She-Rox: A Rock & Roll Novel (18 page)

“Where is it?” Ginger flared.

“I don’t know . . . I swear it,” Gretchen stressed. “I’ve had it hidden away in our room since I took it, but it’s not there. It’s gone.”

“When did you last see it?”

“The last time I wore my black over-the-knee boots.”

“You mean to tell me you’ve had that thing hidden in a
shoe box
this entire time?” In all the times that Ginger had dug around to try and find the Grammy, she’d never thought to dig into Gretchen’s shoe boxes. Her shoes were ubiquitously omnipresent.

“Are you kidding me here?” Ginger was in no mood to be messed with.

“I swear it. Go look for yourself.”

Storming to the bedroom, all four girls came face to face with the aftermath. The frenzied rummaging looked like a cobbler had set off a shoe bomb.

Ginger braved the rubble and stepped into the pile, moving closer to the back end of the closet. She bellowed with complete annoyance, “This better not be another one of your tricks, Gretchen.” She could be heard tossing boxes around. Coming back out, she then accused, “Unless one of you guys took it.”

“I’d rather have poison ivy,” Raven defended.

“New girl, here,” Eddie reminded.

Wednesday Night, Two Days Before Troubadour Gig

Daphne arrived at the house with the new band outfits: metallic, silver cat suits that zipped up the front. They weren’t just going to be called the Katz—they were to look like one.

Pushing her leg into the suit, Gretchen asked Raven, “What’s all this I hear about Emolicious?”

A singing trio, known as “Emolicious,” was one of the only unsigned female acts in Hollywood close enough to be considered competition for the Katz.

Standing tall in her suit, its zipper partially up, Raven questioned, “You mean their video? It’s true, all right. I just watched it last night on YouTube. It’s had over fifty thousand hits since last week.”

“We should be doing that,” Gretchen said.

“They’ve got a video, we’ve got Exposure,” chimed Ginger. “Their fifty thousand hits will be peanuts once we’re circulated to over ten million readers.” She giggled.

“Ten million?” The others echoed in unison.

“How do you know that?” rushed Gretchen.

Adoring her body in a mirror and, now, her brains, she answered, “I looked it up on line after I watched their video. So, between now and the shoot, I’d be careful about eating any junk food, ‘cause it’s all gonna show up in this spandex.”

Eddie pushed her arms through the long sleeves and zipped it up. Its unforgiving cling showed every nuance of her body.

She had seen the covers of Exposure before, and Ginger’s enthusiasm for the shoot was her dread. Exposure wasn’t music at all, it was cheesecake. Posing for this magazine, regardless of the publicity, wasn’t greatness, it was fabricated hype. Taking off the foolish cat suit, she threw it into the pile as Daphne checked off her “okay” for fit.

Doug Westin’s The Troubadour, Friday Night, March 21, 2008, 10:30 p.m.

It was dark as The Katz took the stage. Gretchen threw her guitar over head, the pink Fender Stratocaster setting off the silver cat suit to perfection. Leading the rest of the band on stage, she took center with Eddie at her right and Raven, left. The crowd began to cheer, filling the atmosphere.

Commanding a stage, playing live, endowed Gretchen with the kind of magnetism few women will ever know, and clutching the microphone, she felt its power and the magic of modern electricity as she spoke to the crowd clapping in the dark.

“You know, there comes a time when all a girl wants, all a girls needs is a good man—a very, very good man.” The words reverberated off the walls as their guitars began to gently feed back, making The Troubadour feel as though it had become a spaceship, ready to blast off. The fans concurred with Gretchen’s statement, whooping their pleasure. “’Cause honey, when you get way down into the depths of this girl’s soul, I need you to teach me a lesson—a strong, hard lesson, the kind I ain’t likely ever gonna forget,” she provocatively drawled, sending them into a frenzy. “These next words . . . and they must be spoken . . . forgive me honey . . . but I don’t
ever
want to find you—” (
chord, chord) “Dead in bed!”
Ginger kicked into the groove and the gang vocals continued, “
Dead In Bed!”

(Chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk chunk)

No regrets. I’m hot undercover

My life’s a wreck, but I’m a perfect lover

Skin on skin, silky smooth

I never beg, I get to choose

(Chorus) If you’re ready

And it must be said

I don’t ever want to find you

Dead in bed, Dead in bed, baby, dead in bed

I’ll mess with your mind

And wind you up

That’s my place, I like it on top

Sitting pretty, drinks in the shade

If you’re my boy then you’ve got it made

“Dead in Bed” was followed by 1-900 chanting:

High tech, phone sex

Money order or a check

Anyway that you can pay!

