.
“What?” she grunts.
“I need to leave.”
She frowns, her beauty warped out of true by her impending rage.
I should’ve walked away from
(Giselle)
Red at The Canal Club.
What can I say. I’m human.
I needed
(Victory)
a distraction.
I stand up.
Red sinks into the couch and folds her arms protectively across her chest. Not because she’s afraid I’ll attack her, but because she doesn’t want me to see her broken heart.
Yeah, I’m a dick. But my dick isn’t interested in Red.
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And like most dicks, mine is dumb as fuck most of the time.
(Giselle)
“Go,” Red hisses.
I know better than to say anything. If I say even a single word, she’ll blow sky high. I can feel it.
I walk quietly to her front door and let myself out.
When her door clicks softly shut behind me, I hear her shout, “Asshole!!”
Whatever.
She bought me a drink. I gave her a great orgasm. What’s her problem?
A better question is, what’s my problem?
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I trudge down the stairs that lead up to her second story apartment and walk onto the street in front of the building.
While I look around and get my bearings, I hear her yell out a window behind me, “Fucking jerk!!”
CLACK!!
A woman’s shoe bounces across the sidewalk a few feet in front of me. I turn and see Red’s arm cocked, another pump in hand. I bet it hurts to get hit with the pointy heel.
Guess I was right about
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Red.
Whatever.
I lean my torso suddenly back as shoe number two flies past my face.
Women.
I walk home in darkness.
It’s five miles from Venice to my apartment in West L.A. and takes over an hour.
I enjoy the peaceful otherworldly quality of the orange streetlights and the quiet neighborhood streets close to the ocean.
I need to clear
(GiselleVictoryGiselle)
the cobwebs out of my head anyway.
When I walk into my apartment, I’m clear about one thing.
I’m not making the same
(Giselle)
mistake
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twice.
I have a band with my good friends to focus on.
Chapter 59
VICTORY
My sense of loneliness is complete when I let myself into Johnny and Karen’s dark apartment.
I totally need to unwind after my crazy so-called “just friends” date with Julian and think things through. It didn’t go quite like I’d planned.
I’m also a little wound up and need a little alone time to let off some steam. If you know what I mean.
A long loud feminine moan rolls out of the back bedroom.
I wince.
One thing I didn’t know about Johnny and Karen until I started crashing on their couch is how much sex they have. They’re like a couple of rabbits.
Loud rabbits.
I can totally hear them having sex over the Indian sitar music accompanying them in the bedroom. Twingy-twang, twingy-twang, twing, twang, moan.
“Oh!” Karen gasps.
“Yes!” Johnny grunts.
I can’t believe they’re both in their sixties.
“My yoni is in full bloom, Johnny,” Karen hisses. “Give it to me harder.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. But I’ve heard it most nights since I’ve been staying here, so I’m getting used to it.
“Your lingam is my yew tree,” Karen moans. “Oooh! Plant your seed in me! Johnny!”
I don’t even know what a yoni or a lingam is. But I have a pretty good idea.
Johnny grunts louder, “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oooohhh!!!”
For most people, that sound means they’re almost done having sex. Not these two. I know from experience they can go on and on for hours.
Seriously.
The first time it happened, they woke me up.
I thought it was an earthquake.
Nope.
It took forever for them to finish. I had pillows and couch cushions squeezed over my head until the sun came up. At breakfast that morning (it was a Saturday, so we all got up at the same time to go into the shop for work) I expected an embarrassed vibe at the table while we ate, but Johnny and Karen acted like nothing weird had happened.
Hippies.
I never knew Free Love included a Free Show.
“Yes, Johnny! Yes!!”
Thud! Thud! Thud!
So much for my alone time. No way I can relax with that racket. But I still need to use the bathroom. My thong is soaked through because of Julian’s explosive passion. Not soaked with his passion, like I’d hoped. Just my own solo passion. Anyway, I need to change my thong before I go elsewhere to kill time until Johnny and Karen finish.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
I hope they don’t knock the building down.
I can see those little needles at the Earthquake Research Center wiggling all over the paper. The scientists are probably going nuts right now.
So am I.
I flip on a glass s
haded lamp in the tiny living room and dig through my black plastic trash bag of clothes until I find a clean pair of underwear. I’m pretty sure I can clean up in the bathroom without bothering Johnny and Karen.
Johnny gasps, “Your eyes are spiraling blue Danubes, baby. Your hair is on fire like the burning bush.”
