InHap*pily Ever After (Incidental Happenstance) (61 page)

            “Of course,”
Tia answered, pushing aside a half dozen empty wine bottles to make room for
the bags on the kitchen table. “You weren’t kidding when you said you went on a
bender. You drank all these yourself?”

            “All by my
lonesome,” she said, “and believe me, I paid the price. Don’t want to do that
again.”

            “I would hope
not,” Tia scolded, scooping some fried rice onto two plates and bringing them
to the coffee table in the living room. Lexi quickly picked up the mountain of
tissues and chip bags that littered the table so Tia could put them down. “Are
you all cried out, then? Looks like I should’ve bought some stock in Kleenex.”

            “Not only
that, but I’m actually on a reinvention mission. I think I’m going to move—a
change of scenery might be just the ticket.” The changes were coming anyway,
she’d decided, and she figured she could at least be the master of her own
destiny. Her days of hanging with the boys were over; she didn’t begrudge Bo
his happiness—he of all people deserved it—but now that he’d forged a
relationship with Joi, they’d never again have the same relationship and it
would just be awkward.

            “Reinvention
is good,” Tia agreed, and they dug into their meal while Tia filled her in on
her adventures in her new home.

            “I really wish
you were here.”

            “Me too. It’s
below zero outside, and no matter how high I turn up the heat, the bed is still
cold when I climb in it.”

            “Actually, if
you want to know the truth, I’d rather be there. Or back in Colorado. It’s
going to be an interesting night, that’s for sure.”

            “I can’t wait
to go back to the ranch and stay. I could really go for Alicia’s fried chicken
right about now. So who’s going to be at the party tonight?”

            “I don’t
know,” Dylan sighed. “It’s Skip’s deal, and he has a tendency to go overboard
at times. I kind of wish I could bug out, but I’m going to have to hang for a
bit, anyway.”

            “Sounds like
it’s a big accomplishment for him, though,” Tia said, curling up against the
arm of the couch under a blanket. “How many albums that he produced have sold?”

            “A hundred
million. And you’re right, it is a big deal. He’s a great guy and a fantastic
producer, too; he’s just a little over the top. It’ll be fine—I’ll text you
some pictures.”

            “Looking
forward to it. Have fun. Miss you, baby.”

            “Love you,
baby girl.”

            “
Day
-yam,”
Bo said when they walked into the the studio. “Are we in the right place?”

             Dylan handed
his coat to a woman in the lobby who looked as if she’d been dipped in latex
while two ethereal brunettes in red and black bustiers and fishnet stockings
rushed up to offer them a colorful concoction in a test tube. “Ah, so it’s
going to be this kind of party,” he said to Bo from the corner of his mouth and
immediately knew which persona he was going to need to get through the evening.
A fair number of people mingled in the small lobby dressed in everything from
evening gowns to lingerie; torn jeans to tuxes; sipping  from glasses that were
lit from below with neon rings.

            Angelo
whistled between his teeth. “Hard to believe we were making a record in here
just yesterday,” he said as they entered the studio from the hallway, his eyes
roaming around the transformed room. Big enough for an entire orchestra
complete with chairs, music stands, and a conductor, the room now housed a
makeshift DJ booth, a long table full of food featuring a gigantic record
album-shaped cake with the number 100,000,000 sprawled across it in neon blue
icing, two portable bars, and a couple dozen tall round tables where people
could stand and mingle. The can lights were dimmed, but there were strings of
tiny twinkling LEDs draped around the ceiling panels and spilling from corners.
Candlelight flickered through a wide variety of funky glass votives on the
tables and from artistic pieces around the room. “Check this out,” Angelo said,
drawn to a stand where four saxophones were mounted to a stand. Huge pillar
candles were jammed into the bells and blue flame licked from the ligatures.

            The boys
walked around the room, taking in the artwork and stopping to chat with some of
the other guests along the way. There were some people that they knew from the
business, some people they knew of, a few celebrities from genres other than
music, and enough model-types to round out the mix. Skip spotted them and broke
away from a small group to greet them. “A hundred fucking million,” Ty said,
shaking his hand, “quite a number, my friend.”

            “And I’m
counting on you guys to get me to a billion,” he winked, greeting the rest of
them and motioning to a scantily clad waitress who sidled her way over to take
their drink orders.

            “We’d like
nothing better than to make that happen for you,” Bo agreed.

            Dylan ordered
a Maker’s and Coke and had the waitress take a picture of the group with Skip
so he could send it to Tia. They chatted for just a couple minutes before a
high-pitched voice called out Skip’s name from across the room. “Oh, I need to
take this,” he said with a sly grin, and he left the boys to go and greet an
attractive woman who’d just entered the studio.

