BLACK to Reality (10 page)

“I got all the cat stuff. You want it up in your room?”

“Sure. I’ll be up in a few. Throw it on the bed, and I’ll set it up when I get there.”

Black spent a half hour with Mugsy’s new setup while the cat played with his new toys and eyed the food dish every few minutes. Once the kitty litter box was deployed, Black opened a can of food, spooned it into the bowl, and poured a healthy portion of hard food around it. Mugsy moved like Ali, a tabby blur, and was devouring the meal so fast Black was afraid of losing a finger. The bowl was clean within three minutes, and Mugsy trailed Black to his chair by the terrace, sat down next to him, and burped and passed gas simultaneously.

“Jesus, Mugsy. Why? Tell me – why?”

Mugsy burped again, and then his legs seemed to buckle, and he collapsed by Black’s side, asleep before his head hit the ground. Black watched him, more than familiar with his post-prandial habits, and grunted. Mugsy would be out for at least a couple of hours. He was far too lazy to try to leap from the terrace down to the ground floor, so leaving the pocket doors open was safe – no way was Black going to let the flatulent mouser gas him out of the room. Ed was back in the pool, splashing around with his new friends, the rappers nowhere to be seen, and Black decided that Mugsy had the right idea – a nap was just the ticket.

He bolted awake when Ed returned an hour and a half later.

“Hey, dude. Rehearsal in ten. I’m just gonna hose off and throw on some clothes. I’ll be ready in two shakes. Peter’s downstairs, and I guess Christina’s already in the rehearsal studio with Rooster.”

“I’ll go down and introduce myself. See you there.”

Black carted his guitar down to the great room, where a tall, thin man in his early thirties sporting two feet of straight dirty-brown hair was sitting on the couch reading the paper, a soda on the table in front of him. He looked up when Black arrived and carefully folded the newspaper before rising – typical anal-retentive bass player behavior, Black thought.

“Peter? I’m Black. Nice to meet you.”

Peter was the opposite of Ed, all angles and restraint. His handshake felt dry and crisp, his fingers long and delicate, which matched his birdlike appearance.

“Nice to meet you too. We’ve all heard a lot about you from Rooster.”

“I hope I can live up to his buildup.”

“That makes two of us.”

Peter obviously wasn’t impressed, or if he was, he was doing a stellar job of hiding it.

“How long have you been in the band?” Black asked as he took a seat across from him.

“Last Call? Six years. Christina’s my sister, so I’ve been in pretty much every band she’s ever played in.”

“Wow. That’s a while. You must have a lot of material by now.”

“Over forty songs.”

“A lot of albums.”

“They don’t call them that anymore.”

“Huh. I missed the memo.”

Peter took a sip of his soda. “What about you? What have you been doing?”

Black shifted nervously. “Oh, this and that. I have a little business I run. Haven’t played for a long time. After I left the band, I kind of lost my taste for it. I tried producing for a few years, but it wasn’t for me.” He frowned. “Takes a special kind to sit behind the board sixteen hours a day.”

“I have a twenty-four-track recording studio.”

Black wondered whether the meeting could go any worse. “That’s cool. Must be convenient for songwriting and doing demos.”

“It is.”

Black asked questions about the kind of equipment he used, what kind of bass guitars, his amps, but Peter wasn’t the friendliest, and Black was relieved when Ed came bouncing down the stairs.

“He’s here!” Ed said and high-fived Black. Peter made no move to join in the fun.

Black glanced at his watch and stood. “Right on time. Where’s the studio?”

“They set up the carriage house on the other end of the grounds,” Peter explained.

“Oh, so we’re walking. Okay. Lead the way.”

Christina was sitting with Rooster when they swung the door open. She gave Black the once-over as Rooster jumped to his feet and made introductions. Christina was friendlier than Peter, but only slightly, and Black guessed it ran in the family – probably not a lot of happy Christmases in their past.

“So you’re the guy we’ve been hearing all about. Nice to meet you, Jim,” Christina said. Black was struck by how beautiful she was in person, and how small. If she was more than five feet tall, he’d have been surprised, although she filled out her jeans and tank commendably.

“And you as well. I’m a fan – I’ve checked out a lot of your stuff on YouTube. You’ve got a great voice.”

