She-Rox: A Rock & Roll Novel (22 page)

May 2007

Eddie was all cried out. It had been three weeks since the phone call, and while sitting in her cubicle at EMI, Todd showed up unannounced.

“Let’s go get something to perk you up,” he offered, standing in the entryway.

Thinking that was a great idea, she punched out for a break.

While nursing iced teas at Marmalade Café in Santa Monica, Todd said, “I need new songs Eddie, and I need them soon.”

“I’ve got three sets of new lyrics, but the music is taking me more time than I thought.”

“Writer’s block?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“No. It’s just time. I need time. If I could hole myself up somewhere, you’d have your songs.”

“If I can get you a place,” Todd offered, “how long would it take you to write me another six good songs?

“If I don’t have to totally hurry, I can do a couple of songs each week.”

“Let’s say we do this then,” he bargained, “I get you a place and you get me my songs. Your job—I know Ian Clarke well enough. I’ll call him. How does that sound?”

Eddie couldn’t believe her ears. “Where are you going to send me, then?”

“Slade’s
.”

“With Bebe there?” Eddie said. “No way.”

“Bebe won’t be there. She’s on an island shooting some reality show and Slade is finishing his tour. So, his house is completely empty, quiet and there is a beautiful black grand piano waiting to be played. You’ll love it.”

“And this is okay with Slade?”

“It was his idea. He’d rather have someone he can trust taking care of his home while he’s away. He knows you’re a sensible girl who won’t throw any wild parties.”

“That’s probably very true.”

“Oh, I just remembered, he wanted me to tell you that his cars all need to be started and driven. They’ve been sitting too long. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Do I
mind
driving Slade’s Aston Martin?” Eddie snickered, “Are you kidding?”

“Yeah, be careful with that one, it’s his baby. Normally Bebe does it, but she’s gone on location, so—”

“Why are you doing this?” she questioned, not understanding the grand gesture. “Moonshine hasn’t signed us yet.”

“Your new manager, Rachelle Klein,” Todd conveyed, blowing out a long slow breathe of frustration, “is one pushy broad, but I
can’t
sign you with only the four songs you have right now. I need more than ‘Dead In Bed’.”

“That one isn’t mine,” Eddie said, not wanting credit.

“Oh, I can tell which are yours,” Todd said.

Wilshire Blvd., Beverly Hills, Friday, June, 2007

Finals were over; school was out; and the June weather couldn’t have been more perfect if it had been custom ordered. “
Ah, L.A. weather,”
Eddie thought, “
no fog.”
Driving the Aston Martin, Eddie needed a break to clear her head. She had been at Slade’s for the past week, working on material and decided to take a drive, letting the Aston Martin stretch its legs a bit. She hit the button on the dash. She had put T.J.’s number to speed dial on Slade’s phone.

“
Hello?”

“Tara June, ask me what I’m doing?” Eddie beamed.

“Eddie? This isn’t your number.”

“I know. Ask me what I’m
doing
,” she repeated.

“Okay, I’ll play—what’re you doing?”

“I’m on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills driving Slade McAllister’s Aston Martin and living in his house while he’s away in Europe.”

“
What, you’re at Slade’s?!”

“I know. It’s crazy.”

“How?”

“He’s on tour and I’m house-sitting. It’s a difficult task, but somebody’s got to do it. There’s one catch, though . . . I have to write a whole pile of songs in three weeks, so I’m busy Tara, really busy.”

“
Eddie,
let’s have your birthday party at
Slade’s, yes
.”

“Oh, that –”

“
Yeah, that.”

“Hmmm . . . no
.”

“No, why not?”

“Have you not been listening to me? I have work, serious work.”

“Yeah, I’ve become highly adept at hearing your ‘this is my music so back off’ voice—been dealing with it my whole life. I expect a call the second you’re finished. The summer here is turning into a snore fest.”

Indie Film Lot, Somewhere In The San Fernando Valley, Monday, June 4, 2007

The heat from the stage lights made The Katz sweat as they air-guitared their way through taping that day.