What the hell are they doing in there? Do I need to call the fire department? I tiptoe to the hall bathroom and close the door as quietly as possible.
“Ooooh, baby,” Johnny groans, “I feel all six of your sanskrit arms caressing my soul with a thousand rainbow fingers. Take me to nirvana, baby. I’m ready to go. Ooohhh!!”
Karen coos, “You’re having an acid flashback, baby. But I can smell your infinity…”
I repress a snicker. What?! I think they’re both having a flashback.
“AAAHHH!!!” Johnny shouts, “Golden elephants! I see golden elephants!!!!”
“Go with them,” she moans, “and take me with you!”
I almost blurt laughter at that point.
Johnny moans, “Your mouth tastes like the number three! It’s never tasted like the number three before!”
Okay, I really have to get out of here. I don’t want to interrupt their journey to Wonderland or Candyland or whatever plane of existence they’ve floated away to.
I finish up in the bathroom as quietly as possible and leave the apartment.
Now I have an hour to kill. Or four. Who knows with those two. I wish it wasn’t so late. But there’s no way I’m falling asleep while Johnny and Karen bang their way through the doors of perception.
Chapter 60
VICTORY
I drive to the 101 Cafe on Franklin Avenue.
The cafe is kitty corner to the old Hollywood Tower, an art deco apartment building which I’ve heard is haunted by the ghosts of movie stars. The Hollywood Tower is the inspiration for the Disneyland ride The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. People still live in the Hollywood Tower today and I’ve snuck inside late at night hoping to see the ghost of Rod Serling and ask for his autograph, but he never showed up.
I park on a side street and walk into the 101 Cafe. It’s busy with late night diners, but I find an empty seat at the counter. The decor here is awesome. It’s got a mid 1960s vintage vibe I love. One of the walls is made of lava rocks, they’ve got brown vinyl wrap around booths, hanging globe lights over each fake wood table, and swiveling brown vinyl bar stools bolted to the marble riser running beneath the long fake wood counter.
I order a large hot cocoa with a fluffy head of whipped cream and a slice of cheesecake. I’m not really hungry, but they’ll boot me out of here if I don’t buy something.
My phone rings and I pull it out of my purse.
Kellan.
Great.
He’s the last person I want to talk to right now. I need to change my phone number. I heave a heavy sigh and silence the call. Of course, I wait with anticipation for the voicemail to come in.
None does.
Neither does a text.
I’m somewhat disappointed.
But it’s probably for the best. I don’t need to be tempted by Kellan right now. It would be way too complicated. I don’t want a repeat of Scott.
Ms. Adventurous suggests coyly that I just sleep with Kellan.
He is pretty damn delicious. I mean, me and Kellan don’t need to be in a band together or anything. It can just be sex.
No, that’s stupid.
Kellan totally wants to work on music together. And he wants more than just a physical fling. I don’t know why I’m so sure of this, but I am. I’m somewhat surprised he does, because he’s a total slut, but something about the way he acts with me is different. Almost wholesome.
Like a well behaved Boy Scout.
An image flashes through my imagination: Kellan lying asleep in his bed nearly naked, muscles galore and tattoos aplenty on display, with nothing but the corner of his bed sheet covering his junk,
Kellan? A Boy Scout?
As if.
With a grin, I slowly spear a triangle of cheesecake off my slice of pie and fork it into my mouth. My lips close around the yummy morsel and I slide the fork slowly out while quietly chuckling to myself.
Nothing about Kellan is remotely wholesome.
Which is good.
But he is trouble for me.
That much I know for sure.
I’m not even close to being ready for a relationship with him or anybody else.
Like Julian.
I shake my head. How did I wind up with awesome guys coming at me from every direction the day after Scott dumped me? And what was up with that look Max gave me?
Welcome to my own hot mess.
When it rains, it pours hot guys.
I slurp some hot chocolate through the creamy coolant of the whip cream head. Mmmm. Sugar.
The yumminess doesn’t stop my heart from spiraling into a tailspin whenever I think about stupid Scott. Luckily, I think my life has been so crazy since the breakup, I haven’t had time to process the fact that my two year live-in relationship with him exploded in my face less than a week ago. Which is good, because I need to focus on finding a place to live. But my heartbreak didn’t go away. It’s waiting in the wings to kick my ass the second I let it. And I’m not the kind of girl to sweep
(singsingsing)
everything under the rug.
In the mean time, I have my money troubles to deal with.