“Thanks. But that only goes so far. We need to really rock this season if we’re going to win.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

After a few minutes of small talk, Rooster suggested that they play together, warming up on some blues standards. Black took his time setting up his amp to get the sound he wanted, tweaking the gain for just the right amount of distortion when he opened up his guitar for leads.

An hour later they broke for a bathroom visit, and Christina pulled Rooster aside, agitated. Black could hear her whispering, and it was obvious she was concerned.

“He’s not going to work, Rooster. Listen to him. He’s flailing.”

“Sweetheart, give it some time. This is just the first day. Everyone’s getting used to things. Trust me – he’ll do fine,” Rooster said.

Black approached them and addressed Christina. “I know that was rough. It’s been a while. But it’s getting better as we go along. Ed’s a hell of a drummer, and Peter’s solid as a rock.”

She turned to Black, leveling a dark gaze at him. “That’s not going to do us much good if you’re not a hundred and ten percent when we hit the stage.”

“I know. I’m going to be spending the next two weeks practicing. I know I kind of suck right now. And I don’t intend to go on television and suck. I’m not oblivious. I’ll do what needs to be done.”

“Black was one of the best. An amazing player,” Rooster added.

“
Was
,” Christina said, refusing to thaw. “What have you done for me lately?”

“Come on, baby, lighten up. We all got to make this work, so hit me with some positive vibes, will you? This is only day one. We’ve got time,” Rooster countered.

“Hey, dude, awesome chops,” Ed said, returning from the bathroom. Peter had left the building to have a cigarette outside.

“Thanks, Ed. You keep a mean beat.”

“Can you sing any better than you can play?” Christina cut in, eyeing Black.

“Sure. Backgrounds. You heard me all over the record if you ever listened to it.”

“The studio can lie.”

He nodded. “Yes, it can. But I can sing.” Black rubbed his face, now annoyed at Christina’s belligerence. She had a right to be worried, but not to be a complete ass, and he wasn’t going to let her walk all over him. It was time to draw a line. “Listen, Christina, I know this hasn’t gotten off on the right foot. I’m sorry. But in all fairness, I’ve sold twenty-something million records. That’s got to count for something.”

“Maybe to some. But that’s your career. Mine’s hinging on winning this show. Last year, my guitar player cost me everything. I’m not going to let that happen again.”

“I totally understand. Come on. Let’s give this another try. See if we can make some magic happen,” Black said, and Rooster winked at him, nodding.

“You heard the man. Time to earn your fame and fortune. Let’s make some noise!”

Chapter 11

True to his word, Black spent most of his time in his room or the rehearsal studio, practicing, running scales, dialing his tone. Rehearsals were getting better every evening, and by the end of the first week the band was hitting its stride. They’d been assigned a standard for their first round, selected at random, but one that Black knew, and it was sounding good – “Chain of Fools” by Aretha Franklin, which gave Christina a chance to show off. Peter had loosened up by the time the second weekend together rolled around, and actually seemed happy with Black now that he was coming up to speed. Ed was just Ed and would have been delighted under any circumstances, Black suspected. He approached life with the wonder of a child, and Black was glad he was rooming with him instead of Peter.

The first team-building challenge had been completely stupid – running an obstacle course in a relay race. Black’s team had been composed at random with members from all eight bands, and he was hard-pressed to care much about it, but put on a game face for the cameras even though he’d have rather been boiled in oil.

Evenings were spent hanging out with the other bands at the house, which wasn’t rough duty. Love Jupiter pranced for the cameras in swimsuits at every turn, and the members of Knife  Edge, from Ireland, seemed bound and determined to show the American audience how the rock lifestyle was done across the pond, and were usually inebriated but lively and extremely funny to talk with. Any one of them could have been a comedian, and Black realized as he headed into week two that he was actually enjoying himself, except for the constant intrusive filming.

Sarah had okayed a shopping outing in Los Angeles to get a proper rock wardrobe for the upcoming first show, and Lou had taken him, along with Christina, to several shops that specialized in stage wear. When they emerged from the second store, Black was wearing skinny-legged black pants and a paisley shirt that would have been right at home on Mick Jagger circa 1972, with a bag full of similar gear. He’d gradually gotten more used to his appearance and now didn’t cringe whenever he caught sight of himself in a mirror, which he supposed was an improvement, if not much of one.