I’ll be the one

I’ll be your one-nine hundred, baby

I’ll be the one

Your one-nine hundred

Moving through the chords, Eddie secretly prayed, “
Please let this be the last time I gotta sing this stupid song.”

They didn’t have enough new material, performing, “Guy Thing” and “For Real,” followed by “In The Confessional” and finishing with “Beauty,” their strongest number.

All the heavies at the back of the room watched as The Katz displayed some solid material that could be broadcast to the public in a three-and-a-half-minute song. Their stage show, with an arsenal of axe-grinding sounds, and risqué moves were sure to guarantee any record label the undying loyalty of adolescent teenagers and the 18 – 34 male demographic. Their energy on stage could not be denied.

The Katz exited the stage. Gretchen unhooked her guitar and handing it to a stage hand, squeezed Eddie’s shoulder and yelled, “That was awesome!”

All told, seven labels were in attendance, as was Milos Ballantine and Clay Warner of Exposure fame. After all, they’d been personally invited by the headlining act. Making their way through the crowded club, backstage, they thought it best to get some face time with their new girls.

Marvin Giles flashed his press pass in the doorway of the dressing room. As they passed the threshold, an arm blocked them. “Hey buddy,” Vince snipped, “where do you think you’re going?”

Milos stopped.

“What makes you think you can just waltz in here unannounced?”

“I’m sorry,” Milos said. “Please tell Ginger that Milos Ballantine is here to congratulate her on the performance this evening; and for Gretchen, Clay Warner.”

Vince’s eyebrows shot up. He wondered who these two were, but without asking, he went into the dressing room. “Some guy—a Milos somethin’ er other is here to see you and he has a friend.”

Standing up from her makeup chair, Ginger cheered, “Milos, we’re over here!”

The two men stepped inside to occupy the already cramped room, and as Milos got to Ginger, he planted a very friendly kiss square on her lips. Clay tried to do the same to Gretchen, but she quickly turned her face, letting his lips land on her cheek.

“You were unbelievable,” Milos breathed in Ginger’s ear. “
Really hot,”
he said as his hands traveled up and down her arms, possessively.

Milos and Clay were getting themselves reacquainted with the girls as Vince stood back and watched the two men paw away. He shoved his weight into the tight little circle, stuck out his hand and bellowed, “Vince Perini, Astral Agency. Weren’t my girls terrific this evening?”

Milos turned to see the putz from the doorway breaking up his private conversation. Seeing Vince’s hand still hanging out there to be dealt with, Milos shook it, saying, “Yes, they were fantastic
.
Milos Ballantine, Exposure Magazine. We’ve got Ginger and Gretchen all scheduled and we’re really excited about it.”

“Scheduled for what?”

Ginger announced, “Vince, we are going to be in Exposure Magazine. We just scheduled a shoot for next week.”

“Really—a photo shoot?”

Milos put his arms around Ginger’s waist. “We have a huge circulation and the publicity from the magazine alone could cause a blaze and what manager wouldn’t want that?”

“Absolutely,” Vince agreed, willing to play the game. He’d done it before. Met up with some big wig only to sniff his crotch and know he had to back down. But his friend, Clay, was hovering around Gretchen like he was a bear and she the honey pot.

“Look, I need to touch base with Todd before he leaves for the night.” Vince excused himself.

Leaving the dressing room, he found Todd talking to the house engineer back at the soundboard. Vince approached the two, and Todd immediately said, “Hey, great set,” slapping him on the back. Todd had never slapped Vince on the back before.

Vince asked, “So, where do we stand?” He didn’t mean to come to the point so quickly, but he had been priming the pump with Todd for over two years.

“Give me a call at my office on Monday. We’ll talk.” That was it. Todd left, walking away from the soundboard, back to the dressing room to congratulate the girls.

Normally, Vince would have wanted more than, ‘give me a call on Monday. We’ll talk,’ but with Todd, his previous responses had been quite vague. What Vince really wanted was a number, an offer. But there were other labels present. He hadn’t fully made the rounds yet. With any luck, out in this nightclub full of bloated egos was an offer waiting to be expressed, and he was ready to go get it.

Todd found Eddie and Raven getting worked over by Marvin Giles. His arms out wide, he embraced both girls, interrupting, “They just keep getting better and better.”

“Does that mean Moonshine is signing The Katz?” Marvin asked.

“Hmm, we’re having a little chat on Monday.”

“That’s it?”

“’Fraid so, Marv.”

“Can I at least get a picture?”

He snapped the shot.

“Let me buy you girls a drink to celebrate,” Todd charmed. “We’ll get Eddie here a Coke.”