Rock Bottom (The Handler Series Book 1)

by Angie M. Brashears

  He turns off the engine and reaches for the money.

  “What do you think, I was born yesterday?” I ask and peel off a hundred.

  “You’ll get the rest when I come back.”

  Once I’m in the lobby, I know what I look like, an escaped mental patient, so I try to straighten up. But that doesn’t stop every person from eyeing me up and down as I make my way to the front desk. I tug at the hem of my skirt which doesn’t even cover my ass cheeks. I think about just blurting out, “Where the fuck is lost and found?” But that will only draw more attention.

  As it is, the elevator directly across from me is taking forever to close, giving everyone a long look at this train wreck.

  In a feeble attempt to justify myself, I say a little too loudly, “I’m a singer.”

  Some rude asshole in the back says, “Sure, you are.”

  There’s a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me, Miss Kain. Might I have a word?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he takes my upper arm and maneuvers me behind the desk. “I’m not on a hold,” I say too loudly and everyone in line knows I’m nuts.

  He closes the door and pulls out a chair which I take. It’s a man’s space and this man’s a Dodger fan. As he sits, he tidies up the already immaculate desk in front of him while flick a Vin Scully bobblehead in front of me.

  “That’s an antique,” he says and tucks it safely away in a side drawer. When he looks up, his eyes are not those of a fan.

  “Miss Kain, this is not a drug den, it’s The Staple. After your unfortunate incident last night, we’ve been deluged with reporters. It’s been absolute bedlam here. Dropping their cigarette butts and trash wherever they fall. I just got them to move along, and here you are again, for a repeat performance.”

  With disdain, he looks me up and down.

  “Send me a bill for the cleanup,” I say.

  With the minutest eye roll, he pulls my wallet from a side drawer. “Speaking of bill…turns out Platinum was not your color after all. There’s still the matter of the outstanding…”

  “Bill me for that too,” I say and that’s it.

  I don’t speak, just stare. It’s a trick I learned back at Whimsy. Don’t move a muscle, let him make his moot point.

  Nonplussed, he continues. “We had to escort your unannounced guests out this morning after one of them was caught in the service elevator performing fellatio for money.”

  I can tell this bit of nasty business isn’t sitting well with Mr. Staple, but still.

  “Which one?” I ask.

  “Pardon?” He asks, like I’m speaking French.

  I lean forward and enunciate. “Which one was it? My monies on the white guy, he had a lot of repressed anger.”

  Ignoring my question, he continues. “Nevertheless…I’ve taken the liberty of packing up the rest of your things.” He waves to a dirty pile of clothes spilling out of my backpack and I can see it isn’t there.

  “Where’s the guitar?” I ask.

  He closes his eyes. With real regret, he says. “Gone with your gentleman callers, I’m afraid. Since they were your guests, there was no way I could stop them.”

  I fall back in my chair. Full of remorse, I say, “Rusty gave me that guitar.”

  “I know it’s not my place, but an entertainer with no instrument, soon has no audience. Might this be bottom, ma’am?” he asks.

  It’s the damn pity in his eyes. Though well deserved, as this year’s ex-nominee for Comeback Artist of the Year, I refuse to put up with any bullshit from hotel staff.

  “As if. I think I’ve got a rungs before I’m in Hell.”

  Standing, I scratch at an itch that runs from my elbow to my pinky finger. “You didn’t see a salt shaker, did you?”

  Reluctantly, he reaches into a drawer and with the tips of his fingers takes out my wallet, some rolled bills, various paraphilia. But no salt shaker. Dammit.

  Gathering my things and shoving everything into the backpack, I ask, “Is the penthouse still available?”

  “Unfortunately, your persona non-grata here, but we’ve taken the liberty of booking you a room…down the street. At the Chateau Marmot,” he sniffs.

  With my own sniff, I toss back my dirty hair back and say, “Not necessary, I’m going home.”

  They left my leather jacket but took the guitar. Reaching inside the inner pocket, bingo.

