The Grey Tier (2 page)

Chapter Two

I AM NOT A REBEL by nature. Or who knows . . . maybe I am. Regardless, it’s never really been an option for me. Not after what my parents went through. I could never yell, lie, sneak out of the house, talk back. None of that. And those weren’t their rules; they were my own. So leaving my mother and father behind on that late April afternoon was by far the most rebellious thing I had ever done in my twenty-eight years, and honestly, it left me feeling cold.

Poor Cass with her thick coat must have hated me on that fifteen hundred mile trip, because I was freezing the whole way and cranked up the heater in my van, even as we drove through Arizona’s hot, desert climate. It was the kind of cold you can feel on the inside—that only a real hot bath combined with a hot drink and a tuck between the covers can cure.

I wasn’t sick. No sore throat. No aching body. Nothing like that. I was just cold.

And then, after three days of driving and staying in cheap motels, I took the 10 West all the way to LA, and the chill left as suddenly and mysteriously as it had arrived.

The first thing I did was head to the ocean—Venice Beach to be exact. Yes, Los Angeles has plenty of tan, beautiful people and then some, but let me just say for the record, there are also a ton of freaks here,
especially
in Venice Beach. I saw one guy with hair the color of mashed peas that hung down to his rear in twisted, greasy ropes. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and the waistband of his shorts sat well beneath his boxers. Not an attractive look, especially considering the live iguana wrapped around his neck. Never seen that before.

Cass went totally berserk, yapping at him and the lizard. I had to yank pretty hard on her leash to get her to move while the guy snarled, “Get your mangy piece of shit mutt outta my face, dude!”

Um, excuse me? At least my dog takes regular baths, which is certainly more than I could say about Mr. Mange and his lizard sidekick. I decided to keep my mouth shut and move along, tugging on Cass the entire way. I made an effort to give him as wide a berth as possible, not wanting to accidentally brush against him and deal with the onslaught of negative emotions that would happen as a result.

Okay. I guess it’s probably time I let this particular cat out of the bag. See the thing is, when I turned twelve, my parents and I went through some tough times. And ever since, I’ve been able to get information about people through touch. But not just any information—traumatic, painful information. Caught your husband of thirty years sleeping with your best friend? Lost your mom in a car accident when you were a teen? Well, if you and I have come into contact before, chances are, I already know all about it. But that’s not all. I can also help ease the pain . . . give people a permanent Band-Aid to slap on that painful memory. I can’t make the pain disappear, but I sure can help you to cope with it, minus years of therapy or self-medication.

Sounds great, right? Well, have you ever paid attention to just how many times a day you touch someone? At the supermarket, at the salon, at a restaurant . . . it happens all the time, and you’re mostly not aware of it at all.

I’ve had to train myself to be extra focused on where I am and who’s around me in order to cope. Truth be told, I’m pretty cautious who I touch these days, and I also make a conscious effort to put some kind of barrier in place (gloves, mittens, napkins, whatever’s handy) if I know there’s a chance my hands might brush up against another person, because it is my hands that tend to be the main conductor of this
gift
. If my hands touch someone else and particularly their hands that is when I get the clearest visions. I’d receive some information if someone were to bump against me, but the touching hands is what I am most aware of.

Betty LaRue was one of the first people I “read.” It happened at Easter, sixteen years ago, when I took her hand to show her the new kitten Mama brought home for me (another gift meant to help me deal with our recent loss). All I got were glimpses—of a much younger Betty and the baby she lost when she was only seventeen, courtesy of a pregnancy caused by a boyfriend who didn’t take no for an answer one night—and they scared the hell out of me.

In any case, touching people like Cranky Dreadlock Man was simply not an option for me. No telling what sorts of nasty images I’d pick up from him.

Once we got past him, we reached the ocean. Color—silvery blue. Smell—fresh and salty—minus the cigarette smoke and sickly sweet scent of tanning oil that occasionally wafted its way toward us. The crashing waves and sandy beach were like something from a postcard. Cass and I people-watched for some time. Cheapest entertainment in the world. Bring a lawn chair, a bag of Tostitos, and a six-pack of soda, and you’ll find the movies have nothing on Venice Beach. When I need to get away from anyone famous—dead or alive—I head there. And I figure, the best way to beat crazy is to go and see even more crazy.

Cass and I shared a couple slices of pizza and a Coke (yes, Cass drinks Coke, too, but none of that diet stuff), and I decided we needed to find a place to stay for the night. And then I needed to find a job. I knew five thousand dollars was probably not going to get us very far in the land of glitz and glamour.

I found a motel a few blocks from the beach. It was fifty-five bucks for the night, which seemed like a lot. But we were tired, and I thought being close to the ocean might be cool, because I could take Cass for a walk in the morning. Problem was, they had a “no pets” policy.

“You gotta stay in the bus, girl,” I told her. She thumped her tail slightly and looked at me with her big, dark eyes. I whispered in her ear, “Only for a little bit. Soon as the coast is clear, I’ll come get you.” She thumped her tail even harder. I may sound a bit biased here, but Cass is the smartest dog ever. “You be a good girl, and I’ll be back.”

