Читать книгу Bad Boy - Olivia Goldsmith - Страница 6

“You’re sure this isn’t going to be inconvenient?” Laura asked, her sizable butt in the air, her head in the bottom drawer of the bureau Tracie had cleared out for her. She was putting away her T-shirts. Tracie had always marveled at how neatly Laura folded her shirts. Of course, once she put one on, it became as messy as her wild dark hair.

As she watched Laura, Tracie realized that she’d been really lonely for a girlfriend. She was pals with Beth and a few of the other women at work, but they were just work friends. Jon was her close pal, and though she adored him, it was nice to have Laura back again.

“I’m sure this is going to be inconvenient. Living in a one bedroom with a friend, not to mention a boyfriend as a frequent guest, is going to be very inconvenient, but it doesn’t mean it’s not going to be fun. I’m thrilled that you’re here.” Tracie squealed the way she had back in high school and opened her arms.

Laura gave great hugs. Sometimes, Tracie thought it was Laura’s patient, listening ear and her great hugs that got her through. They had met in the seventh grade and for the next six years had spent less time apart than most married couples. In all that time, they’d never had one fight or disagreement—unless you counted the time Laura wanted to buy a dress with a fake fur bolero jacket for the junior prom. Tracie had absolutely forbidden it because (although she couldn’t say so) it made Laura look almost exactly like a gorilla.

Tracie thought that they’d grown so close because they both were so needy at the time and yet so different. Laura was as tall as Tracie was short. Laura was big (God alone knew her weight) and Tracie was thin (104, but no more bulimia since she’d promised Laura not to throw up). Tracie was boyish, had almost no chest, and wore her hair short and streaked with blond. Laura was a brunette earth mother, had huge breasts and an unruly mane. Laura had always loved to cook; Tracie wasn’t sure there’d been a kitchen in her Encino house.

“You can stay here as long as you want. As long as you don’t bake farm cakes,” Tracie told her girlfriend as they ended their hug. “I think you should move to Seattle permanently. But you do whatever you want as long as you don’t go back to Peter.”

“Peter, Peter Woman-eater. Hadda neighbor, hadda eat her,” Laura sang.

“Was that really what he was doing when you walked in on them?” Tracie gasped.

“Sure was. Somehow, it was a lot worse than if they’d been fucking,” Laura said. She stopped unpacking and sat down on the edge of Tracie’s bed. “A guy can fuck a girl he doesn’t even like, but he doesn’t …” She paused and then shook her head. “Jesus, he hardly ever went down on me” She sighed, diving back into her bag to take out yet another perfectly folded T-shirt.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Tracie told her. “You’re just never going to see him again. He’s going to miss you.”

“I don’t know about me, but I do know he’s going to miss my short ribs with braised cabbage and mango-apple-cranberry coulis.” Laura laughed. “But enough about Peter. I can’t wait to meet the famous Phil.”

Tracie waggled her eyebrows in a poor imitation of Groucho Marx. “Well, you’re not going to have to wait long. You finish unpacking while I work on this stupid feature. Then we’ll get something to eat. After that, I’ll take you to meet Phil at Cosmo.”

“What’s Cosmo?”

“It’s easier to take you there than to explain it,” Tracie told her friend. “You’ll see tonight.”

Cosmo was jammed by the time Tracie and Laura walked through its black glass double doors. It was enormous—three separate dance floors—with neon lights running along the black-painted walls and strobes and black lights picking up the slack, as if there was any. Laura eyed the scene. “An epileptic’s nightmare,” she quipped as they made their way to the crowded bar.

“Wait till you see the computerized light show,” Tracie yelled above the din.

“They make it snow in here?” Laura yelled back.

“Light show—SHOW!” Tracie yelled, then saw by Laura’s grin that she’d gotten her. “Yeah, yeah.” Tracie grinned back.

