That $20,000 is mine.
Danny’s wayward black hair is held up by a black headband. Heavy black eyeliner surrounds his eyes. Tattoos start on the backs of his fingers and climb all the way up to the sleeves of his old school RUSH t-shirt, which has the logo from RUSH’s first album.
I smile at Danny and nod toward his shirt, “Working Man is my favorite track on that album.”
Danny glances down at his shirt, “Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, “I’ve always thought Alex Lifeson is one of the most underrated hard rock guitar players of all time.”
“You too?!” I grin genuinely.
Okay, I already like this guy. I reach over the table to shake Danny’s hand. “I’m Victory Payne.” I let my leather jacket fall open. No reason not to let my bare midriff and cleavage help get me the job. But I don’t over do it.
Danny stands up halfway and shakes my hand. He’s a pretty big guy and has a gravelly rockstar voice. “Nice to meet you, Victory. I’m Danny.”
I don’t mention that I knew that already because I’m playing it cool. “Nice to meet you, Danny.” I turn to the clean cut guy, extending my hand, “And you are?”
He glances up, “I’m Tom Hines. Assistant manager of the band.”
“Nice to meet you, Tom.”
He smiles at me, rakes his eyes up and down my body quickly, then turns to Danny, “Do you want anything to eat? I’m starving.”
“Yeah,” Danny says, “Can you get me a burger or a sandwich? Something with beef in it?”
It’s so weird hearing Danny Daggers ask a normal human question about his lunch order. I’m slightly giddy and fan-girling inside like crazy, but I don’t let it show.
Ms. Fan Girl screams, Danny eats beef! Can you believe it!! Beef!!!
Tom asks him, “You want chips or fries or something?”
“Either,” Danny nods.
Ms. Fan Girl screams, Danny likes chips AND french fries!!! OMG!!!!!
Luckily, no one can hear Ms. Fan Girl except me.
Tom pats his sport coat then asks Danny, “You got any smokes? I left mine in the hotel.”
Danny leans over and reaches into a backpack on the floor. He pulls out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter and hands both to Tom.
Ms. Fan Girl screams, Danny smokes!
Ms. Sensible grumbles, That’s a good thing?
Tom walks out of the room, “Be right back.”
“Can you shut the door so we can start?” Danny asks me.
“Sure,” I smile and do so.
“You ready to shred?” Danny asks.
I nod confidently, “Totally.” I set my Fender case on the floor and pull out my guitar. There’s a MESA/Boogie Dual Rectifier half stack in the corner and an instrument cable plugged in. I plug the free end of the cable into my Fender and flip the Standby switch to On.
Ms. Fan Girl gushes, I’m using Danny’s amp!!
A pair of powered speakers on the floor are attached to a laptop on the table next to Danny. He says, “Do you want to play along with a Wild Child track, or just wing it?”
“I can wing,” I grin, “or play with the band. Do you have the album tracks, or is it live stuff?”
“It’s live,” Danny says, scrolling around on the laptop. “We play everything faster live. How about we start with Four On The Floor.”
“I love that song. Fast cars and fast women, right?” I’m referring to the lyrics of the song.
“Yeah,” he smiles. “You like fast cars?”
“Totally. My dad fixes cars for a living and taught me how to work on them,” I grin.
“Cool,” he nods. “How about fast women?” he arches an eyebrow and gives me a penetrating look.
What is he asking me?
Duh. He’s a rockstar. He fucks groupies. He’s used to a certain type of behavior from women who like his music. I can deal. It was always like this with Scott, Rex and Bobby. I’m sure Wild Child is just as much of a hard core boys club.
The only difference was that I was dating Scott, so Rex and Bobby knew to keep their hands off. This is a different dynamic.
$20,000.
I’ll deal.
I throw him a curve ball, “The faster the better,” I say, intending it to sound like I’m more into women than men.
“Are you fast?” he grins.
“Why don’t you play the song, and I’ll show you.” It’s a fine balance between flirtatious and professional.