  I wait until I’m outside to light the wrinkled joint. I flash a peace sign at the gathering photogs on the way by. One pudgy fucker way too old to be standing out in this heat has the nerve to ask. “Rock bottom yet, Candy Cane?

  There’s nothing more gratifying than the look on his face when I flip him a peppermint flavored bird and drop it before he gets the lens off. No money shot today, mother fuckers.

  Chapter 13

  NovaKain

  If my life were a song, it would be titled, Poor choices and the girls who love them. The loss of the guitar feels like an exclamation point. Bold punctuation at the end of a very long sentence that started with, I’m taking Rusty with me and ends with, how in the hell do I get rid of him?

  The rope around my neck feels like it’s tightening as I give the driver the address. Why am I going back to the scene of the crime? With my eyes closed, I lean back and try to remember the last time I was home. What’s it been now, six months? That long?

  Then it hits me. Over a year. I don’t want to think of that time. Not right now, I’m hanging on by a thread here. I’ve been living on the worst kind of drug, Adrenalin and the come down is bad enough without remembering the levels I’ve stooped too to get my next fix.

  Don’t think of it then, think of Shamus. He said, no one ever looks at him like that, but my eyes were drawn to him like a magnet. The look in his eyes, like I’m not ruined. No one ever looks at me that way.

  If only there was a way to bottle that look. Stick a cork in it and put it up on the shelf.

  Tuck it away and pull it out after I’ve disappointed, neglected, lied to him. The list goes on and on, but it’s bound to happen. Someone’s bound to get hurt and it won’t be me. Not again.

  My life is like driving without brakes and I’m buckled in tight. Sure, I can steer, try to swerve around people I care about, but in the end, innocent bystanders are gonna get clipped.

  I hear my name on the radio and my breath stops.

  “Most requested and number one on the iDisc playlist. Here’s Gimme a V! by the talented NovaKain. Get it together girl.”

  Voted #1 song to lose your virginity to in Cosmo magazine. My song begins with a slow drum roll, and then the chords come in. No matter how hard I try to avoid it, my thoughts return to the bad time.

  A fat tear rolls down my cheek. Funny thing is, I’d written a sob letter to Rusty after he hit me and quit me.

  It was his idea to put it to music, turns out it was the best one he ever had. My rock star, Rusty was a one hit wonder. Whimsy was right, he was no good for me. More tears follow, but I’m too tired to wipe them away. Too tired to remember, but I do. I’m so tired of reliving this nightmare every time I close my eyes. The nightmare called groveling.

  Pacing through hotel rooms, crying my way through stages, Penny? Seriously?

  That’s how I came to the conclusion that I needed to fuck him out of my system. I told myself it was one last fuck for the road. And he made me talk him into it.

  “C’mon Rusty, throw me a goodbye fuck,” I’d said with a laugh I didn’t feel.

  His head disappears between my legs and I have to be honest. I’ll miss those long, languid kisses between my legs.

  Back on track, that’s what vibrators are for. Don’t lie to yourself that this is anything more than a revenge fuck plain and simple.

  Grinding his head against my pelvis I ask, “When’s the wedding?”

  With a smile, he stands at my entrance, cock cradled in his hand and has the nerve to say, “I’ve missed you.”

  When he tries to push his way in, I close my legs. “Oh no, t
here’s a dress code in this five-star establishment. No entry without the required jacket,” I say.

  Hurt, he looks deep into my eyes. But I look away.

  “Get a condom,” I say.

  This revenge is just for me. I don’t document a thing. Don’t try to leave my monogrammed panties stuffed in the sheets. The only item I came in with, one black trench coat accounted for.

  The only evidence of the forbidden tryst? Drying on the inside of my thigh. Revenge served cold.

  What kind of karma comes to a woman that sleeps with her ex-boyfriend to get back at her ex- partner and best friend? I mean doesn’t that earn you a spot at the front of the Karma line?

  Karma, you know she is coming. You just don’t know what army she’ll be bringing.

  Sure, there were others after him. I didn’t jump from his bed right to the threesome. I tried, I really did. A committed relationship is like a penny candy store. Snort, shoot, smoke as much as you want. There’s always more.

