Hey Girl (Turn it Up #9)

Chapter 1

1

CHRIS

I ’m jolted awake, my heart pounding out several hard, startled beats as the opening chords of Crazy Bitch by Buck Cherry blast from my phone. My eyelids fly open despite the sleep that had them sealed shut like rubber cement.

Ow. That kind of hurt a little. But I have no time to worry about that or the fact that my surroundings are shifting from one side to the other as I squint against the daylight, frantically fumbling for any clothing I can find. Because the sound of Josh Todd wailing that infamous song from my phone can only mean one thing:

Tatiana.

I have my ringtone set to alert me when that…well… crazy bitch is on the prowl.

Why don’t I block her, you ask?

Because she tends to call when she’s gotten her ankle tracker removed and has a hankering for breaking her restraining order. If she’s planning on making another terrifying cameo in the movie that is my life, I’d rather have a heads up about it.

I find a wadded-up shirt and pull it on before vigorously shaking my head to get rid of the cobwebs. Last night was fun. I mean, I don’t really remember, but it must’ve been if the empty liquor bottles, discarded whipped cream cans, and variety of pool floaties are anything to go by. Not to mention my pants - hey, there they are- hanging from the chandelier.

I jump and snag them, taking turns hopping on each foot as I try to pull them up in record time. Stepping over the bodies of various half-naked sleeping party people I don’t know in search of my phone, I let good old Crazy Bitch guide me through my still half-drunken haze. I need my morning BLAST, stat.

The song gets louder and I finally find it hiding under someone’s hot pink feather boa (sweet, I might keep this).

Ohh, Tatiana.

When you live the wacky kind of life I do, you tend to get mixed up with some questionable people and wow, is Tatiana her own brand. I asked for some space when she got a little too clingy - and by clingy, I mean tattooing my name across her ass, bulldozing her way past security at VIP parties, and scaring the shit out of me by breaking into my laundry hamper - and she did not like that at all. It only made her up her game, and it’s been a steroid level game of cat and mouse ever since.

I pick my phone back up and swipe to answer as I cautiously step through the bedroom door of whoever the hell’s mansion this is.

“Tatiana! Hey!” I greet the psychopath on the other end as I drape the boa over my shoulders. “How are you doing, sweetie?” Gotta use kid gloves with this one.

“CHRIIIIS!” she wails into the phone on a sob. Oh yeah, she’s off her meds again. “Where ARE you?!”

“What?” I nervously chuckle as I look every which way I can as I tromp down the stairs. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’re around here somewhere, motherfucker!”

Fuck. I hate it when I’m right.

“Around where?” I play dumb as I gingerly crack open the massive front door to this party pad. I peek my head out slowly, looking both ways. She could be anywhere, lurking in the shadows, ready to strike. When the coast looks clear, I fully emerge from the house, phone still to my ear.

“Don’t play with me!” She scream-cries again between sobs.

“I’m not playing with you, sweetie,” I try to placate as I start walking down the driveway on this beautiful morning. “Hey, you sound tense. Do you want to do some breathing?”

“Fuck you Mr. Fancy Rockstar! You know what I need!”

“Uh, no. What’s that?” I ask coyly again as I reach the end of the nicely paved drive and step onto the street.

“I need you to get your head out of your ass and come back to me and repair the remaining shards of the heart you broke, you ASSHOLE!”

She’s so poetic. That’s one of the things I liked about her. Before she showed me she was really cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs and her nasty side made itself known.

“Now, now,” I chide, trying to sound like the voice of reason. No, the irony is not lost on me as I keep a soothing, placating tone. “We’ve been over this, Tatiana. We were getting along great until you started to have an issue with space in all of its forms. I tried to tell you it’s healthy for a couple to maintain separate space, to grow individually so that-”

“Shut up with that bullshit!” She interrupts sounding like a scorned harpy. “I gave you EVERYTHING! Every single piece of my heart and you told me you needed space and that I needed to chill! Who says that?!”

I roll my eyes, starting to get fed up for the zillionth time this year. It’s not that she’s crazy; like Norman Bates said: we all go a little mad sometimes. It’s that she’s spiteful and dangerous with a mean streak a mile wide. This one time she got pissed that she couldn’t reach me, she decided to throw a dead rat at Mayzie backstage, convinced I was having an affair with her. Poor rat.

“Tatiana, my name in a small calligraphic font inside a cute heart or something would be one thing. But you got my name in giant bold caps across both cheeks. It was a little…” I trail off when I hear a familiar rumbling.

Oh…no.

In case I needed confirmation, I hear the tell-tale rev of a giant engine with seven hundred horse power that belongs to an even more giant lifted black monster truck.

I slowly turn, phone still up to my ear even though it’s pointless.

She found me.

