Fan Girl Page 4

  After my shower, I text Redy back and tell him my virginity is safe until the weekend.

  Chapter 6

  Stacie and I go shopping for the perfect outfit. Then she schools me on dancing, making sure my moves are up to par, and we dance around the house for days. Redy has consistently sent me bad jokes, and I’m still going to yoga. It’s growing on me.

  Friday night I dress in black suede ankle boots, leather skinny pants, and a sleeveless shirt that has panthers on it. My hair goes up in a high ponytail because I’ve heard it gets hot. I practice my night makeup, and it doesn’t turn out too bad. We hit the club at ten thirty, which according to the all-knowing Stacie is the optimum time. Early enough to still get a good spot on the dance floor, but not be all alone out there. We start out dancing together, and it turns out I’m a fast learner so guys are getting all up in my space in no time. I weed out the ones I don’t want by turning my back and stepping into another guy. That guy then takes the hint and moves his arms around me, and if a cuter guy comes along I move to him.

  This is gospel as spoken from the mouth of ‘Stacie the Experienced’. I refuse to be the giggling, hair-flipping ditz, but it’s good to know how to get rid of a guy if you need to. Stacie and I don’t pay for drinks all night, and I wind up getting wasted and passing out. When I come to, I’m in a bed I don’t know with an arm around me that I don’t recognize.

  I stare at it for a long time. What. In. The. Hell. Happened? The hand that’s attached to the arm twitches and I scramble out of the bed, noting aches and pains I really didn’t want to feel after blacking out. Finding my shirt and pants on the floor in a pile, I run to the bathroom to get dressed. When I look in the mirror, I recoil in horror. I have raccoon eyes from sleeping in my eye makeup, and my ponytail is on the side of my head. I quickly wash my face and redo the pony, then crack the bathroom door open. The arm hasn’t moved.

  I spy my purse and shoes by the chair next to the door, so I swoop those up and run out of the apartment as fast as I can. Once I get the front door open, I take a deep breath and try to figure out what to do next. I put my shoes on and go down two flights of stairs before sitting on the landing outside of the lobby doors.

  It’s not a place that has a doorman or anything, but you do need a key. I pull out my phone and see it’s four forty-five in the morning. There are no cars on the road, so I unlock my phone to call a cab. There is a message waiting from Redy.

  RedyGo: So did your virginity get lost?

  I look around and, not seeing anybody, decide I have time to text him back really quick. I squeeze my internal muscles and note the soreness. Ugh, not how I pictured this going down.

  DirtyDozen: Yup pretty sure.

  He replies immediately, which is surprising because it’s really late… or early, depending on where he is.

  RedyGo: Did he not do it right or do you not remember??

  DirtyDozen: Don’t remember.

  RedyGo: That could be good then, as long as you used a condom. First time is supposed to hurt.

  I rip my purse open frantically and dump it out on the sidewalk in a panic. I go through everything three times before writing him back.

  DirtyDozen: I can’t find it!

  RedyGo: The condom? Did you put it in your pocket or something? That’s good btw. Means you used it.

  DirtyDozen: MAYBE!!!!!!!!!

  RedyGo: So don’t get so drunk next time. Duh.

  DirtyDozen: I’m sitting outside on a landing Redy. It’s almost 5 in the morning. Can you not be snarky with me?

  I feel tears starting to pool in my eyes.

  RedyGo: Shit you’re emotional aren’t you? Ok tell me where you are and I’ll call you a cab.

  DirtyDozen: I can call myself a cab.

  RedyGo: You can. Or you can cry or whatever you’re doing and I’ll call.

  I sniff and blink back the tears. I am not crying.

  DirtyDozen: Or you could be a freak and come here to kill me.

  RedyGo: I’m not on the east coast DD.

  I tap my phone against my leg and debate what to do.

  DirtyDozen: I’m calling. I can’t take getting dead tonight.

  RedyGo: That’s a smart decision even if I’m not a killer. Let me know when you get in.