Danny presses play and Four On The Floor pumps out of the speakers, starting with a rolling drum and bass riff that sounds a lot like a dragster engine. Overall, this is a fast tempo song with a machine gun guitar riff. It’s a challenge to play even at the CD speed. But this is a live recording, and yes, it’s even faster.
Not a problem. I have a fast right hand. I start playing at the exact same moment as the guitars on the recording and hang with them like I’ve played the song for years.
The lyrics to Four On The Floor are about, surprise, fast cars and doggy style sex.
“Grip my shifter
Stick it quicker
Feel your gears grind
I come from behind
Gimme four on the floor, baby
Hear my engine roar
Gimme four on the floor, baby
You know I want more”
Etc.
You get the idea.
When it gets to Danny’s guitar solo, I blaze through it just fine and hit all the pinch harmonics in the right pitch and wangle my whammy bar flawlessly.
Danny nods approvingly, a big smile on his face.
When the song finishes, he claps enthusiastically. “Nice work. What did you say your name was?”
“Victory.” I can’t believe he already forgot. At least now he’s taking me seriously.
“Wow, Victory, you’re on fire, girl. Where’d you learn to play like that?”
“My dad,” I smile bashfully. Have I mentioned my dad rocks? He really does.
Danny cocks his head, “How about you do another track? This time I’ll film you. The boys in the band are going to be impressed. Chainsaw isn’t going to believe how good you are.” He turns to the camera and starts it recording. A red LED blinks on the front.
I feel better knowing the camera’s running, like Danny will behave himself if we’re being recorded. I don’t know why I’m worried about it. I just am.
Danny chuckles, “Once they see what a piece of ass you are, they’ll probably kick me out of the band!"
That’s why.
So much for Danny behaving.
He slides his finger around on his laptop trackpad. “This time, play…let’s see, how about… Sacrificial Princess?” He grins at me suggestively. “You know that one?”
“Yup,” I say, tight lipped now.
“This time,” he says, “can you move around, show me some stage presence?”
“Sure.”
“And can you give me a twirl for the camera?”
“A twirl?” I ask skeptically. I know exactly what he means.
“Yeah, so we can see your… outfit.”
Yeah, he totally wants to see my “outfit.”
I don’t twirl.
“Come on, girl, twirl for me.”
“Does that really have anything to do with my playing?”
“No, but it has everything to do with you getting the gig,” he says forcefully.
“Really.” I say rhetorically.
He leans back in his chair and plants a booted foot on edge of the table. He is spreading his legs, which are covered in jeans, but he’s displaying his royal package. “Think about it. Seventy, maybe eighty percent of our fans are men. How do you think they’ll react when they see a shredder guitar girl on our stage, playing my licks like a pro? You think they’re gonna boo?” He chuckles, “Hardly.”
I snort, “I think you were right. They’re gonna see my ass and when they hear me play, you’ll be out of a job.”
A sneery grin spreads across his mouth. “I like a girl wi
th attitude.”
I arch a defiant eyebrow, “Are you gonna press play so I can play Sacrificial Princess or not?”
He gives me a long, lizardy look, “I think you already are.”
“Are what?” I challenge. I know where he’s going.
“A sacrificial pri—”
“Play the song,” I bark.
He chuckles slowly and leans forward, clicking the track pad.
The song plays through and I kill it.
This time, I unleash my full guitar goddess fury like I’m in front of 100,000 screaming fans. If they don’t hire me, they’re idiots.
I’m sweating by the time I finish the song.
Danny claps slowly.
I hate slow clappers. “Nice work.”
I realize his face has gone red aggressive. Is he high? Mad? I can’t tell. But his blood is up.
He stands and walks around the table. “You did great, except for one part on the guitar solo.” He walks toward me. “Let me show you…” he reaches toward me and I don’t like the look in his eyes.
“Back off, man!” I growl.
