He glanced over at Callie in the passenger seat of his pickup truck. She was sound asleep with her head pressed against the glass of the side window. She looked so youthful and pretty when she was asleep. Her dreadlocks were pulled back, and her face looked soft and vulnerable. She wasn’t accustomed to their late hours and had taken to napping whenever the opportunity presented itself. Bryan smiled. She was a game one, all right. This lifestyle was difficult to say the least, but she had hung in there with them through fights, temper tantrums, and hours only the local winos kept. But now they were headed home. Something about that seemed so right. Home with Callie. His grin grew wider; he wondered if she knew she snored.
* * *
Callie awoke with a start, disoriented. It took a moment to recall that she was at Bryan’s house in Venice Beach. When they first arrived, she had been surprised at the grittiness of the neighborhood in which Bryan had chosen to live. She’d assumed that he would live in Malibu or even Carmel, but she should’ve known that an alternative rock superstar wouldn’t live in such sanitized surroundings. The edginess and eclectic nature of Venice Beach suited him far better than any ritzy upscale neighborhood. In Venice Beach multimillionaires rubbed shoulders with street performers, seemingly in comfortable accord. She’d never seen anything like it, though of course, she’d actually seen very little of it.
They had arrived late the previous Saturday, and since then she had not gotten to bed before three o’clock in the morning. She couldn’t believe how hard the band worked. So much for the glamour of drugs, sex, and rock and roll. She and Tonya had worked to the point of and beyond physical exhaustion many times when they first opened their store, but at least they weren’t required to sound good while they did it. She’d always dismissed rockers as a bunch of overpaid, spoiled brats, and that element certainly had a presence. But the brats weren’t successful for long. Maintaining a career in this industry took nothing less than selfless dedication. As a small business owner, she could respect hard work, and these people made promoters of the Protestant work ethic look like slackers. Today, if she was right and it was Wednesday, they’d be auditioning a new guitarist, and she was sure that would result in more endless sessions.
The tribute concert was on Saturday, and while the band seemed ready for that performance, she could tell that Bryan was anxious about hiring a replacement for Brodie. They apparently had a number of candidates. The band seemed to be more concerned about chemistry than with actual talent. Bryan was adamant that guitar licks could be learned, but he didn’t want some jerk to come in and ruin their already fragile vibe. They’d even briefly toyed with the idea of going with just Bryan on lead guitar, but most of their music had been written with two leads, many with difficult contrapuntal harmonies. Those would be impossible to duplicate without another guitarist.
She glanced over at the clock. It was almost ten o’clock. Despite the late hours, she knew Bryan had already been up for quite a while. Apparently he needed very little sleep. She hadn’t kept such hours since she first opened the bookstore, and even then she hadn’t sustained the brutal pace for long. Bryan had probably already gone for a run by now, and was almost certainly in the kitchen preparing what she had come to think of as a typical L.A. breakfast: fruit smoothies, fresh fruit, and whole-grain muffins. She just couldn’t understand how celebrities could be so obsessed with healthy foods and at the same time use enough illegal substances to undo any benefit. She shook her head as she stretched and got out of bed. Oh, the life of a rock star.
* * *
After her shower, Callie padded barefoot into Bryan’s kitchen. She really liked his house, just as he’d told her she would. Small compared to some of the celebrity homes she’d seen on television and in magazines, it had only three bedrooms and two baths. Given Bryan’s penchant for the color black, she’d been surprised to see that the house had been done in very soothing neutral shades, with subtle touches of sage green. The guest bedroom where she was staying soothed the senses with lush green tones, and reminded Callie of the fern forest at a botanical garden she’d once visited. Like most of the houses in this area, it was designed to take advantage of the ocean view, and the den had French doors that opened directly onto the beach. The ocean view with the Santa Monica mountains further up the coast was breathtaking. The only hint that a rock star lived there was the four Grammys in the den, an absurd amount of electronic equipment, and, of course, the guitar picks that were scattered throughout the house.