  He really was a nice guy. I search on my phone for the right number and call to get picked up. When I get to my apartment, I see Stacie didn’t make it home either. I text her asking her to let me know that she’s okay, then take a shower. After that, I text Redy to tell him I made it, then crash.

  When I wake up the next morning I look at the clock on my nightstand. It’s noon, and I want to die. My head is pounding, and my mouth feels like there’s cotton in it. I slowly sit up and swallow back the spit that pools in my mouth. Nausea. I am officially hung over. I drag my feet and shuffle into the kitchen for some aspirin and water. Stacie is passed out on the couch, and she looks like I feel. She’s in the fetal position so I plop down on the side of the sofa jostling her. She groans.

  “Rough night?” I ask her quietly.

  She opens one eye. “Did you get drunk, too? All I remember is great sex, then I woke up and was here.”

  I take a deep breath. “It looks like I had sex too, I just don’t remember. I’m never drinking again. Ever.”

  She bolts up to sitting, then grabs her head and falls back down. “What was in those drinks? I can’t believe you aren’t a virgin anymore! And you don’t remember?”

  I shrug. “It’s not a big deal, I just wanted it done, and it’s supposed to hurt anyway the first time. Better to not remember, I say.”

  “Oh my God did you use protection?”

  I nod. “I’m pretty sure. The condom in my purse is gone, but I didn’t stay around and look for a wrapper. I didn’t even see the guy’s face before I left. I think I just became a slut.”

  She laughs at me and groans again. “You aren’t a slut; let’s just not drink so much. I think it hit us both at the same time. We aren’t regular drinkers. I was feeling good until I wasn’t anymore.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s how it goes. Maybe we should build up a tolerance at home and become wine connoisseurs,” I suggest.

  She holds out her hand for me to high five. “Deal.”

  Chapter 7

  And so we do. We drink on the weekends, but only wine, and only at our house. We make plans to move back to L.A. and watch LA Ink obsessively. It seems like a genius plan. I ask Reed to put out some feelers for some good artists that would want to take a chance on us. Naturally all we get back are women, but it’s a start.

  After I graduate, Stacie and I pack up everything we own and drive to L.A. Stacie has been done with school for six months and working full-time for Reed, but she has always said she wants to go with me to manage the shop. I liquidate some of my investments to buy the perfect shop on a busy street in L.A. Stacie and I go to antique marts and low key shops to decorate it, and I hire eight girls to work for me. I thought it weird at first, but women are more willing I guess, to take a chance on another woman starting a tattoo shop with nothing to show for it but a portfolio.

  Stacie and I rent a condo close to the beach and split the rent. Stacie’s parents didn’t disown off so she talks me into making the drive to see my parents, now that I have a pretty piece of paper that says I’m not a screw up.

  When we pull up to the house, there’s a For Sale sign in the front yard and it looks vacant. The grass needs mowing, and there are no curtains in the windows. Not what I was expecting. Maybe I expected an adopted kid so they could try again for the perfect child. God knows they’re too old to have one naturally. When I get out to look, I see through the windows there’s no furniture either. Moved. Huh.

  After getting back in the car, Stacie holds my hand. “It’s okay. I’m sure my dad can find out where they moved to.”

  I shake my head. No way. “If they wanted me to know where they were, they would have let me know themselves. It’s done now.”

  I
don’t know how I feel. Certainly letdown, but kind of relieved that I won’t have to face their judgment. I wanted them to see the new me, but thinking about it, trading obesity for tattoos may not have been seen as a positive life change to people like them. Not to mention the Dawson’s didn’t leave them any money. It all came to me. Maybe that’s when they moved.

  Stacie drives us to her parents’ house on the other side of town. They have a huge house, a mansion really. Her parents give us both hugs at the door, and I relish the feeling of familial affection. Bobby is in the kitchen when we walk in, messing with his laptop.

  He’s still the same Bobby. Tight pants, ripped shirt, leather jacket, and biker boots. He’s forgone the eyeliner these days though, and doesn’t dye his hair black anymore. It’s a sandy brown color now, and longer on top. He has it styled to fall in his eyes when he looks down.