And I was, after a shower and a change of clothes. I snuck my half-coyote, half-lab, possibly some border collie pooch into the dingy motel room that smelled of stale cigarettes, bug spray, and mildew. She jumped on the bed with me and we fell fast asleep.

Chapter Three

A WEEK LATER, and Cass and I were still at Motel Hell without any future prospects. We had driven around the city a few hundred times, only to find that fifty-five bucks for a motel room
was
cheap, and we were lucky no one had caught me sneaking Cass in and out. I had applied for a variety of jobs, from Subway to Gag in the Bag (take your pick as to which fast food joint I am referring to), to a receptionist at a variety of nail salons. I even went out on a limb and applied for a position at Nordstrom in the cosmetics department. I figured, what the heck—Mama is a beautician—and I
did
sell Mary Kay for two weeks.

We were in the VW driving around the city in search of inspiration and a Help Wanted sign. I reached over to pat Cass on the head—for the record, I don’t read animals, but I know for sure Cass has had a good life. I’ve raised her since she was a pup.

“What should we do, Cass?” I’d already gone through almost a grand between the gas, food for the two of us, and the motel. Time was running out.

“I need a singing gig,” I said.

Cass lifted her head and studied me. We came to a red light cruising north on La Cienega. The cross street was Fairfax, close to The Beverly Center where I’d applied for the Nordstrom job. It seemed like a decent area.

Cass whined. I looked over at her. Her head was tucked under her paws. And suddenly, clear as day, I had an image of someone bowed in prayer.

“Um, you think I should pray?” Thanks to my Southern Baptist minister dad, my home was prayer central. My parents raised me to believe in the power of prayer and miracles and trusting that God knew best.

But when you’re twelve and your fifteen-year-old sister sneaks out late one night and vanishes into thin air, and you prayed and prayed for months for God to bring her home and He didn’t, well, it’s kind of hard to get behind the idea of prayer. It had been some time since I’d bothered with praying.

Cass kept her head tucked under her paws and whined again.

“You’re serious? You have been listening to Daddy
way
too much.” She lifted her head and gave me a long look, then tucked it once more under her paws. “Okay. Fine. I get it.” I took a deep breath, staring at the road in front of me, and feeling a bit silly.

“Hi, God, Evie Preston here . . .” (Yes, I admit it. I was a huge fan of
Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret
).

“Yeah, so anyway . . . you must know what’s going on with me. You know everything, right? At least Daddy says you do. So, the singing thing . . . I could really use a break right about now. I don’t want to disappoint Betty LaRue, and I honestly don’t think you would either because, well, you know Betty, so could you help me out a little? Thanks. Amen.” I know. Lame, right? But it had been a long time since I’d prayed and, well, I was a little rusty.

Cass sat up, and as we rolled up to the next light at La Brea, she let out a yelp.

“What now?”

She was looking out the window. A chalkboard sign on the sidewalk read, “Two dollar tacos and beer!!” My stomach growled in response. The place didn’t look like much, considering the area. A big, green, neon sign in the tinted window on the building read “Nick’s.”

“Lunch time,” I announced. I found a meter and parked the van, cracking the windows and rolling back the sun-roof. “Stay put, girl. Doubt dogs are allowed.” Cass shot me an offended look, ears pinned back and head cocked to the side. “I know. It’s stupid. I’ll bring you back a taco and a Coke.”

The atmosphere inside Nick’s was, needless to say, lacking. The place was a dive, which didn’t bother me because as a Texan, I knew a little something about dive bars (only at home, they usually served up some mighty fine barbecue and let folks walk around with guns). God forbid my father ever found out. He’d probably disown me.

Mick Jagger was belting out “Waiting on a Friend” from a corner jukebox. The carpet was a muddy-reddish color with black smudges here and there. I’m sure at some point it had been true red. The bar itself was long and narrow, with a row of stools covered in cracked, brown vinyl facing a mirror lit up by dim lights across the top (with a few burnt out bulbs) covering the back wall. Liquor bottles sat displayed on the back counter. A handful of patrons, looking as if they’d been glued to those chairs for a number of years, sat in silence nursing their woes. On the other side of me were four rows of booths with the same cracked, brown vinyl seating. A younger couple sat in one of the booths playing grab-ass and giggling while downing a couple of beers.

A middle-aged guy—tall and skinny—who looked older than he probably was, walked towards me. He had longish, graying blonde hair that skimmed his shoulders, and wore a worn pair of too-big jeans and a red polo. The name “Nick” was stitched in black across the right side of his shirt. He semi-smiled and his green eyes, although sad, cast a little light in them through wire-rimmed glasses. “Welcome to Nick’s.”

“Thanks.”

“Here for lunch?”

I nodded. “Two-dollar tacos and beer sound awesome, but I think I’ll have a Coke instead.”

He laughed. “Sit anywhere. Take your pick,” he replied, his voice surprisingly deep and guttural.

I chose the back booth far from the couple and settled in to think a little more about my predicament. I noticed photos of various celebrities lining the walls, many of them autographed personally to Nick.

