BLACK to Reality (8 page)

“The part where you’re waking up at midnight having anxiety attacks over how much you can get selling your blood sort of offsets the highs.”

“So you say. All I know is I’m not being asked to play guitar on TV.”

“Might be because you can’t play, for starters. Just saying.”

“Always with the comebacks, smartass. I could always learn.”

Black smiled to himself. “If you saw me right now, you’d have second thoughts. They made me look like Alice Cooper after a three-day drunk.”

“That’s the fashion these days.”

“How would you know?”

“All right, I’m just making that up. So you’re out of touch for three months?”

“I’m not going to Afghanistan. Only Malibu. And I’ll have my phone.”

“Well, be careful. You know how I worry. I’d hate to think of you catching something in the hot tub. I’ve seen those shows. Nonstop orgy. Good for ratings.”

“Sylvia’s going to love that,” Black muttered.

“Sylvia who?”

Black hung up and paced in his office, checking his watch. Turning from the window, he spied his Gretsch. He opened the case, tuned it, and began running scales, hoping to coax his dexterity back. He was in the middle of practicing arpeggios when he heard a knock at the office door.

“Come in. It’s open,” he called as he packed the guitar away. When he stuck his head out of the doorway, a tall young woman in blue gabardine slacks and a white blouse approached, trailed by a burly man wearing a gray Ozzie tour tank top that did little to cover his hirsute form.

“Mr. Black?” she asked.

“That’s me.”

“My name’s Sarah Miller. I’m the assistant producer with
Rock of Ages
. I help coordinate things for Simon. And this is Lou.”

Black stepped from his office, carrying his guitar and his bag. “Nice to meet you, Sarah. Lou.”

Sarah’s attention drifted away, and her gaze locked on Mugsy, who’d cracked one eye open and was watching her, feet still jutting straight into the air from his bulbous form. “Oh my God. He’s beautiful! What’s his name?”

“The cat? Mugsy,” Black said, amazed at how the porky feline could charm the pants off anything female without even trying.

“Mugsy! Look at you, Mr. Mugs! Aren’t you gorgeous! What a handsome boy, aren’t you?” Sarah approached Mugsy, whose tail was now swishing slowly, and rubbed his considerable belly. Black could hear the purring from across the room. Another sucker duped by the tubby tabby. She looked up at Black. “Is he yours?”

“Sort of. He’s the office cat.”

She paused. “Is there anyone else to look after him?”

“Well, I had an assistant, but she…she’s on sabbatical during the filming of the show. But she promised to stop in and take care of him.”

Sarah’s gaze swept the sparse furnishings. “What do you do here? What kind of business is this?”

“Security. That sort of thing.”

“Then he’s going to be all alone?” The volume of Mugsy’s purring increased, now resembling the shifting of tectonic plates. Black should have seen what was coming, but like an out-of-control car skidding toward a gas truck on black ice, he felt powerless to stop the coming calamity.

“Not all the time. I told you, my assistant–”

“He’d be perfect for the show! We’ve been trying to figure out how to broaden the ratings, and a handsome fellow like this will draw in a whole other crowd. The cat ladies will go insane – he’s a natural. Look at that face! That mug! Mugsy! Mr. Muggles. Do you want to be on TV with your daddy?”

“I’m not his–”

“Look at how happy he is! It’s like he understands.” Mugsy was pawing delightedly at the air with his front paws, probably because he thought he could eat or shred Sarah’s blouse. “I absolutely insist. The human interest of you not wanting to abandon your beloved cat will go a long way to making you sympathetic to viewers. And they’re the ones who have the final vote after the qualification rounds,” Sarah said, her tone ominous. “Anything that makes you more appealing to the audience shouldn’t be underrated.”

Black sat in the back seat of the gold Suburban, Mugsy and Sarah in the passenger seat next to Lou, as they wended their way down Malibu Canyon. The blue of the Pacific Ocean shimmered in the distance. His misgivings about agreeing to do the show had just trebled with Mugsy, the destroyer of worlds, in the mix, but his protests and warnings had fallen on deaf ears. Sarah was obviously smitten. Black silently cursed the fat bastard and prayed he’d run away once at a strange house, but he suspected that wasn’t going to be the way his luck ran.