Cosmo was bustling with habitués, all under thirty, thinking they were terminally hep. Personally, Tracie always thought there was something weird about the jeunesse dorée of Seattle. They had a lot more money and a lot less style than people in L.A. or other places Tracie had been, but she liked them for it. They either looked like they had forgotten to dress up before they went out or as if they’d put themselves together for some convention. In fact, the majority of Seattle young people seemed like Trekkies who had recently transferred their manic interest to some other sphere. Now a swing band was playing and couples danced, many of them in forties zoot suits and period dresses. Tracie thought the dresses were kind of cool actually, but otherwise, she just didn’t get it.

“Me, neither,” Laura said, as if Tracie had spoken her thoughts aloud.

Tracie picked up her drink, tossed it back, and tried to order another. Phil was late, as usual.

“Hey, how many of those did you have? And it’s not even midnight yet,” Laura commented.

“I’m just … uptight. You know, Mother’s Day weekend always bothers me,” Tracie admitted. And the story. And Marcus. And Phil being late. And …

“Look, take it from me: Having a mother can suck, too,” Laura told her, and put her arm around Tracie’s shoulder.

Tracie stood on a rung of the bar stool to look over the crowd. Her hair fell in her eyes and that, along with the lights, made it impossible to see. No Phil. Instead, Tracie motioned for another drink, and this time the bartender saw her. “I’d just like to know that I’m going to go home with Phil tonight and cocoon tomorrow in bed.”

“While I quietly weep on my cot,” Laura said, then added, “Hey, you deserve it, working so hard on that Mother’s Day story. Marcus shouldn’t have assigned it to you. It’s totally harshed your buzz.”

“Newspaper editors are rarely noted for their sensitivity. And my roommates always have big mouths.”

“I’m not a roommate,” Laura interjected. “I’m only visiting till I get over Peter.”

“God! That’ll take years.”

“No. It took years to get over Ben.” Laura stopped, considered, and continued. “It’ll just be months to get over Peter. Unless he calls and begs.”

“Tell him to drop dead.”

“What?”

“Tell him to forget it.”

“Regret it?” Laura yelled.

Tracie pulled out a Post-it notepad—she was never without one—and scribbled on it. She slapped it on the bar. It read “Just Say No.” In a corner, a group of die-hard punk rock musicians sat in a booth. They were sucking down beers. “The Swollen Glands,” Tracie said, and indicated to Laura. “Phil’s band.”

“Well, they don’t look like my type, but it’s better than sitting here. Let’s join ’em,” Laura suggested. “Maybe they’ll buy us a drink.”

“Yeah, maybe they’ll win a Congressional Medal of Honor, too.” The two girls made their way through the crowd and over to the group in the corner.

“Hi, guys,” Tracie said. “Glands, this is Laura. Laura, the Glands.” Tracie sat down next to Jeff.

“This music sucks,” Jeff, the regular Glands bass player, said.

“Yo, Tracie. Doesn’t this suck?” Frank, the drummer, asked as Laura took the seat beside him. There was a silence until a beautiful blonde walked by.

“Yum, yum. Come to papa. I’ve got something for ya,” Jeff said.

“Forget her. She works with me at the Times. She’s a barracuda.”

“Well, I’ve got something I’d like to hook her with,” Jeff said.

“Now I know which Gland you are,” Laura said. She turned to Frank. “And you? Lymph, perhaps?”

There was a commotion at the door. Tracie brightened as Phil entered. She gave Laura a look, and Laura turned her head. “God. He is tall. And good-looking.” Tracie nodded. Her guy had a lot of grace and charm—when he wanted to use it. In his hand was a bass guitar, but she was disturbed to see that beside him was an extremely thin, pretty woman. The two made their way through the crowd and approached the corner table. “He doesn’t walk,” Laura said. “He swaggers. And who’s the skank? Heavenly Host, he’s worse than Peter.”

“You haven’t even met him yet,” Tracie protested, though she was already nervous about the so-called skank herself. “Give me a break.”

“Hey, girl. I got out late from rehearsal.” Phil put his arm around Tracie.

“Phil, this is Laura,” Tracie said, introducing them. Uh-oh, one look at Laura’s face and Tracie recognized her mood. It was overly protective. She was staring at Phil as if instead of being late and accompanied by this nobody he had thrown acid on her face. Laura tended to overreact in situations like this. On the other hand, Tracie had the same tendency when Laura was being mistreated.