I still owe Johnny and Karen $6,000 for that busted Contrares. I still have my eye on that L.A. Gunslingers first prize of $5,000. If I won that, with the cash I have, I could pay them back. But I really need to move into my own place. Although I adore Johnny and Karen, I can’t live with their nightly love-ins much longer. Which is good, because the longer I wait to move out, the less money I’ll have. It’s now or never. Then I have to figure out how to get a guitar.
“Oh my god! Victory! Is that you, honey?!”
I turn and see an old friend of mine, Olivia Blunt. She wears a vintage white fur coat flecked with black. It looks like what Cruella de Vil wanted to make with the pelts of the 101 Dalmatians. I hope it’s fake. If it’s not, knowing Olivia, she bought it at a vintage store, so I won’t hold it against her. Liv never buys anything new off the rack.
Right now, she looks very 1950s. Her black hair has bangs and Bettie Page waves. Her tight black dress, circular red plastic earrings, red vinyl belt, and red pumps complete the vintage look. When I used to hang with her regularly before I got busy with Skin Trade, she was always a total vintage vixen. She hasn’t changed one bit.
“Liv!” I shout gleefully and she throws her arms around me.
She squeals, “I see you finally learned how to dress! You don’t look like a mullet headed hesher for once!”
“I don’t have a mullet, Liv!”
“It’s the clothes, girlfriend. Last time I saw you, you were way too 1980s, and not in a hip ironic Madonna way, but a post disco REO Speedwagon or striped spandex pants Iron Maiden sort of way. Not classy, No, no, no. Not even trashy. Just plain fashion lazy,” she scowls.
I sneer, “I like metal bands and concert shirts. Sue me.”
“I tried,” Olivia grins, “but I couldn’t afford a lawyer. Anyway, for once you look like you shopped at Forever 21, not Trends That Are Spun,” she’s holding her hands up and making finger quotes.
I glare at her for awhile then say, “How many puppies did you kill for your coat, Cruella?”
She blurts hearty laughter and smothers me with another hug. “So good to see you, Victory. It’s been forever, girlfriend. I totally got your call the other day, but I’ve been so busy, I forgot to call you back.” She makes a pouty sad face.
“No worries,” I smile. “Want to help me finish my cheesecake?”
She glances at it, “Looks tempting.”
Unfortunately, there’s no place to sit. The barstools to my left and right are occupied.
Olivia squeezes between me and the guy sitti
ng to my right. “There’s always room for the skinny bitch.”
The tall guy sitting beside Olivia is folded over a cup of black coffee. He has pompadour hair, a pencil thin mustache, a baggy Teddy Boy sport coat, and pointy leather shoes. He’s reading a thick book and looks like he should be smoking a cigarette but isn’t. He’s the perfect man for Olivia. Style wise, anyway.
When Olivia takes a good look at him, she says, “Ooh, hello! You don’t mind if I sit on your lap, do you?”
He looks up, his brows pinched, and says, “Sorry?”
“Can I share your chair?” Olivia asks.
“Ahh…”
Olivia sits her butt on the edge of the stool and hip bumps Pompadour several times, “Scootch… just… a smidge… more…”
Pompadour is too surprised to resist. He and Olivia end up with one butt cheek apiece on the chair, and one foot on the marble riser beneath the barstools.
Olivia says to him, “You can tip me for services rendered later. Twenty percent will be fine.”
Pompadour chuckles, “Okay, whatever.” He sips his coffee, sets the cup back in its saucer, and continues reading his thick tiny print book while sitting on one butt cheek.
I goggle my eyes at Olivia when she turns to face me. The impish grin I’ve missed twinkles her features.
She lowers her voice and says apologetically, “So I heard Skin Trade is looking for a new guitar player.”
I roll my eyes, “Fucking Scott.”
Without asking, Olivia takes the fork off my plate and helps herself to the cheesecake. She nods dramatically, “That’s what I said. He’s a total creepo douche tool.”
“Yup,” I smirk.
“Have you found a new band?” She bites carefully around her cheesecake morsel so she doesn’t smear her red lipstick.
“Not yet. I’ve been too busy looking for a new job and a new place to live.”
Olivia chews her cheesecake, her cheeks puffed around the bulging bite, and nods, “Mmmm. Mmm-hmm.” She blots her lips carefully when she’s done, thrusting her chest out like she’s posing for a pinup poster. Olivia tries to pose like pinups as often as possible.
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