  After Rusty, I was gun-shy and dipped my toe in the complete opposite side of the pool. The shallow end.

  There was the preacher. First date, he took me miniature golfing. Which was sweet. It was going great, I’d already given him the green light and then he disappeared. I found him thirty minutes later behind the miniature windmill, trying to jack off into the little plastic hole.

  That’s a sex addict.

  Too strange for me, I went back to the known. A slew of rock stars and actors that jumped into my bed and out of it like the water was frigid.

  I wasn’t offering the stroking they needed. The only one that did stay was Brad. My self-absorbed shit turned him on.

  The car jerks forward and I open my eyes with a start. I’m not ready to leave Los Angeles. As it is, everything’s changing too fast. My seams are ripping apart and the only one with the thread that can stitch me back together is Rusty. Picking me, telling me I’m enough, I’m the catch. It started with me and him against the world. Now it’s just me.

  A very bad thought which involves begging him to take me back, enters my mind. Stick with the evil you know, right? Besides, it’s not really him that I want, I just don’t want to be alone in this world anymore.

  But you know, that fucker never even apologized?

  At the gate, security holds back the fans that want more than a song from me and I’m allowed onto my own property.

  Home is the place where you’re always welcome.

  Home is not the place where you’re expected to live in the guest house. That’s not home, is it?

  Sitting in front of my house I feel like an interloper. I pay the bills so why does it feel like I should’ve called first?

  I should be handled with care, like Shamus said. And I look at my mansion with clear eyes.

  Christmas lights shimmer in the arid July heat. Why not? It’s all paid for by the Gravy Train.

  Looking around my compound in the hills, I catalog the new Lamborghini in the driveway.

  I’d surrounded myself with yes ma’amers that fucked me over and had me believing I’d done something wrong.

  Why am I here? I sit thinking of all the things I need to say to these two, once and for all. Penny, thanks for helping a sister out back at Whimsy. That was your intent wasn’t it? You weren’t just trying to steal the limelight for yourself, were you?

  Rusty, thanks for taking and taking and taking some more. Yes, you may still be the beneficiary on my will, but it’s only because I can’t do everything. I’m the talent!

  Once this all blows over, I might need to think about getting my ducks in a row.

  Staring at the house, I sit listening to the engine tick down and ignore the driver’s repeated throat clear. But still, I don’t move.

  Why does it feel like I’m walking into a firing squad?

  Once more, the Uber driver clears his throat. “Will there be anything else?”

  We’ve all got places to go and people to see, just not me. I’m out of cash.

  “Just this.” I hold up the complimentary bottle of Jack Daniels, complete with a ribbon and head into the house. My piano, tired of coming up with hit songs, rests in the shadows, covered in dust. Framed photos of a couple in happier times, taunt me. But that’s not me. It’s Penny.

  You know that feeling? That antsy, never full echoing hollow that fills you the night before you start a diet? Like you’ll never be full again. I don’t know how other girls are, but I know if I’m starting a diet, I gorge myself the night before.

  But it’s not just diets, it’s everything.

  I’m leaving for Vegas in the morning. Forecast, famine is in my future. I’ll have to buckle up my vagina and put it away until next season. But why not get one more night’s use out of it?

  Should I have called first? Made a coffee appointment to discuss the latest findings?

  I’m down to fuck anything to moves, you in?

  The last time I was in the big house…. Rusty was fucking me over. I expected to walk into my bedroom and find Rusty flipping the lucky penny. This time? It’s a bad song stuck on repeat, only that’s not Penny.

  Feeling not only betrayed for myself, but indignant for Penny as well, I say. “No wonder you too couldn’t come to visit. Kiki, I have a plane to catch in the morning. Make sure I’m on it. I’ll be at the beach house.”

  No tears, I’m done with that shit. Everyone living high on the hog, Miss Porky, right here. Justice was right. LA isn’t the place for me. The drivers still at the gate, trying to make his way through the throng of fans. With a two-finger whistle, I motion for him to back it up.