Sure enough, I’m face to face with the aforementioned truck; a raven-haired beauty with a few screws loose behind the wheel, mascara streaking her cheeks and determination etched in her eyes. She looks pissed. So does the truck, actually, with its wide chrome grill.

Welp. No good’s going to come from just standing here.

I turn and bolt in the opposite direction, looking for any kind of life-saving detour. I hear the engine gunning behind me, a proverbial hound of hell snapping at my heels. It’s obvious my legs, powerful and toned as they are, are no match for this beast.

I need reinforcements.

I bring my phone back up and dial one of the band’s drivers.

“Where the fuck are you, and what have you done now?” Wes answers on the first ring and I can imagine him shaking his head.

“Some rich neighborhood in the Hills, and nothing!”

“Yeah, yeah. Right,” I hear the sarcasm in his voice, but thankfully, also his keys jangling. “Party last night?” I hear him ask someone in the background. “Where?”

The monster truck picks up speed and I veer right, doing a pretty bad ass tuck and roll into some bushes.

“Alright, so you were partying at that movie producer's house last night right?” Wes asks as I stand and bring the phone back to my ear, looking around for the next route to take. Probably shouldn’t stay here standing in someone’s yard.

“Oh…yeeeah!” I cheerfully remember as it all comes hurtling back to me.

“Good thing it’s near the hotel,” he scoffs. “I’m five minutes out.”

“Oh, thank you! THANK YOU! I owe you Wes! I’m the freak in the feather boa running terrified down the street, you can’t miss me!”

“Yeah, what else is new?” He hangs up and Crazy Bitch immediately starts playing again as I look for an escape. I’m not answering this time; she’s made it clear there’s no reasoning with her right now, and she’s out for blood. I find another row of bushes on the opposite side of the yard and burst through them like the Hulk, finding myself on another neighborhood street.

Crazy Bitch plays on as sprint in the opposite direction. I think Tatiana might be driving parallel to where I’m running, but no dice. The truck pulls off the side street right in front of me, cutting me off, its driver wearing a creepy wide lipstick Joker-grin on her face. I hear a three-year-old girl shrieking. Okay, that was me.

Oh no. This is it.

This is the end of Chris Richards, talented and charismatic drummer for the multiple award-winning rock band, Turn it Up. His tombstone shall read:

Found face down with sixteen-inch tire treads on his back and his drumsticks in his ass.

But just as I’m about to accept my fate, the clouds open up, and a familiar black SUV rolls up and screeches to a halt beside me.

Just as Wes, my savior, climbs out of the vehicle, two squad cars pull up on either side of Tatiana, their red and blues revolving. Several uniforms close in on the truck, and go through the motions of ordering her to exit the vehicle.

“Careful, officers!” I call out. “She’s a wrestler on Tough Bishes Live! Keep your guard up, yeah? She body slams people bigger than us for a living.”

“Chris!” Tatiana is back to the crying, her tone now defeated and desperate as her hands get cuffed behind her back. “Chris, baby, I’m your soulmate! And you’re mine, and you fucking know it! CHRIS! I loooove you!”

“I know,” I call back with a wave. “You’re going to be okay sweetie.” I give her a little head bow before hefting myself into the back of the SUV.

“Thanks, Wes,” I say as we get on the road. “You saved my ass.”

“As usual. But hey, I’m getting paid for this shit,” he returns as he reaches back and hands me a cold can of BLAST.

“Hallefuckinlujah,”! I crow as I quickly pop the tab and chug half the can. Once the taste catches up with me I abruptly pull the can away to examine it. “What in the fizzle-fuck is this?”

“It’s jalapeno candy corn,” he answers casually. God bless this man and his attention to detail like how I enjoy the most fucked-up flavors BLAST has to offer. “What do you think?”

“It’s absolutely amazing.” Where has this gloriousness been all my life? Seriously, if this flavor was a woman, I’d marry her.

“I’m happy you’re happy,” Wes sighs. “Nice top.”

I look down to see that, in my panicked hurry to get dressed, I threw on someone’s leopard print crop-top.

Huh. I might wear this on stage tonight…

Rebecca

I found myself dusting the artificial flowers and plastic yucca plants in my front room at two a.m. this morning because I was too nervous to sleep.Social anxiety is a real bitch.

I suffer from it even at the best of times, but I have an added justification for it on this occasion.Today, I’m not just meeting new people, which scares me rigid as a default; today, I’m meeting actual celebrities.

God, I might throw up.

One of my contacts has set me up with a really amazing opportunity, designing the new stage backgrounds and light shows for Turn It Up’s upcoming tour, and I’ll also be a part of creating their new album cover.I’ve even designed some new merch they can sell at each concert, like t-shirts and posters, just in case they’re interested. I may be petrified, but this is a huge chance for a freelancer like me, and it really sparked my creativity.I’ve spent days sketching and finalising more professional images on my computer for them to approve.

