Wouldn’t that be a sensational headline for L.A. Weekly.
The lights dim and people scream.
I can’t believe I’m about to willingly subject myself to a Wishing Well show.
“They’re such a bunch of fucking poseurs.” Andrew leans up against me and shouts in my ear.
“You see Christine?” Jacob asks, twisting around in his seat to search the bar.
Andrew shakes with laughter, slams his fists against the table and stomps his feet, bouncing up and down like an excitable toddler. “Oh, man! They opened for us at the Whiskey years ago, and I totally titty-fucked the shit out of her while they were on stage.”
Jacob leans over to high-five him.
A lesson I should’ve learned with Davey Revolver—never meet your heroes. They’re bound to disappoint you. Or in Andrew’s case, disgust me.
On stage, Brent runs out in his full-length black leather trench coat, screeching into the microphone and aiming his glossy pink pout at the ladies clamoring to get to him.
“Pammy used to fuck Brent, so she loves to shake her ass at his shows to remind him of what he’s missing.” Andrew turns. “Right, babe?”
She answers with her middle finger, which is pretty damn funny coming from such a pretty girl.
Andrew sets his elbow on the table and points to the stage, while leaning in closer to me. “Now, Danny Desmond’s fucking talented.”
“Yeah, he’s a good guitar player.” As much as Wishing Well’s music makes my ears bleed, I can admit Desmond has skills. Why he wastes his talent playing shitty party pop metal, I’ve never understood.
“I don’t know why he puts up with the whole big hair, makeup, sparkly white leather outfits bullshit. He’s better than that.”
The observation’s amusing coming from a guy who used to wear just as much, if not more, makeup on stage when he started out.
Andrew bumps my shoulder again. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a big fucking hypocrite because we did the big hair and makeup too. But that was back in ‘82 when no one else was doing it, you know? Now, it’s everywhere. No one’s original anymore.”
At least he’s self-aware. “Gotcha.”
He takes one of his massive hands and thumps me on the back a few times. “You’re pretty rad, Chaser. You always look like such a grumpy, scary asshole up on stage, but you’re all right.”
When has he seen us play and why didn’t anyone tell us? “Thanks.”
“Is it a chick thing?” he asks in a lower voice. Still loud enough to be heard by half the bar but it seems to be his best attempt at volume modulation. “Chicks always want to tame the scary dude.” He shifts his hand under the table and grabs his crotch. “I get ‘em because they all wanna find out if the legend of the monster in my pants is true.”
“Thanks for the visual.”
He bounces with more laughter and slaps my shoulder. “Aw, fuck yeah, you’re cool!” He leans over the table to grab the other guys’ attention. “Hey, why don’t you all come back to my place?” He juts his chin toward the stage. “Fuck this bullshit. Vinny’s coming over. We can all jam together. It’ll be fucking rad.”
Vinnie as in Vinnie Price? Vicious Vandals’ guitar player? Maybe that last thump from Andrew gave me a stroke. Am I hallucinating or are we about to hang out and jam with half of one of our favorite bands?
“That okay with you, babe?” he asks Pamela.
“Whatever you want.”
Once it’s decided we’re all coming home with him, he can’t sit still another second. I have to scoot out of the booth fast or else it’s clear Andrew has no problem crawling over my lap. He slaps a hundred-dollar bill on the table, even though all we’d ordered so far was a pitcher of beer.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” he chants at about a hundred miles an hour, while clapping his hands like he’s training a bunch of rogue puppies.
Keeping one eye on Andrew, Mallory slides out of the booth, carefully pulling her dress down and taking my hand.
Whatever material Pamela’s dress is made of sticks to the vinyl booth, but I don’t think that has anything to do with the way she very deliberately stops and spreads her legs before standing, making it clear to everyone in a five foot radius that underwear had not been part of her wardrobe choice this evening.
For fuck’s sake, I’m only human, and it’s right there.
Completely unfazed that she just flashed her pussy to everyone on this side of the bar, she grabs her purse and hurries to catch up with Andrew.
“I could’ve happily gone the rest of my life without knowing she’s not a natural blonde,” Mallory mutters. She narrows her eyes and clasps her hand over my jaw. “Close your mouth before you drool on yourself.”
I shake her off. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting that.”
Jacob blinks and sways on his feet. “Dude, beers with Andrew Lane and Pamela Scott flashed her pussy at us. We’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Or hell,” Mallory mutters.
Chapter Thirteen
Mallory
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Chaser asks as we head back to our place to get his bike.
Okay, probably isn’t the right word, but I don’t want to ruin such an exciting moment for Chaser. “It isn’t every day you’re invited over to one of your idol’s houses.”
“Idol might be a stretch.”
Sure.
“Let me run upstairs and change.”
He follows me but seems jittery. “Are you sure you want to go over there?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’ll be fun.”
It takes almost an hour to get to Andrew’s house in Hollywood Hills. The driveway’s packed, and music permeates everything on the quiet little street.
“I bet the neighbors love him,” I whisper.
Chaser takes my hand and squeezes. “We won’t stay long.”
“I’m fine.” I glance at the house. “Just don’t leave me alone with—”
“I won’t.”
Andrew’s living room is set up like a stage. That’s the only way to describe the scene. He has two full drum kits, a white baby grand piano, mic stands, a keyboard, and a row of guitars. Some sort of music equipment strewn in every corner of the room. Gold albums and lots of portraits of naked women decorate the walls.
Another black-haired, shirtless rocker is busy hammering out notes on his guitar but pauses to nod at us when we walk inside.
Andrew stops bashing his drums and stands. Commanding as a king, he points his drumsticks at us and yells, “Chaser Adams meet Vinnie Price. Vinnie, that’s Chaser and his chick.”
Chaser’s jaw twitches.
Vinnie holds out his hand. “Cool to finally meet you.” He glances my way.
Chaser nudges me. “This is my girlfriend, Mallory.”
“‘Candy Jar’ girl. Right. Hey, Mallory.” Vinnie sort of half-waves at me instead of shaking my hand, which suits me fine. “I hope you don’t get too bored. Pam headed straight upstairs when I arrived.” He leans in and adds in a lower voice. “She hates our all-night jam sessions.”