Five minutes passed since I’d last seen Nick. It seemed he was a man of all trades and acting host, owner, cook, and bartender of this place. Finally, he appeared and sat three tacos and a beer down in front of me.

“Oh no. I haven’t ordered yet. And I wanted a Coke, please.” I smiled up at him, remembering my manners.

He sat down across from me. “You’re not from here.”

I shrugged. “It shows that much?”

He laughed warmly. “Look, I serve two-dollar tacos every Tuesday and hands down, I know I make the best in town.” He pointed at my plate. “You got chicken, steak, and my specialty—fish—there. You have to have a beer with them. Tacos without beer is, like, sacrilegious.”

Now I laughed. I don’t think my daddy would’ve agreed with Nick, but to each his own. “You must be Nick.”

“That obvious?”

“The name on the shirt sort of gives you away.” I decided to walk on the wild side for a moment and try the fish taco. I’d never had one before (we didn’t get a lot of fresh seafood in landlocked Brady). It was mouthwatering.

“Oh, my gosh. This is amazing!” I looked Nick, and then back at the taco, and took another bite.

“Told you,” he said, winking. “I am actually planning to open a taco bar. Two in fact. One in Santa Monica and one in Hollywood.”

“No kidding? Well, I’ll be your top customer,” I said.

“It’s not fair for me to keep a world-class fish taco from everyone. That’s my secret recipe right there.” He pointed at the taco, smiling.

From the other side of the room, a slurred voice called, “Wonder what your buddy George thinks of that. He has a different story.” A peroxide-blonde woman seated at the bar spun her bar stool around to look at Nick and me. Her brown eyes were glassy and hazy with drink.

“Ah come on, Candace. You know George is full of shit. I don’t even know why you listen to that guy,” Nick said.

“I thought you two were partners,” the middle-aged woman, replied.

Nick waved a hand at her. “Honey, you believe what they print in
The Enquirer,
for God’s sake. Go back to your Candace Special. I’m visiting a new customer here.”

Candace gave me a little wiggle with her fingers and spun herself back around. She shouldered the guy next to her. He wore an eye patch covering one eye. She whispered something in his ear and they both started laughing.

Nick cleared his throat, grabbing my attention. “Don’t mind her. She loves to stir the pot. Where you from?”

I set down the taco and wiped my hands. “Sorry. I’m Evie Preston. I’m from Brady, Texas.”

Nick tilted his head to the side, looking, oddly enough, like Cass when she was puzzling over something. “You don’t have much of an accent.”

I shrugged. “My father is from the Midwest. He’s never had a Texas accent, and my mother, well, she definitely has a drawl, but I guess I take after my dad.”

“I can hear it a little. Not much, though. What brings you west, Evie Preston? Let me guess—actress or singer?”

I took a sip of the beer. He was right. Tacos and beer were a perfect match. Especially the fish taco. “You’re good. Singer and guitar player.”

“Really?” He pointed to the lime on my plate. “Squeeze that into the beer and sprinkle a little salt in there.”

“Okay.” I did the lime-salt thing and continued to be impressed. “Yes, really. Why the surprise?”

“I dunno. I thought actress for sure. Woulda put money on it, actually.”

“Nope. Have no desire to act.”

“What kind of music do you play? Sing?” He stood and went behind the bar, grabbed himself a beer, and sat back down.

“I like it all. I’m partial to the blues . . . I like folksy, kind of, I don’t know, I think Sheryl Crowe is great. I love Stevie Nicks if you’re going for some old school rock, and Heart is awesome, too. Um, Adele, Amy Winehouse, and Ellie Goulding definitely inspire me.” I realized he was older and might not even know who the last few singers were.

“Love ‘Rumor Has It.’ Reminds me of old school jazz in a way.” He was up on his music. Of course, this was LA where people of all ages were surrounded by famous musicians. “Evie Preston wants to be a singing star, huh?”

I nodded, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

“Okay. You got your guitar?”

“With me?”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“I do.”

“Great.” He turned and pointed behind him. “See that spot over there in the corner next to the jukebox? The little step up? That’s our stage.”

“Yeah.”

“Grab your guitar and sing some songs. I know a few show business types, and I wouldn’t mind having live entertainment to bring some people in. That is, if you’re good.”

“Really?!”

“Really.”

“Wow. Okay.” I stood. “Can I get another taco?”

“You’re hungry, huh? Usually three fill my customers up.”

“It’s for my dog. She’s out in my van.”

“Bring her in. She doesn’t bite does she?”

“Oh no. Not even.”

“I love dogs. Go get her and the guitar. I’ll make her up some tacos.” He glanced over at the two barflies. “Hey Mumbles, Candace, we’re gonna get some live entertainment in here!”

Candace turned back to us and said in her scratchy voice, “Good. The kid looks like she might bring this place some much-needed class.”

The patched-eye guy mumbled something completely indecipherable.

“You two are always busting my balls.” Nick laughed, shaking his head.

I hurried out to the VW and slid open the door. Cass was curled up in the back. She lifted her head and I blew her a kiss. “Hungry?”

She perked right up and leapt out of the van. I grabbed my guitar, and we headed into Nick’s, me wondering if playing music at a dive bar might just be the answer to my prayers.