I’d be an idiot to pass it all up.

I may well be an idiot, then, because I’m genuinely considering canceling.

“A-E-I-O-U,” I say slowly and clearly as I wash up my breakfast crockery. I could barely choke down my cereal and ended up dumping most of it. Wasteful. Not like me. “Mmmmmmmmmmm… Go. Outside. Where. It’s. Loud.” I’m glad I live alone. Means I can do my speech therapy exercises without feeling self-conscious.

The asshole that is social anxiety roots from a childhood stutter. I’ll spare you the details of the vicious cycle of stammering my words, getting anxiety over it, and then stuttering because of it. I’m sure you can guess what fun it was growing up with those two hindrances playing leapfrog and just how hard I’ve worked to get past it. But today, it’s sure as hell to rear its ugly head. It’s Turn It Up, for crying out loud.

Even I’m a fan. I love their feelgood, romantic rock and fierce guitar licks. I’ve been listening to their music nonstop since Ron called me. They’re all insanely hot, like book boyfriends made flesh, and I’ve tried to tap into that with my designs. I thought to myself, who wouldn’t want a romantic night in with any of these guys, and so I’ve used images of candlelight and fairy lights, roses, silk, and rain. I’ve mocked up an album cover where they all look like the bad boys our parents don’t want us to bring home...but with a special, soft smile in their eyes, just for us. Like the viewer is the woman that turned the bad boy into a devoted lover, brought them to heel, and they’ve been waiting for us to come home so they can make fierce love to us...

I dry my hands and check my laptop’s images for the millionth time. Yes, all saved. Yes, all present and correct. I’m not letting myself make any more amendments, seductive though the idea may be.

Their drummer might be my favorite, I think as I look. at one of the concert photos I used for my mood board. He looks like he emerged from the womb holding a pair of drumsticks, and in the YouTube clips I saw, it was clear that he throws himself body and soul into every track, thrashing around while still keeping a perfectly timed beat.

And I like his messy hair.

Speaking of messy hair…

I head to look in the bathroom mirror and sigh. I got maybe an hour or two of sleep, all broken up into ten- and fifteen-minute chunks, here and there. I have shadows under my eyes, and my light brown hair looks like a bird’s nest exploded because I spent most of the night tossing and turning. I grab my hairbrush and rake it through until it’s tidy.I never tie my hair back because it’s too good for hiding behind.Hashtag, anxiety life hacks.

Next, I open the brand-new mascara I picked up yesterday.I’ve never worn makeup before - I was never shown how - but I thought I probably should for this meeting.I put it on carefully, the way I’ve watched people do on TV and YouTube makeup videos.

Why is my mouth wide open?What’s that about?

Is it meant to stick your lashes together like this?

Huh.Well, it’s the best this rookie can do. And at least I don’t look like Alice Cooper.

I also bought a safe pale pink lip gloss, nothing fancy, just a hint of realistic looking color.My hands have started shaking as the meeting gets ever closer, so I get a little too much of it around my mouth rather than on my lips, but fortunately a wet wipe seems to clear that up.

I walk back into the hall and check the large clock on my wall. I have five minutes until I have to leave.Ohgodohgodohgod…My stomach churns, and I take a few shaky breaths, trying to get my racing pulse under control.

“Up. And. Down. Up. And. D-d-d…” I huff to myself in irritation. “Up. And. Down,” I manage carefully. Better.

I look in on my rescue hedgehog, Howie, who I’m fostering for a friend who works at the local animal shelter.He’s fast asleep in his cage, and still has plenty of food and water.He’s all set.I wonder what he’s dreaming about?

Comforted by Howie’s baseline adorableness, I look in my tiny back garden for my sphinx cat, Iggy. Sure enough, he’s dozing in the sun like a boss.It’s a bright day, but still cool, so I don’t think I need to reapply his sunscreen. Fun fact about sphinx cats: you need to rub sun cream into their naked little bodies when the weather turns hot.

OK, I really do have to go now.

I place my laptop in its bag and grab my wallet.Ugh, I feel horribly sick.Anxiety really can make you feel queasy.One more steadying breath, and I check my appearance in the hallway mirror.

My blue skinny jeans are brand new, and my white shirt with broderie anglaise edging and tie-up short sleeves is crisply ironed with every button done up.I fiddle with the ties on the sleeves to make sure they’re even, and then give up.I slip my ballet flats on.I look professional enough for a business meeting, but not too stuffy to meet a world-famous...oh god...world famous rock band.It’ll do.

Pushing down my mounting terror, I leave, locking up behind me.I just have to get through this meeting, and then it’s back home, on with the slippers and the weighted blanket, plenty of Iggy and Howie cuddles, and some true crime on Netflix.Self-care bliss.