Callie couldn’t understand it. Bryan littered every room of the house with guitar picks, yet he seemed to be on a perpetual quest to find them. She’d even found one in the refrigerator, and suspected there was one in the coffee canister, but he’d snatched the container away before she had a chance to check it out. Bryan did some production work at home, using his Macintosh computer. In the interest of self-protection he hadn’t put in a studio for fear he’d never leave home, instead spending all his time mixing and re-mixing music, probably never finishing a recording. Having lived in the house with him for a week, Callie could certainly understand the problem. Bryan would be better off doing his recording in a studio, where there would be “people” to help him keep up with his equipment.
Though she had teased him about it, Callie couldn’t believe that he really did have a full-time staff person that he paid to do all those pesky little things he didn’t want to be bothered with. She’d met his personal assistant, Kelly, earlier that week. To paraphrase the perky redhead, her job responsibilities included everything from aspirin to Zeppelin. As in Led Zeppelin, she’d clarified for Callie’s benefit. After all, given the level of self-indulgence in this town, it would not have been at all surprising if Bryan had an airship stashed somewhere. Cataloguing his massive CD collection was another one of her tasks. Fortunately, she seemed to be up to the job. Her tiny frame bristled with energy, from her bright red hair in its short, spiky cut to her curvy, little toes that were resplendent in multicolored nail polish. On the day they met, she wore a bright pink denim jacket with matching capri pants. Callie would have thought such a bright color would clash with Kelly’s vivid coloring, but somehow it didn’t. Everything about Kelly from her incandescent smile to her bouncy walk and infectious enthusiasm for her work just screamed ex-cheerleader. For some reason, perhaps her bubbly effervescence, or the nail polish, she made Callie think of a Rainbow Brite doll she’d had years ago. She was the first female acquaintance of Bryan’s Callie had met who didn’t have any romantic interest in him. Their camaraderie, built over years of working together, was that of brother and sister. It was fun to watch her take care of him. Callie was fascinated when Kelly told her that, along with her many other tasks such as picking up dry cleaning, arranging his schedule, and maintaining his truck, she was also responsible for keeping up with Bryan’s keys. Callie stored that little nugget of information for later use. When she’d teased him about it before, he’d never let on that he really did have someone to do that for him.
Casually dressed in loose cotton knit shorts and a T-shirt, Callie halted abruptly when she noted B.T. sitting at the kitchen table. She had met Bryan’s colorful manager the previous Saturday when they arrived, but had not seen him since. Given his good-old-boy guise she’d expected some type of reaction from him about her being black. But if he had any concerns in that area he had not expressed them during their long ride from the airport to Bryan’s house. Of course, he had been so busy berating Bryan for all manner of shortcomings, some going back ten years, that he might simply have run out of breath before he got to the race issue.
Bryan was standing at the counter, as she’d suspected, making a breakfast smoothie. B.T. was scolding him for the lack of “real food” in the house. Bryan turned when Callie came in. “Good morning, Callie. Want a smoothie and a muffin?”
Callie walked past him to the coffee maker. “If you had any humanity at all, Bryan, you wouldn’t keep a girl out all night and then expect her to start her day drinking something that looks like algae.”
B.T. laughed in approval. “Just like I told you, Bryan, get some bacon and eggs in this house. Nobody wants to drink that green crap but you.” He paused. “Now don’t forget that Maria is expecting you two at the house tonight for dinner.”
“For crying out loud, B.T., you know we’ve got the auditions,” Bryan responded irritably
“Look, son, this is my wife we’re talking about here. You know how she is. I made the mistake of telling her that you brought a decent girl back with you from Alabama and now nothing will do but you bring Callie to meet her. She’s expecting y’all at six.”
Bryan shook his head, knowing that telling Maria “no” was fruitless. “Well, we won’t be able to stay for long.”
Callie gave them both an exasperated look. She was definitely not up for meeting the woman that Bryan considered to be his mother. “Uh, guys…”
B.T. stood up and started moving towards the back door. “I guess I’ll be on my way.”