“Hi, Phil. Nice to meet you, too. Oh! And what have you brought us? Your tuning fork?” Laura asked. Tracie gave Laura a discreet kick in the ankle. When Laura had gone too far with Tracie’s wicked stepmother (known to them always as W.S.M. and never Thelma), Tracie had used the same editing system. No one had hated her stepmother as much as Laura—not even Tracie herself.

As if dealing with Laura, Phil, and the skank wasn’t enough, Allison drifted over, too. Just because she had to work with Allison at the Times didn’t mean she had to introduce her to anyone.

“Hi, Tracie,” Allison said.

It was the first time Tracie could remember Allison saying hello to her or anyone. She wasn’t even nice to Marcus, and he never gave her deadlines.

In a way, Tracie knew she should feel complimented and she did. Phil was so attractive and had so much presence. His height, his clothes, his hair, and his attitude all worked. Hey, they had worked on her, and she had snagged him, and she was thrilled every time she looked at him. But, other women were constantly being snagged as well and she had to be ever vigilant regarding her potential rivals and Phil’s attitude toward them. Luckily, he was so used to female attention that he usually ignored it. Tracie sighed. She would have to introduce them. “Laura, Frank, Jeff, Phil, this is Allison.” And even though she knew she shouldn’t, Tracie looked at Phil and said, “And this would be …”

“This is Melody,” Phil said. “She needed a ride over here.”

“From where? Your apartment?” Tracie asked, and then wanted to bite her tongue.

Laura shifted slightly in her seat, so there was no room for anyone else at the banquette. Tracie had to hand it to her friend. Phil still ignored Laura as he tightened his embrace around Tracie’s shoulder. “You look like a warm stove on a cold night,” he whispered into her ear. “See you later, babe,” he said to Melody, who was then forced, albeit reluctantly, to melt into the crowd.

Tracie eyed the girl’s back as she left.

“Unchained Melody,” Laura muttered with satisfaction.

“Righteous Brothers. 1965. Phillies label,” Jeff said.

Best to just ignore her and what might have gone on, put it away, like a sweater at the back of the closet in summer. Not that she wouldn’t hear all about it from Laura later. “So, are you playing tonight?” she asked Phil.

“Yeah. Bob is letting me do the second show.”

Bob led the Glands, but not for long, if Phil had his way. “Great!” Tracie said, distracted. She looked back into the crowd to see if Melody was hanging around. She didn’t seem to be, which was a relief. Tracie trusted Phil, but only within certain parameters. She’d better stay the whole night, then. When you mixed music, alcohol, and Melody, you were outside the parameters. “When is Bob arriving?”

“Well, there’s the question,” Phil said with a frown.

“Which Gland is he?” Laura asked. “The adrenal? The pituitary?”

“The asshole,” Phil said.

“Oh. Then that would more properly be called ‘the anal gland,’” Laura said smoothly.

Though Phil was the newest member, he was already jockeying to be leader. But why he would want it, Tracie could not fathom. It seemed like a lot of work: begging for unpaid jobs with club owners, making endless phone calls about rehearsals, begging vans from friends to schlep equipment—all just to pick the lineup of songs. Big deal. She supposed picking the lineup would be fun, but she couldn’t imagine Phil organizing everything else. She thought, There must be a responsible side to him after all.

“You know,” Jeff said for what had to be the three hundredth time, “I’m not so sure about our name.” Tracie looked up to the ceiling and sighed. When the guys weren’t fighting with one another or rehearsing or drinking, they spent their time arguing over the band’s name. Tracie had managed to do a feature about them—overcoming a lot of resistance from Marcus—and she’d used the latest name that they had agreed upon: Swollen Glands. But now, once again, Jeff voiced an objection. “I saw this sign, and it was really cool,” he continued. “Up in the mountains. They had them everywhere. It just said FROST HEAVES. Great name, huh? And, like, free advertising. Cool, huh?”