  He flicks his head back to move his hair when he sees us come in. “Whoa, Ali! You look better now than when I saw you a few months ago! Still think the ink is hot, too.”

  That’s one thing that got weird. Bobby, the honorary older brother, changed into a guy on the make when I lost my weight. I don’t think he’s serious about it, but his eyes are definitely open.

  “Honestly Robert, can you not hit on Alaina when she’s in our home. Where are your manners?” Stacie’s mom asks him. He shrugs and turns back to his laptop.

  I look over his shoulder and see they’re concert pictures he’s editing. “How’s work?” I ask him.

  He glances at me, then back to his computer. “Really good. The band hires me to take pictures of the tour then I do magazine work on the side. We just wrapped, so I’m trying to get these ready for the website.”

  I shake my head, still finding it hard to believe he’s so successful. From roadie to photographer. I never saw it coming.

  “I was bummed I couldn’t make the show here. We just couldn’t make the drive fast enough,” I tell him.

  He nods. “It was a great show, but you got to see the MSG one a few months ago. That should hold you over for a while,” he jokes.

  “Ha. Ha. Ha,” I tell him drolly.

  Rolling Bridges is going into the studio to cut their next album, so they should be home for the next few months. Then it’s off on another tour. Bobby turns his attention fully on me. “I wish you would let me tell them to pull you up again. I think they would shit their pants if they saw you now.”

  I feel instantly that all the blood has drained from my face. “No.” I shake my head. “I’m good with seeing them play. I don’t want to see them in person, though. They have millions of fans now. They don’t need to remember me.”

  When the YouTube website is developed, I upload all of my videos on to the website. Over the past eight years I’ve been to a lot of shows. There are more than two hundred videos now showcasing the band’s journey to success, one gig at a time. My stage performance is on there as well. I uploaded everything in chronological order and decided I would put it on the internet for the world to see as motivation. I would never go back to that. Of course that’s when I thought I’d have an imminent reunion with my family. Now though, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen happening.

  When we get back to the condo I lock myself in my room and text Redy.

  DirtyDozen: Parents suck

  It takes him twenty minutes to write back, so I sketch in my notebook while I wait.

  RedyGo: Mine are pretty solid. What’s up?

  DirtyDozen: Mine moved. I haven’t spoken to them since I left for college but now there’s a for sale sign on their house

  RedyGo: That’s fucked up. I’m guessing they weren’t nice to begin with. Think maybe you’re better off?

  I consider this.

  DirtyDozen: Considering how screwed up I was when I lived with them, yes. I guess I expected things to change. I don’t know.

  RedyGo: So have any hot dates lately?

  DirtyDozen: LOL nice segue. No time for dates. I’ve got to get the shop up. U?

  RedyGo: Shop? I have one later. I’m so bored with first dates though.

  DirtyDozen: I’m opening up my own tattoo shop. Why are you bored?

  RedyGo: Cause I believe in knowing the one when you find her. There are millions of girls out there and I end up with the stupid ones every time.

  DirtyDozen: LOL what’s your screening process? Or do you just tap shoulders and hand out your number?

  RedyGo: Hell no they don’t get my number! You’re thinking like a girl. I pick the numbers out of my pocket at random.

  DirtyDozen: LMAO shut up! No wonder you can’t find someone with a brain. Who just hands their number out?

  RedyGo: Obviously not me, or you for that matter.

  DirtyDozen: I’m one in a million

  RedyGo: I know this. I need to get back to work. Later.

  Chapter 8

  2013

  Four years of practical slave labor launches my tattoo shop, Shell Distortion, into a huge success. We have a waiting list months long, and I have my own interns now. Stacie is my assistant manager and fellow tattoo artist. I have six girls on the noon to six shift, and six girls and two bodyguards on the six to midnight shift. It works out that all of my artists are girls, which is something that we’re known for now. We all get two days off of work a week, one of which is Sunday because we are closed. Business is excellent, so a couple years ago I redecorated and spiffed the place up. In fact, it’s so good I’ve had offers for my own reality show. I don’t know about going through with it though, because of what it did to the other reality L.A. star after the first season. I don’t need made up drama in my shop when we are currently working like a well-oiled machine.

