Doing as he suggested, I scrawl out my number and throw it in the dashboard before slipping in beside him. Oingo Boingo fills the two-seater cab as he pulls from the lot. I quirk a brow and glance to my left. Lizard wouldn’t be caught dead listening to pop. The one time I tried to listen to New Order, he practically leapt across the couch and punched the stereo in the face. At the time, I laughed, but now it just shows me how closed minded he is. He’s never going to change. I may as well face it.
“So where do you live?”
“I’m off the strip. The Vista View apartments.”
The title of the complex always made me laugh. The Vista View is a dingy-white box surrounded by palm trees and parking lots. It’s no vista, and there’s definitely no view. The pool promised in the catalog is a concrete hole full of mossy-green sludge. It’s large, it’s square, it has all the makings of a pool, but no one is swimming in there besides Swamp Thing. In case I haven’t been clear — the place is a dump. But the rent is cheap, it’s close to the action, and the neighbors keep to themselves, which is exactly what I was looking for.
“Oh, yeah, I know where that is. I was actually heading that way anyway. Would you mind if we made a quick stop first? I don’t want to be late.”
I knew it. This is it. The moment he drives me out to the desert and leaves me for dead. I should have known better than to get into Ted Bundy Junior’s probably rented Porsche.
He chucks a quick glance my way and graces me with another shy grin. “We’ll be quick, I promise.” He takes a detour and pulls into the lot for a storage unit. Rows of orange bay doors pass by one after the next until the car begins to slow in front of one that’s open.
A fluttery feeling whirs in my stomach, my tongue coated in dust as my palms grow damp. Okay, so he’s not going to murder me in the desert, he’s going to add me to the pile of dead bodies stored in Uni-Rents. Great. Awesome. Can’t wait for that.
But as the car comes to a stop, so do visions of my death and dismemberment as a guy wearing a Fender Strat strolls out, followed by four guys with teased hair and leather pants.
This isn’t a death trap — this is a rock band.
A cheesy one.
Now, I’m confused.
Steff steps from the car and shakes their hands. I follow out, desperately tonguing the roof of my mouth to build up moisture, but the men don’t even look my way as they conduct business under the open maw of the bay door.
“Okay, guys. Dazzle me. Let’s see what you got.” Steff folds his arms and stands back as the five guys get into position.
A banner with the band name “Trojan Horses” spray painted across it hangs on the back wall. The dude with the fender peels off a chord that echoes through the lot. The drummer follows, his sticks hammering the skins with blunt-force trauma. I wince at the sound of their feeble attempt at synchronicity falling short. We suffer through the intro, but when the singer begins to wail, Steff’s heard enough.
“Whoa, whoa,” he shouts, waving his arms as if attached to white flags. “What is this garbage?”
The front man glances at the guitar player and back, wide-eyed and raised brow. “It’s called ‘Sex for Sale’.”
“Guys, I’ll be honest.” Steff’s lids flutter closed as he calmly shakes his head, stepping forward. “This is Sunset Strip garbage. It will never get airplay.”
“We can play another song.” The front man turns back to the guitar player and instructs, “Cue up ‘Ass and Grass’.”
Steff slices the air between them. “I’ve heard enough. I was sent here to locate real talent. What you’ve given me is five guys in a self-storage unit. This is a ludicrous waste of my time. I’m afraid RatBird is going to have to pass on this.”
When he turns on his heel, the band scoffs at his retreating form. He stalks to his car while I follow behind and fall into the passenger seat. The LA sun feels like the setting for London Broil. Sweat pools at the base of my neck, the impossible heat singing my ears. I clear my throat trying to muster the voice that wants to flee the scene. “You’re Steve Duke’s son.”
He reaches into the open pack of cigarettes sitting in the console and pulls one out, gripping it between his teeth. “Good thing I’m not a pretentious asshole,” he teases, revving the engine as he peels out of the lot.
“Oh, God,” I fluster, burying my face in my hands as I desperately attempt to find the right words to dig myself out of this massive grave. Leave it to me to insult a perfectly nice guy to his face. “The Porsche, the car phone . . . I’m such an idiot.”
He looks my way before fixing his sparkling eyes back on the road. “No, you’re not. Those guys back there were idiots.”
“What even was that?”
“My dad — I guess you can say he’s grooming me to take over the business someday, but I need to prove my worth by bringing in some solid acts. In a city bustling with music, you’d think that would be easy, but the whole rotten place is full of talentless wannabes who look the part but can’t play a lick.”
A bolt of lightning jolts my nerves. Stephan Duke the Third is more than my savior; he’s my goddamn future. Lizard is going nowhere, and if I don’t do something about it, I’m going nowhere with him.
Tumblers move in my head, spinning one by one until the whole plan locks in place as Steff slows in front of my building. The leather creaks as I shift in my seat to face him. Holding my breath, I rest my hand atop the shifter and let my fingers curl around the stick. “You wanna hit the strip with me tonight?”
Lizard
The burning sting of Jack Daniels rots in my stomach. It incinerates the nerves pooling in my gut. After a thousand shows, night after night, you’d think I’d be used to it, but the unease never goes away. It’s the want. It simmers inside me, bubbling up until I can’t think straight.
Rock ʼn’ roll is all I need. It’s my love, my life. I bleed on that stage, the emotion pouring out of me until I can barely stand, but the crowd’s adoration lifts me. Their applause, their devotion. This is what motivates me to keep going, despite the rejection. I know I’m going to make it. It’s not a matter of how; it’s a matter of when.
Slade takes a strong pull on his Marlboro Red and blows it into the air in a steady stream. “Dude, how much fuckin’ makeup are you wearing?” he asks Ron, furrowing his dark brows at our bass player.
“He just keeps putting it on until he wants to fuck himself,” I reply, and Ron turns and gives me the finger.
Laughter ripples backstage, but I sit like a stone sipping my drink as if I’m pining for a lost lover. Shit. Maybe I am. Maribelle De La Cruz is a living nightmare. Cool, sexy, and down-to-fuck with no strings. That’s what I liked about her: no bullshit. Yet two years later, she has this hold on me.
Our original guitar player got himself all torn up over a girl back home and threw his music career away for a wife, a kid, and a boring life in the suburbs. Fuck that noise. Nothing’s going to stand in the way of my dreams. Especially not some hot Latin minx with eyes as smoldering as coffee and lips as sweet as wine. She was meant to be a one-night stand. A groupie I’d fuck and forget, but she stayed with me like a melody. I couldn’t forget her no matter how hard I tried.