Tease (Songs of Submission #2)(19)

“We should give ourselves a name.” Gabby pushed me onto the toilet. I winced, but she wasn’t looking. God, sitting was going to be torture today, and maybe tomorrow.

Gabby had braid mojo. Our first year of Colburn, we made ninety percent of our friends because she could braid like a magician. She picked up the strands I’d started. I turned my head so she wouldn’t see me grimace at the pain in my behind.

“I really liked Spoken Not Stirred,” I said. “But Vinny reps them.”

“That wasn’t the last cool name we have in us,” Gabby said.

“I guess it depends on what he wants out of us. Am I recording my own stuff? But how could he want that? He doesn’t even know if I can write a freaking song.” I gestured with my hands and saw the bruising around my wrists. Fuck. I slipped them between my legs, wishing I’d worn long sleeves.

“You can, Mon. Your songs are amazing.”

I let her ministrations tickle my scalp. “What I’m saying is, if it’s my stuff, then that’s one name, but we’d need a whole band. If it’s just you and me, that’s a totally different sound. Which is fine, but even then, are we writing new material? Or are we doing Irving Berlin?”

“He might not even know what he wants.” She concentrated on the strands, looping one around the other, tugging and pulling, straightening and separating the lengths with a black comb.

“He knows,” I said. “Those sharks don’t start swimming around unless they’ve smelled blood. Some label is looking for a specific something he thinks we can do. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come out. Trust me.”

She pulled my hair off my neck. “Whoa, Monica.”

“What?”

“Hickey City back here.”

I stood and looked in the mirror. Gabby held up a handheld mirror so I could see the trail of bruises at the back of my neck.

“Fuck,” I said. “Can you braid it to cover it?” I sat on the toilet again and Gabby undid her work. My ass, my wrists, and now my back. If it hadn’t felt so good, it would have been assault.

“Sure, but what’s the diff?” Gabby asked. “It’s a phone call.”

“I’m going to the Eclipse opening at L.A. Mod tonight.”

“Fancy. Did Jonathan invite you?” Gabby moved my hair around in a way that soothed me, and I wanted to purr like a kitten.

“No, Kevin did. But Jonathan is taking me.”

“Kevin?”

“This is such a long story.”

“Are you wearing your little black mini with the bow on the shoulder?”

God, no. Even in my mind, that thing looked cheap and worn. Jonathan had been right, despite my hurt feelings. I had a closet full of black and nothing nice to wear to a black tie function.

“How about this? It’s almost nine. You go take your meds. Come back in here and braid while I tell you everything about last night without the dirty parts. Then, at ten-thirty, we make a call on the speakerphone in the kitchen.”

“Deal.”

CHAPTER 10

Barney’s New York was on the best part of Wilshire, close to Rodeo Drive and near all the big agencies. WDE was half a block away, in its own slick black phallus of a building.

Jonathan had given my name to an apparently very difficult-to-get personal shopper. She called me, and we made an appointment.

A valet drove my shitty Honda behind a Bugatti and a Jaguar and treated me like a princess when, as Lorraine instructed, I asked for the elevator that went to the fifth floor. I was handed off to a guy in a burgundy jacket who led me right down the hall, then right again, and pressed the button for me as if I was too good to lift my arm.

The elevator doors opened into a room rich in wildflowers and tapestries. The white leather couches were empty, but the antique desk was manned by a woman about my age with smooth skin and a ready smile.

“Good afternoon, Miss Faulkner,” she said.

“Monica’s fine.”

“My name’s Shonda. Lorraine will be right with you. Would you like some coffee? Or we have herbal tea?”

“If you have a green or a white tea, hot and plain? I’d love that.”

“Great.” Shonda seemed genuinely pleased to get me tea. She didn’t have the same face I wore when I wanted to seem genuinely pleased to get someone their drinks, but I really wasn’t. Or maybe that was exactly what I looked like.

I didn’t sit but stood at the window, staring at the WDE building. Our call with Eugene Testarossa had been as quick as a hot f**k. Our meeting was in four days at twelve-thirty. High lunch. Location TBA. That meant we were important to him. He wanted to be seen with us. One day, I’d walk into that big black building from the parking lot and take the elevator up as if I belonged there. I’d be a moneymaker, a golden ticket, their canary.

“Ms. Faulkner?”

I turned to see Lorraine, a sixty-ish woman a few inches shorter than me with pixie cut white hair and not a stitch more makeup than was appropriate.

“Hi,” I said.

“So nice to meet you.” She held her hand out, and I shook it.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I want to be honest. I don’t know exactly how to do this. I mean, usually, I’d just go shopping, so, if you could kinda guide me through?”

“Of course,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “You’re looking for something for the Eclipse show?”