No, Mugsy was now part of the show, and any mayhem he caused would probably boost the ratings. Black thought about how he was going to explain the cat’s involvement to Roxie and decided that he would put that off until later. As the big SUV rolled into the beach town, Black eyed the multimillion dollar mansions on the hills and silently estimated the amount of damage Mugsy could inflict in mere minutes. He dry-swallowed hard.

Even though it was only one thirty, Black realized that he would have traded all the limited money in his pocket for a strong drink. He fought down the impulse, which was immediately followed by a craving for a cigarette, and wondered how he was going to make it if this was any indication of how his three-month sentence was likely to go.

Chapter 9

When the Suburban labored up the long circular drive, Black got his first look at the band house. Calling it opulent was like calling Angelina Jolie cute. Drawing its architectural influence from the villas of Spain’s Costa Brava, it was easily ten thousand square feet, spread across three rambling stories that climbed up the hill behind it.

“Wow. This is the place?” Black asked, impressed.

“This is it. Home sweet home, until you either win the contest or get booted out,” Sarah said. She held Mugsy up so he could see and waved one of his paws at the house. “Say hi to your new home, Mr. Mugsy Man.” She turned and looked at Black over her shoulder. “He’s a stocky one, isn’t he?”

“Stocky would be Mugsy after six months of anorexia.”

She returned to Mugsy, who was doing his angel best to appear harmless. “Nonsense. You’re just a big, handsome boy, aren’t you? You like your cat chow, though, huh?”

“More like his side of beef and dozen doughnuts.”

Lou chuckled and then stifled it when he caught Sarah’s expression.

They pulled to a stop in front of the mansion’s double wood-and-glass entry doors, where a camera crew was filming their approach.

“I thought you said they don’t start filming until Monday,” Black said.

“Correct. This is just for background. The bands arriving. That sort of thing,” Sarah explained. “They’ve already done a few one-on-one interviews with Christina, your lead singer, who will be doing most of the talking, if last season was any indication. You just need to do a few minutes of canned spiel about who you are, what your background is, that kind of stuff, so the audience can follow along. And then as the season develops, we’ll do more interviews to get your reactions to whatever’s happening.”

“When do I meet my band?”

“After you get settled in. Here. Take Mugsy. It’ll be pure gold if you’re carrying him as you arrive.” She twisted in the seat and handed Mugsy to Black. Mugsy looked like he was going to let go of his bladder, so he held the cat away from him. “Okay. Let me get out of the car, and once I’m clear, the crew will shoot you. Wait until Lou gets your stuff out, and then walk up the steps to the front doors. Holly, one of the hosts, will meet you there. I hope you like cold beer.”

“You must be psychic.”

Black followed Sarah’s instructions and didn’t have to pretend to be in awe of the mansion as he approached the entry. Marble, granite, exotic woods, columns…the entire place reeked of money. Big money. Mugsy held off on spraying him, so at least he was spared that indignity, and he hugged the beast to his breast like a newborn, playing for the cameras as he mounted the steps. When he reached the threshold, the doors pulled wide, and a gorgeous blonde woman wearing a baseball cap on backward, a black The Cult T-shirt and ripped jeans, all white teeth and tanned skin and augmented curves, greeted him like he was bringing an alimony check.

“Welcome to the Rock House! Come on in! I’m Holly,” she squealed, and Black felt a twinge of alarm at how it would look to Sylvia when Holly hugged him and gave his bottom an on-camera pinch. “Wow. This one’s mine. Rrrowrr!” she said, and Black grinned and played along, trying not to think about the fact that she was likely half his age, even if she might have had twice the miles on her.

“Nice to meet you, Holly,” Black said as she beamed sex appeal at him.

“Everyone at home, this is Jim Black. He’s the original guitar player and songwriter for Gravatar, one of the biggest bands of all time. This is such a thrill. I can’t believe you’re playing with Last Call. Tell me, Jim…how does it feel?”

“It’s a rush. I can’t wait,” Black said, doing his best to appear enthusiastic. “And it’s Black. Just Black. That’s what everybody calls me.”

“All right. Black. So another question. Is it going to be weird having your old bandmate Nina judging you?” Holly asked.

Black stopped in his tracks and tried to keep his mouth from gaping open. “Say what?”

“Nina. She’s one of the judges. Are you afraid she’ll be harder on the band, or conversely, might be more willing to vote for you? You were married to her, right?”