He stops and leans back, opening his arms wide, like he’s showing he’s not holding any weapons or wasn’t about to pounce. His brows are heavy and his eyes feral. He grunts with lusty amusement, much like you would expect from a caveman who doesn’t have the words to explain to the future mother of his pups that he’s going to club her over the head and drag her back to his cave to start the baby making.
Who does this guy think he is?
He slurs, “I thought you wanted the gig?”
“I do.”
“Then show me how bad you want it…”
I’ve never heard of a heavy metal casting couch, but obviously there is one.
My inner Ms. Fan Girl wilts pathetically, her heart broken.
Danny leans toward me.
I grab the neck of my guitar with my left hand to stabilize it, ball my right hand into a fist, and cold cock him in the fucking eye.
“Ow!” He staggers backward, covering his injured eye with his good hand. His arm with the cast wiggles in the air like a limp snake or a limp dick, whichever fits. “What the fuck was that?” he whines.
I smirk, “What? Don’t you speak caveman?” I smile sarcastically, “That was ‘NO!’ in caveman.”
“Fuck, woman, why did you do that?!”
“My name is Victory, not woman. And I could ask you the same thing. Man.”
That’s pretty much the point at which my audition for Wild Child went into the toilet.
I literally picture someone dumping a stack of hundred dollar bills into a toilet bowl and flushing away $20,000. One of those high horsepower public bathroom toilets.
WHOOSH!
That $20,000 leaves the building so quick, I don’t even have a chance to wave goodbye.
My collective internal committee weeps crocodile tears at the lost money while consoling Ms. Fan Girl with loving pats and tender “There, theres.”
Not one of them sheds a tear for Danny Daggers’ eye, which is going to be purple and yellow by tomorrow morning.
He should’ve listened when I told him my name was Victory Payne.
I guess he thought I said Shrinking Violet.
His bad.
Chapter 86
VICTORY
My botched audition makes me hungry for beef.
I feel kind of cavewomanish at the moment. I’m not worried about counting calories tonight.
Blame Danny Daggers.
I end up driving to Zankou Chicken in the heart of Little Armenia, which is basically East Hollywood. I call Olivia on the way because she lives close by. She’s home and drives over to meet me.
I order Lule Kebab plates for both of us from the yellow shirted cashier. Everyone behind the counter wears matching yellow Zankou Chicken shirts which match the yellow formica bench tables
I sit down to wait for the food.
Liv walks in through the glass front door a few minutes later. An aqua blue silk scarf covers her hair and matches her 1950s aqua dress. She wears vintage movie star sunglasses that have dark green lenses and tortoise shell frames.
“Darling!” she squeaks when she sees me. “There you are!” Her white pumps click when she walks across the brown tiled floor. She holds both hands high, elbows down, like a pretend rich-bitch socialite. Her white handbag is hooked around one elbow.
She removes her sunglasses, leans down, and air kisses my cheek with her candy apple red lips.
“Did you drive over in a convertible?” I ask.
“No, why?”
“Your scarf.”
“Oh, this old thing? I just felt like wearing it.”
“You really need to get a convertible to go with that outfit,” I grin.
She drops into the bench seat across from me. “Do you think the yellow formica goes with my dress?” she asks askance.
“Picture perfect,” I smile.
She still has her hands high, elbows low. “I’m picturing myself in a 1950 mint green Buick Super convertible.”
“I don’t have a clear picture of it.”
She pulls out her phone and finds a picture on Wikipedia. “Here,” she holds out her phone. “What do you think?”
I look at it appreciatively, “How did you come up with that one?”
“Watching old movies, I guess.”
“The only thing you need is a long scarf to trail behind you and flutter in the breeze when you drive to pick up Rock Hudson or Cary Grant.”
“I was thinking both of them. I know Rock would be into the three way, but I’m not so sure about Cary. Anyway, one or both of them would be dynamite.”
I blurt laughter, “You need your own reality show, Liv!”
“Good idea! It might help me get my stalling recording career off the ground! Speaking of, when are we going to rehearse again with Lucas and Logan? Now there’s a three way I’m dying to try!” she laughs melodiously.