“How about Watch for Curves?” Laura joked.

“Nah,” Jeff said, serious. “Too limp.”

“Well, there’s always Yield to Pedestrians,” she suggested.

“There’s nothing wrong with Swollen Glands,” Phil said. “I thought of it, and anyway, the name’s in the paper. We don’t want to stop the swell of publicity that’s building. Right, Tracie?”

Tracie didn’t have the heart to mention that one article was more a pimple than a swell and that tomorrow there’d be another band in the paper. “Right,” she said, and caught Laura rolling her eyes. She hoped Phil hadn’t seen it.

Luckily, Phil was trying to get the bartender to fix him a drink. He then nuzzled closer and whispered into Tracie’s ear, “I’m happy to see you.”

Sometimes, Phil was a jerk. And Tracie knew he probably wasn’t ready to make a commitment, but there was something about his wild good looks, the way his hair brushed across his cheek, the way his fingers hardly tapered, but instead came to an end in flat, smooth nails. Phil was heat to her coolness and passion to her planning, and sometimes he made her forget all of the bad. Tracie responded to his whisper with a blush.

Laura picked up on Tracie’s blush and shook her head. “I think I’ll try to buck the trend and do something socially responsible, like picking up a merchant seaman. Later,” she said as she boogied off into the crowd.

“What’s up her ass?” Phil asked Tracie.

She just shrugged and sighed. It was too much to expect her friend to like her boyfriend and vice versa. She turned to her laptop. She’d completed her profile at work and begun the Mother’s Day feature, but she still had some polishing to do on it.

One of the things Tracie really liked about Phil was that he was also a writer. But, unlike her, he didn’t write commercially. He was an artist. Phil wrote very, very short stories. Some less than a page. Often Tracie didn’t get them, but she didn’t admit that to him. There was something about his work that was so personal, so completely contemptuous of an audience, that she respected him.

Although Phil had roommates, and had always had a girlfriend, Tracie knew he was essentially a loner. He could probably spend five years on a desert island and when a ship landed to rescue him he’d look up from his writing or his guitar and say, “This is not a good time for me to be interrupted.” He’d certainly said that enough to her, and she respected his integrity.

Sometimes she thought that journalism school and her job had spoiled her talent. After years of being told, “Always consider who might be reading your work,” she found Phil’s commitment refreshing, even if he looked down on writers like herself who took on commercial subjects.

Now she knew exactly who would be reading her feature: suburbanites over morning coffee; Seattle hipsters munching bagels at brunch; old ladies at the library. Tracie sighed and bent her head to get closer to the screen.

After just a minute or two Phil nudged her. “Can’t you put that down and enjoy the scene?”

“Phil, I told you I have to finish this feature. If I don’t get it in on time, Marcus will pull me off features altogether. He’d love the excuse. Or I could lose my job,” she snapped.

“That’s what you say about every story,” Phil snapped back. “Stop living in fear.”

“I mean it. Look, this feature is really important to me. I’m trying to do something unusual about Mother’s Day.”

“Hey, you don’t even have a mother,” Jeff announced.

Tracie turned to Jeff as if he was a child. “Yes, Jeff, it’s true that my mother died when I was very young. But, you see, journalists don’t always write about themselves. Remember, I wrote an article about you guys? Yet I’m not a Swollen Gland. Not even a mammary. Sometimes, journalists write about current events. Or they report on other people’s lives. That’s why they call us ‘reporters.’”

“Wow. The irony is so heavy in here, it’s breaking my drumsticks,” Frank said.

“Man, what time do we go on?” Jeff asked.

“Not till two, man,” Frank told them.

Tracie kept herself from groaning. Two! They wouldn’t be out of here until dawn.

“God. Was that the best Bob could do?”

“I hope these jerks clear out by then and we get a decent crowd,” Phil said.

“I’m sure you will. The Glands are really building a following,” Tracie assured him. She herself felt no such thing. In fact, the crowd could turn ugly if you cut off their supply of big-band standards.