Black was looking forward to seeing Sylvia tomorrow. Sunday was taking forever to arrive, but the two times he’d called her, she’d sounded distant and annoyed. Despite his hope that she would get over the initial anger that had flared after he’d broken the news, she’d apparently stayed mad, and he was eager to reconnect in case she might thaw once they were back together. Lou had made a dinner reservation for them at an upscale restaurant in Malibu, and Black was counting the minutes until she arrived.

When they got back to the house, Christina changed into a bikini whose bottom was little more than a thong. Black slipped into a pair of baggy surfer shorts and a short-sleeve button-up shirt with ebony skulls – one of his new acquisitions from his shopping spree. When Christina joined him by the pool, where Love Jupiter was frolicking for the cameras, he noted that she could have been a lingerie model, no problem, even given her diminutive stature. Christina, as with all the women on the show, had been encouraged by the producers to show skin on a regular basis, and even though she’d confessed to Black that she hated that aspect of the job, she did so with apparent abandon. If you wanted to win, you had to play the game, and Christina wanted to win more than anything – she’d made that abundantly clear.

Christina stretched like a cat as she applied suntan oil, her lithe body toned and hard as a gymnast’s while the cameras soaked in the spectacle. Across the pool the Love Jupiter girls were playing with Mugsy, whom they doted on like their corpulent child. Mugsy adored the constant attention and had even refrained from shredding any of the furniture – a minor miracle to Black, who awoke each morning cringing at what devastation he’d be greeted with. But so far, nothing. Mugsy was on his best behavior, which consisted mainly of overeating and sleeping when not being filmed or fondled.

Ed sidled up poolside in bright red shorts and a cheesy rayon Hawaiian shirt emblazoned with tiki gods, and plopped down next to Black after a glance at Christina. “Hey, dawg. Nice to see you soaking up the rays. I thought you were a vampire or something,” he said as he cracked open a tall boy and held it aloft in a cheer.

“Just playing a lot.”

Ed gulped a third of the can in a few swallows and sighed appreciatively. “Whoa, Christina, that suit should be illegal. Hubbada hubbada.”

“Put your eyes back in your head, smut boy. This is for our ratings, not for you,” she murmured without lifting her head.

“I’d give it a solid ten. Just saying,” Ed said, winking at Black. “But what do we have here? Korea’s in the house. Also contenders, looking at their getups. It’s a great time to be alive, isn’t it, Black?”

“Never better.” Black yawned and sneaked another admiring glance at the Koreans. “You worried about the first round next week?”

Ed shook his head. “Nah. Been there, done that. My guess is the Irish lads get sent packing. They haven’t done much rehearsing, and the coach they were assigned looks angry every time they come out of the studio.”

“What about our rapper buddies?” Black asked, peering over the tops of his shades at Lavon and SnM sipping champagne and chatting with Yoon Ji and her friends, who appeared puzzled by the conversation.

“Beats me. But rap’s usually a tough sell unless they’re something really special. I’m not worried. We would have won last year, and the competition was stiff. This ain’t no thang.”

“And the beer certainly helps.”

“That it does. Soothes my delicate nerves, dude.”

After a few hours, Black began feeling like a lobster and retired inside, where he had one of three beers he allowed himself each day as he watched the big-screen TV. Lou was in the kitchen, fixing himself a snack, and joined Black when he switched to Animal Planet.

“How’s it hanging, Lou?”

“Oh, you know. Just another day in paradise.”

“Was it like this last year, too?”

“Nah, different dynamic. I like this group better.”

“Did Last Call stay here last season?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell you, I never get tired of Christina in a swimsuit.”

“What about Rick? Did you know him very well?”

“Yeah. He was all right. Cool dude. Just a regular guy, you know? No attitude.”

“Were you surprised when he blew it?”

“Kind of. I mean, he was flawless right up until that last show, and then, bam, he chokes. Nobody could have predicted that. But I got to tell you, talk about fireworks in the house – after that, he couldn’t get out of here fast enough. I seriously thought Christina was going to kill him.”