“What,” I grin, “You haven’t been there, done that, already?”
“Oh, I wish! I’d move to Utah if I could marry both of them!”
I laugh heartily. “Wow, Liv, you are in heat! Do I need to have you spayed?”
“I doubt it would help,” she rolls her eyes. “Where’s the food? I’m starving. All this talk about three-ways and heat is making me hungry,” she pants. “If I don’t eat soon, I’m going to bite somebody.”
“Then we’d better get you rabies shots first,” I joke.
“I can’t wait that long,” she barks.
“Hold your horses, Liv. They’re making ours right now.”
We both glance at the open kitchen, which is covered floor to ceiling in stainless steel kitchen equipment. The yellow-shirted Zankou staff tend to the cones of meat rotating in front of orange heat coils and the sizzling kebabs on the grill.
Olivia hops up and walks to the counter. She is a ball of energy. She grabs utensils and napkins while she waits. As soon as the cashier sets the orange plastic tray on the counter, Olivia pounces on it and clacks back to our table.
Our Lule Kebab plates each contain two strips of ground steak, seasoned rice, a pile of hummus with a puddle of olive oil in the center, spiced onions, tomatoes, and pickled pink vegetables. It comes with pita bread and this creamy garlic sauce which is 100% bad for you and tastes 100% the bomb.
Me and Liv chow down.
Olivia eats delicately but ravenously. She rolls her eyes dramatically, “I love eating meat.” She moans and groans and chews.
“What kind of meat?” I titter.
“The male kind. This is bull meat, right?” She looks around for confirmation.
I quip, “I think it’s cow.”
“It doesn’t matter. Girl meat is just as good.”
I laugh. “Liv, you are such a nut.”
“Mmmm, nuts would be good.” She winces, “But shaved, please. I hate hairy nuts.”
I spit laugh rice out of my mouth but manage to catch it in my
hand. “Liv!” I suck down a sip from my water cup, trying not to choke. I wipe my hand on a paper napkin.
“Speaking of nuts,” she grins, “when was the last time you cracked any?”
“Uh…” I chuckle, “I assume you mean the kind that don’t require a nutcracker?”
She gestures with her fork, which has a hunk of meat on the end, “Oh, the flesh kind need cracking now and then too. Keeps the men at heel.”
“What, like dogs?” I laugh.
“Sure. I bet if you’d cracked Scott’s nuts more often, he wouldn’t have done what he did.”
An image pops into my head of Liv chasing a naked Scott through the streets, holding a wooden soldier nutcracker in hand and clacking the jaw piece repeatedly while yelling, “You better run! If I catch you, I’m making nut butter!” I snicker to myself.
“What?” Liv grins.
“Nothing,” I smile. I don’t want to give her any ideas. Liv has follow through like you wouldn’t believe. I say, “Anyway, I think I came out ahead when it comes to Scott. I’m not missing him at all.”
“You have your eye on someone else?”
“Uh…not really.”
She scrutinizes my face and blots her lips with a napkin. “You took a long time to answer, sister. And your tone suggests otherwise.”
I sigh and spear a bite of meat kebab with my fork, “I guess.”
“Guess what? That some hot stud wants to bang your bones?”
“Liv!?!”
“Does Mr. Stud have a name?”
Do I want to open this can of worms? Liz might eat every single one. “No,” I joke. “He’s just some hot guy I saw in a fashion magazine.”
“You’re lusting over a photo?” she asks skeptically. “This is L.A.! Call the magazine, find out who the photographer or model is, and call him up! A bottle of hot sauce like you won’t have any troubles turning on a fashion magazine man.”
Fine, I’ll tell her. “I know him.”
She sips her straw. “You do! Do tell!”
“Actually, I work with him.”
“What! Has he sexually harassed you yet?”
“No,” I giggle.
Olivia frowns, “Why not? Are you playing hard to get?”
“No.”
“Then corner him in the broom closet or whatever and hike up your skirt! It’s not rocket science.”
Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3 Page 40