  I wave to the fans at the gate. From somewhere signs have appeared. Don’t RIP, NovaKain.

  “I’m right here.” I try but without the benefit of a mic, my words go unheeded. Just when I think there might be a break in the screams, a new crest begins, and I have to cover my ears. I turn and here comes my fucking neighbor. Wearing swim trunks that hang from his hips and no damn shoes, he cute hobbles off the hot pavement and hops onto a patch of shade. On closer inspection, he looks haggard, like he spent the night at a fight club, but when he turns toward the gate, it’s with a golly gee smile that sets my fans hearts aflutter.

  The limo reaches me. The driver looks from me to Brad. Willing and ready, my biggest addiction stands in front of me. Not Brad specifically, just the human touch, the companionship he’s offering.

  And it all comes down to a choice. One which I don’t even feel I’ve got a part of making, as my addiction consumes me.

  “C’mon then. But for the love of God, put a shirt on,” I say.

  He holds a thumbs-up to my fans and a chorus of ooooooooh reaches my ear.

  “I’m empty,” I say but he waves me away with a tap to his pocket.

  “I’m holding.”

  I scoot to the opposite seat, so he can slide in. “And you’re paying this time, Brad, I swear. Don’t even think about saying you left your wallet at home again. I want to see it,” I say and point to the monstrosity next store that looks more like a daycare than a bachelor pad.

  He takes a long look at the big empty house. Swings move in the breeze; the waterslide sits dry. “Don’t worry it’s on me. Anything not to have to sit in that big empty house all alone,” he says, and I feel him.

  The drive over to the beach house was interesting to say the least. We played see who can forget their life the fastest, why not? He’s paying.

  We fall into the house in a tangle of arms and legs. Another home that’s not my own. One which I pay the bills on and have an extra key too. Brad’s with me. Kiki is otherwise detained.

  “Just suck it.” He begs.

  “How do you have a pound of pot, but not one condom. No love without a glove.” I say back.

  Neither of us are prepared, so we end up dry-humping with a sheet between us to the soulful strains of Barry White. With degradation mirrored in his eyes, we commiserate over the sad stories our lives have become.

  It’s almost too sad, and I�
��m already rethinking this whole situation. His ex is a serious badass. “You know what I really want to do?” I ask.

  His blonde hair’s too long, his eyes too dark and I know neither of us can drive.

  “Order an Uber premium. We’re going to the Grammys,” I say.

  Chapter 14

  Shamus

  On the flight home, she’s all that I think about. Probably packing and getting a good night’s rest. She’s going to need it. I told her she was in charge and she is.

  A smile tickles my lips at the ghost of the memory. When I said that, I know she was hooked. It was in her eyes. The way they flew to my face to see if I was telling the truth. And I was. I don’t know a thing about music, but I know something about her.

  She likes to be the boss.

  Scrolling through my contacts, I know who I’m calling first.

  When Peggy in Operations answers, I say two words. NovaKain.

  And she screams into the phone.

  “Hold on, hold on,” she whispers, out of breath. Her office door clicks shut. “You’re Uncle Tommy called, did you get her?”

  “Yes, and she’s coming tomorrow.” I say.

  “Tomorrow. Lord that’s no time at all.”

  “If you saw the state she was in, you’d be saying it isn’t soon enough.”

  “Oh, my goodness.”

  “I’m giving her my apartment. Put my things in one of the suites. I don’t care which, just text me the room number.”

  “Consider it done. Only thing I need to know is if you’d like the wheat or cactus colored accents.”

  I think of what this is for her. A fresh start. “Fresh flowers, fresh air, let’s get her a fresh start. And I want it down by tomorrow.”

  Can you do that, Peggy?”

  “Of course, Shamus,” she grumbles.

  “Oh, admit it. You love it.”

  “I do! I just wish I had the time to enjoy it.” She says.

  My next call is to the Head of Housekeeping. Anita, answers on the first ring. I hear the heavy-duty dryers spinning in the background, and know my reception is shoddy. “Anita, would you mind doing a once over on the auditorium?” I ask.