Laura emerged from the dance floor, a short guy dressed like a forties bookie close behind her. Tracie noticed that a lot of small men went for Laura. The attraction was definitely not mutual. “Mind if we join you all? Or do you turn into rats and pumpkins at midnight?”

“Rats and Pumpkins. That would be a good name,” Frank commented.

Tracie looked at her watch. “Oh God. I’ve got to get this in.” She turned back to the laptop.

The band members were still giving one another glum looks. More dead soldiers littered the tabletop. Tracie snapped her laptop shut.

“This music sucks, man,” Frank repeated to the uninterested table.

“Yeah, it sucks,” Jeff echoed.

“Thank you for this introduction to Seattle. The conversation here really is a lot more sophisticated than in Sacramento,” Laura quipped.

Tracie looked up. “It all gets better when my work is done and the guys play,” she promised. She started to stand up.

“Where ya going?” Phil asked.

“I have to fax this to Marcus at home,” Tracie explained.

“Hey, don’t leave the table,” Phil said, catching her hand. “You’re making the band look bad. Don’t you realize other girls would die to sit here with us?”

Tracie shrugged and laughed. It wasn’t easy to find modem service in a bar. It would be hard enough to find a Yellow Pages, listing a twenty-four-hour copy center. Phil was being cute but difficult, and she couldn’t afford to get Marcus in an uproar. She’d have to do what was necessary to get her piece in and hope Phil would relax. If she could leave, she’d get back before the band’s performance. There’d be hell to pay with a pouting Phil for the rest of the night if she didn’t get back in time.

When she finally returned twenty minutes later, a swing-dance girl was in her seat. “I made it in just under the wire,” Tracie said, standing beside the table.

“Congratulations,” Jeff said, handing her a beer.

“So what’s new since I left?” Tracie said directly to Phil.

“Well, I hear the music still sucks, and I think there’s a new mascot,” Laura told her.

Tracie tapped the girl on her shoulder to get her seat back, shooting Phil a dirty look because he should have told the girl to move. “Hey, it’s not my fault,” Phil protested as the young woman walked away.

“I don’t know why these bitches want to dress up like Betty Crawford anyway,” Frank said.

“What assholes,” Phil agreed.

Laura leaned across the table to Frank. “It isn’t Betty Crawford.”

“What?” he asked.

“There’s no ‘Betty Crawford,’” Laura informed him. “You must be the drummer, right?”

“Huh?” Frank grunted.

“There was Betty Grable and there was Bette Davis. There was also Joan Crawford. But I don’t think Joan Crawford ever danced to swing,” Tracie explained.

“Whatever,” Jeff said.

“Yeah. Who cares? Whatever, man,” Phil said to Laura.

The band began to play “Last Kiss.”

“Pearl Jam,” Jeff said. “Epic Records. 1999.”

“That was just a cover,” Laura said. “It’s an old fifties song.”

“It is not. Pearl Jam writes all their own material,” Jeff said.

“Wanna bet?” Laura asked, raising her brows in a dare.

“Why don’t we bet each other a dance?” Jeff said. “Then I’ll win either way.” Tracie looked back at Laura, whose eyes had widened to match her brows. Wordlessly she extended her hand, and Jeff, who had to be less than half her size, took it and pulled her out onto the dance floor. God knows, Tracie thought, I’d rather give my jewelry to Allison than dance with Jeff.

“Where’s Bob?” Phil asked.

“Yeah. Where is he?” Frank echoed, obviously disgusted by Jeff’s departure. He and Laura were really getting into the music. Tracie had forgotten how well Laura danced. “I ask myself what would Guns N’ Roses do if they were here?” Frank continued.

“Pull out an automatic weapon,” Phil told him. Tracie had to laugh.

“Man, Axl Rose would turn over in his grave if he saw this,” Frank added.

“Is Axl Rose dead?” Tracie asked.

The band members turned to look at her as if she was crazy. “What are you talking about?” Frank asked.

“You said he’d turn over in his grave. I just …”

Phil put his arm around her. “She’s not smart, but she sure is beautiful,” he told Frank by way of excuse, then gave Tracie a long, wet kiss.