“Are you stopping by the auditions?” Bryan began sipping his smoothie.
“Yeah, I’ll be there for awhile, but I’ve got lots of appointments today,” B.T. replied as he walked out the door.
Callie raised her voice. “Bryan, did it occur to you that I might not want to have dinner with B.T. and Maria tonight?”
Bryan shook his head. “Do you think I do? But I don’t think we really have a choice in the matter, Callie. Maria’s been like a mother to me. I can’t hurt her feelings.” Or piss her off, he added to himself. He’d been on the receiving end of Maria’s tongue lashings before. Though generally sweet and loving, Maria clearly wore the pants in the Breedlove home. B.T. always responded good-naturedly when he was teased for being henpecked and would usually reply with a big grin, “Y’all just remember that a hen only pecks one rooster, and I’m the cock of the walk.”
Callie took one of the muffins Bryan offered and sat at the table with her coffee. “What time do auditions start?”
“Not until about two, so we’ve got a little time to look around the neighborhood. This is really an interesting place. I think you’ll like it a lot.”
* * *
After breakfast Callie and Bryan wandered around Venice Beach. Callie had wanted to look particularly cute for Bryan and wore denim shorts and a knitted top that showed occasional glimpses of her midriff when she moved. She could see the appreciation in his eyes as he stared, seemingly fixated on her bare legs. As they descended the steps to the street, he realized that her midriff was exposed when she moved and immediately took her hand in his. He held onto it the entire time they were sightseeing, not releasing her unless it was absolutely necessary. Callie didn’t really mind, though she felt obligated to make a principled objection. She was amused that he was being so possessive when there were so many women clad in considerably less.
Of course, Callie didn’t relish the sight of the scantily clad women who wandered the street. She wondered at the bravery of women willing to roller blade in thong bikinis. She’d regularly glance at Bryan to see if he was checking out the view, but he seemed to be quite blasé about the whole thing.
Venice Beach was like nothing Callie had seen in her life. Often she was left staring in wide-eyed amazement at the many street performers. Terrified that he would lose a limb, Callie couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man juggling chainsaws, and another one balancing women on his chin. She just couldn’t take it all in. They posed to have their portrait done in pastels by a street artist who was amazingly quick. He sketched them in fewer than ten minutes, somehow managing to capture the essence of their personalities in just a few brief strokes. Much to her surprise, no one harassed Bryan, though any number of people recognized him. He explained that as a resident, people respected his privacy and kept their distance. It was another thing he loved about the neighborhood. Besides, Callie thought, with some of the antics going on in the streets, having a rock star walking around seemed almost mundane.
Bryan enjoyed seeing everything through Callie’s eyes. Her excitement and wonder brought new life to what had become all too commonplace to him. He had noticed her attempts to catch him checking out the other women and couldn’t help feeling slightly smug at her uncharacteristic display of jealousy. Finally, with her hand still held firmly in his own, they reluctantly returned to his home.
The Breedlove home epitomized what Callie had expected of the Hollywood lifestyle. A large, Spanish colonial-style bungalow, it had a traditional terra-cotta tile roof. The lush, tropical landscaping lent the home an inviting and restful facade that in no way minimized the glamour of the setting. Set back from the street with a wrought-iron gate and a long approach ending in a circular driveway, it was the type of place that might be seen on Entertainment Tonight. On the other hand, Maria Breedlove was nothing like Callie expected. Given that the woman had to handle a character like B.T., not to mention Bryan with his sometimes difficult personality, Callie expected her to be large and imposing. Instead, Maria was a tiny woman who barely reached Callie’s shoulder. She flitted around the room, reminding Callie of the small brown wrens that made themselves at home outside her apartment window. She and B.T. made an incongruous couple, she small and delicate, he large and brusque in his standard seersucker suit and a giant cigar clenched firmly in his teeth. Maria was admonishing Bryan now for not coming to see her more often.