  I did end up buying a sweet new car though, and Stacie got her own apartment, leaving the condo to me. But I’m still a workaholic. It’s New Year’s Eve and Stacie is begging me to go out to the new club at the Ritz. She’s been on my case since Thanksgiving about this club that’s in the basement of the hotel.

  I try one last time. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  She spins around knowing she won. “I already bought you a dress!” She pulls out a garment bag that was in the very back of my closet, and I scowl at her for having the audacity to hide it there.

  “Oh stop it, you’re just pissed you didn’t notice it back there.” She would be right. It’s a white freaking bag, how did I not see it? She unzips it and with a ‘ta-da’ unveils a short black dress with long sleeves. When she flips it around, I see there’s no back. I shake my head. She talks over me before I can even get a word in. “Ali Dawson! You have a huge sexy back piece that no one gets to see!”

  I shoot back, “They do, too! I go to the beach as much as I can. People see it.”

  “You are wearing this dress, young lady. Now get in the shower and shave.”

  I glare at her before walking to my bathroom and slamming the door.

  I’ve been working my ass off for four years to make sure I didn’t fail. The only times I’ve taken off have been three-day jaunts to see Rolling Bridges in different countries, just because I can, and when Reed’s wife died. I’ve been worried about him. We got really close during my stay in New York. Stacie would go home to see her parents, and I would spend the holidays with Reed and Doris. She was the matching set to him. Reed is a gruff man, but wasn’t when he was with her. Doris was an enigmatic woman, who had a heart attack one day while in the grocery store. Tragic isn’t adequate to describe a sixty-two-year-old woman running out for bread and collapsing in the checkout lane.

  Shaking off my thoughts, I get in the shower and curl my hair a la Victoria Secret style. Windblown, just out of bed, wild and wavy. My makeup is the perfected nighttime, smoky look. Dark eyelids, highlighted cheekbones, and shiny lips. The dress is taunting me from the back of the bathroom door where Stacie put it after I got in the tub. I pull it down and grudgingly tug it on.

  The cut in the front is high so there’s no cleavage on show. The sleeves are long
and tight down my arms, so it totally covers my sleeve tattoo. It’s a short dress, and half of the sugar skull on the top of my thigh shows. That tattoo is made up entirely of flowers. I turn to look at the back and my eyes bug out. I have an intricately woven piece on my back that Reed did. It’s all black and a mix between Celtic, tribal, and paisley designs. Right where a bra clasp would go there’s a lotus flower in red as tribute to my grandparents. The piece goes from middle shoulder blades to the small of my back.

  The dress is so low I have to tuck the thong straps down a little so they aren’t visible. I open the door and level my glare on Stacie.

  She pops up from the bed with chrome-looking stiletto heels in her hands. “These are the shoes. That dress looks even better than I thought it would. You are going to get a New Year’s kiss, and we’re going to start this year off right!”

  I roll my eyes at her, put on the shoes, and we head out.

  Stacie has curled half of her jet black hair into fifties style curls that make big loops on the sides of her head with the rest down her back. She’s got on a fire engine red strapless dress with a wide poofy skirt that has black tool underneath. Red and black peep-toe pumps with skulls on the heels complete her outfit.

  We get valet parking and make our way to the elevators for the club. When we get to the doors, I see Stacie pull out her ID and gesture to me behind her. What is she doing? The guy at the door checks his clipboard and stamps our hands. I’m staring at her like she needs to spill her guts or I’m going to do it for her. But she’s apparently immune to my death beams, because she just takes off dragging me behind her. Instantly my heart starts vibrating with the bass of the music, and I’ve lost the chance to figure out what she’s up to.

  We end up at a velvet rope with a huge security guard standing in front of it. She shows her ID again, and he checks our hands with a black light before undoing the rope and letting us climb the stairs.