Black could hear the sound of his heart hammering in his ears. The hallway he was standing in seemed to elongate as the walls closed in. He was afraid he was going to faint, and then Mugsy saved the day by letting out a long yawn accompanied by a yowl.

“I think I’ll let Mugsy have the last word on that,” Black said and resumed walking.

“What a beautiful cat! And a husky boy, isn’t he?”

“You don’t know the half of it. He’s actually been the state feline sumo wrestling champion three years running,” Black assured Holly without a trace of irony. Her eyes flicked to the side as she tried to decide whether he was kidding, and Black offered no clues. The cameraman shook his head from behind the camera, and she returned to her empty smile.

“Oh, you. I can see you’re going to be nothing but trouble,” she said, giving Black a playful swat. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the gang.”

Holly led the way into a great room that could have doubled as a hangar, where four impossibly beautiful Asian girls lounged around the breakfast bar that separated it from the kitchen, two in mini-skirts that barely covered their bottoms, the other two in bikinis. Holly did a little bow to them and gestured to Black.

“This is Black, everyone. Black, meet Love Jupiter. From Korea. They’re already stars over there, isn’t that right?” Holly enthused, and the four girls smiled and waved and made peace signs. Black smiled at each in turn, but he could have been invisible, because everyone’s attention was on Mugsy, who seemed to instinctively understand that he was going to be the center of attention as long as he turned on the charm. One of the bikini-clad nymphs moved toward Black, followed by her companion, and soon they were ooing and ahhing as they petted Mugsy, posing as their bandmates took pictures with their phones. Mugsy’s purrs resembled a Peterbilt revving, and Black realized that perhaps the truculent cat might be a godsend after all – he was taking all the heat off Black to do much besides pose with him.

Two youths strode through the pocket doors, dressed in full-blown gang attire straight out of South Central, and swaggered to where Black stood.

“Yo, Holly, baby. How you doin’, sweetness? What up?” the taller of the pair said, clutching the crotch of his baggy jeans like he was trying to hold his water.

Another blinding smile from Holly. “Good, Lavon. Black, this is Lavon and SnM. They’re BrandX.”

“Yo, punkass, welcome to da crib. Sorry we gonna stomp yo ass in the contest, you know?”

Black shrugged. “No hard feelings. I’m sure I’ll get over it.”

“What the hell’s that? Look like one a dem koalas or something,” SnM said, managing to leer at all four of the Koreans as well as Holly with one glance.

“That’s Mugsy. He’s the Biggie of cats. Straight up,” Black announced.

“Whoa. He do like to eat, don’t he?” Lavon commented, hesitantly petting Mugsy’s belly.

“Never saw a Twinkie he didn’t love,” Black said, and the young men laughed.

“Yo, what he weigh?” SnM asked, peering at Mugsy’s bloated countenance.

“About the same as a bag of cement right about now, I’d guess,” Black joked, earning a titter from Holly. He turned to her. “Nice to meet everyone, but I need to get settled in and tend to Mugsy here. He gets grouchy if he doesn’t get a T-bone every hour, on the hour.”

More laughs and pictures and squeals, and then Holly escorted him upstairs. The camera crew remained below, the equipment off now that they’d gotten their arrival shot. Black followed her, noting that she must have spent a lot of time in the gym as she moved up the wide marble steps ahead of him, and felt a stab of guilt. He hadn’t even been away from Sylvia for half a day and he was already checking out the talent – not to mention being surrounded by Korean hotties who seemed more than friendly.

They arrived at the second floor, which resembled more a resort hotel than a home, and she pointed out the various doors. “There are eight bedrooms in the house, each with its own full bathroom. Four bands, so two rooms for each. We’ve got you staying with your drummer, Ed.”

“That’ll work. Which room?”

“This way. Second from the end,” Holly said, leading him down the elaborate corridor.

“This is quite a place. Who owns it?”

“Both houses are leased from the same guy. Some bigwig in the car business. Italian name. I wasn’t really paying attention when they were talking about it. I’m just on-camera eye candy.”

“I’d say you’re more than that if you’re a host,” Black said. “But I have a question. You said Nina was one of the judges?”

Holly slowed and turned to face him. “Didn’t you know? I just assumed someone had told you…”

“No, it never came up. They left that out of the briefing.”