“And cut!!” the director yelled. The music went dead and The Katz quit playing.

“What was that?!” Gretchen yelled, looking at Eddie.

“No, no, that was
great,
” the director cheered. “It gives the message of a prayer – sort of hoping the cavalry will show up to save the day with the tags and all—a very tongue-in-cheek move. The boys in Afghanistan will eat it up
.
”

The Katz were all standing in pink lingerie around a gothic four poster bed, shooting a low budget video of “Dead In Bed.” It had been decided to pattern it after kitschy 70’s horror, complete with hair wigs like the Bride of Frankenstein.

Without thinking, Eddie, at the end of the song, picked up Kai’s tags and kissed them, hoping to send him a message that she still cared. He had blocked her number, putting Eddie in desperation mode. It was nothing more than a split second chance to communicate, that is, if he ever saw the video. It wasn’t planned, it was a prayer.

Gretchen yanked her guitar from around her neck, griping, “What’s the problem . . . staying at Slade’s isn’t enough for you? You’ve got to slip in another camera grab?”

The Katz had been gyrating hips for hours and everybody’s patience was gone, but taping, thankfully, wrapped.

Eddie walked out to the parking lot, unlocked Slade’s Porsche, and threw her guitar case in the passenger seat. Seeing the other three, she walked over, tired of their dirty looks. “If you guys have something to say, please say it to my face.”

Ginger responded, “Oh, no, our momma taught us manners. It’s far more polite to talk behind someone’s back than embarrass them to their face.”

Eddie petitioned, “Don’t get mad about this. Todd set this whole thing up, not me. Remember, Todd, the guy who was
really nice
about taking his Grammy back and going along with the manufactured joke that Exposure spun into a huge story that got us all off the hook? Besides, I will be out of Slade’s house in two weeks, back with you guys, songs finished and no Porsche, okay?”

“What’s up with that kiss attack in the camera? Makin’ out with your tags? That was crazy,” Gretchen replied.

“My boyfriend,” Eddie said, “back in San Francisco dumped me after he saw the Exposure cover. He just flipped out. He gave me these tags as a Christmas gift and now—” The waterworks were beginning again. “I was only trying to send him a message through the video, hoping he’d see it. I can’t talk to him; he’s super busy studying for the MCAT, trying to get in to medical school. He even blocked my number.”

Raven smirked, “I still say we vote her off the island.”

“I know it was a cheesy thing to do. I had no idea I’d feel this awful, but it’s been crushing. I can’t stop crying. I want to call him all the time, but I can’t. I hate this.”

The sobs were still getting caught in her throat. Easing up Gretchen asked, “I don’t get it? Why can’t you call him?”

“It’s not that I can’t call him—I can, but whether he answers is another matter. He’s extremely studious, completely driven, and his big goal in life it to be this world-class surgeon like his dad.”

“He sounds boring. A boyfriend in medical school . . . how passé can you get?”

“And
so
not hot,” added Ginger. “You got a picture of this wacko or are you making him up?”

Flipping open her phone, Eddie revealed a picture of Kai. He had on a boyish grin with a slight flash of teeth and showed a young man becoming a serious man.

Seeing it, Ginger consoled, “No wonder you’re crying.”

“If my boyfriend didn’t let me call him whenever I wanted, he wouldn’t just get a rest in rotation, he’d be outta here,” Gretchen warned, giving Eddie sisterly advice. “When this deal goes through with Moonshine, and the video’s out, you’re gonna have more men than you know what to do with.”

“That’s exactly what Slade told me,” Eddie said.

“He oughtta know. He’s Slade McAllister, and who’s this guy anyway? Cute guys are everywhere, and there are thousands of doctors. His girlfriend is on the cover of Exposure and he’s pissed off?! What a nut bag!”

Driving back to Slade’s, Eddie felt a little better. She was in love with his cars, going through the gears with a stick shift, listening to the pitch of the RPM’s winding up. How would she ever get back in her clunky van and be happy again? Ditto Slade’s Steinway.