           
Not what I
expected
, Tia texted in response to the photo and Dylan couldn’t help but
chuckle to himself. Skip did more than neglect his appearance—it seemed like he
actually put effort into looking like a homeless man who’d been on the streets
for a fair amount of time. His hair was long, shaggy, and unkempt, and he had a
full reddish beard with streaks of premature gray. He wore faded jeans with an
assortment of holes, Chuck Taylors, and faded flannel shirts that gapped
between the buttons over his ample middle. Beneath that modest exterior,
however, lay the mind of a musical genius. InHap had hooked up with him after
Bruce, their original producer, had met his untimely death at the age of forty-
two under mysterious circumstances that involved a call girl, a poodle, and
large amounts of blow.  Skip was still an apprentice at the time, but there was
something about him that all the InHap boys liked right away—and they paired up
with him to do a single based on a recommendation from one of Ty’s friends. The
rest, as they say, was history. Skip worked only with a select few, but those
bands had taken him to the top in just a few short years.

           
“Looks can
be deceiving, especially in this case
,” Dylan texted back.

            Ty waved to
someone across the room and tapped Tommy on the shoulder. “Hey, Mike Wilmont’s
here.” Tommy looked over and raised his hand in greeting and the two of them
disappeared into the crowd.

            Dylan, Bo, and
Angelo wove their way through the horde of attendees, but it was slow going.
They hadn’t moved more than a few feet when Dylan heard a familiar voice. “I
was hoping I’d see you here, Dylan,” Susannah Atwald said.

            Dylan turned
and smiled. It was a lifetime ago that he last saw her—he’d been a completely
different person when he worked with her in one of his early films and dated
her for a few months. She had been one of his hard lessons about the ugly side
of celebrity and the way it blurs the edges of any relationship. Much as Gina
had dumped him early in his musical career for the guitarist of a group perched
to hit the big time, Susannah had gotten stars in her eyes as well. Dylan had
thought she was different, and liked the way the relationship was going—until
he was confronted with a tabloid picture, ironically enough, of her cozying up
to a star whose “name in lights” was considerably taller than his was at the
time. But that was ages ago, and he harbored no ill will—not when he was
currently in the best place life had ever taken him. “Great to see you,
Susannah,” he said, lightly kissing both her cheeks and taking her hands in
his. “It’s been a long time.”

            “Yes indeed,”
she said. “Best wishes on your engagement. She’s a lucky girl.”

            “I’m the lucky
one,” he said with a smile, “but thank you. I’m very excited.”

            “You deserve
to be happy. You’re a good person, Dylan; too rare a thing in our line of
work.” Like so many other Hollywood romances, hers and Dirk Sanders’ had ended
in disaster, and he was currently in rehab somewhere, trying to get his life
back on track.

            “I appreciate
the kind words, and I am incredibly happy,” he smiled, shaking hands with her
friends and moving on. Once they’d made their way to the back of the studio,
Dylan, Bo and Angelo finally parked at a table and wordlessly tipped their
glasses toward each other.  

            “So, how about
those Broncos,” Angelo said smiling, purposefully starting a seemingly normal
conversation in the surreal atmosphere of the transformed studio. There had
never really been a time when this sort of bash was in Dylan’s comfort zone,
but Angelo had once kept the party scene as a fickle mistress— seeking out the
limelight and partying so much that the boys had been forced to give him an
ultimatum about changing his ways or leaving the band. Thankfully he’d seen the
light; and often hung with the other guys making light conversation when the
scene got too crazy. 

            “Tia’s trying
to convert me into a Bears fan,” Dylan moaned, waving non-committally at a trio
of girls who sashayed by their table and blew kisses in their direction.

            “Oh, the
horror!” Bo exclaimed sarcastically, lifting his beer for a toast. “Here’s to
the mundane, normal, everyday things that keep us from turning into
that,”
he offered, pointing at an up and coming singer wearing hot pink skinny jeans
and sporting a dyed blue mohawk and chains hanging from multiple piercings in
his face and ears. Angelo and Dylan raised their glasses and tapped their rims
against his. “Oh, hell yeah,” they agreed simultaneously.

            “Son of a
bitch, wha ‘appen?” Dylan turned to see a figure cloaked in shadow sporting
long dreads, shredded bell-bottoms, and a Bob Marley t-shirt.

            “Bloody hell,”
Dylan smiled, “Dozer Cane.” They exchanged a series of greetings that included
a variety of handshakes and chest bumps. The Jamaican shook hands with Bo and
Angelo and bellied up to their table. “What rock have you been hiding under?”
Dylan asked him. “I haven’t heard your name in a while.”

            “Ya mon, but I
be ‘earing yours a lot. Dey say you’re no gallis no more—dat you’re gettin’
marry,” Dozer grinned, showing off a few gaps in his smile. “Dat sick, mon.” 

            “It is, and
thanks, mate. It’s put quite a different perspective on things, that’s for
sure.”
            “Ya mon. I know what you mean. I got hitched last year…”

            “Hey, that’s
great--congratulations!”

            “Ya, everyting
irie. She straighten me out. We started a name bran together—Rasta wear,
mostly; like hemp sandals, tie-dye…shit made out of bamboo. All eco-friendly.
She da artist and I run tings.”

            “We’ll just
give you two a chance to catch up,” Bo said, motioning to Angelo with a slight
shake of his head. Dozer was from Dylan’s pre-InHap days, and neither of them
knew him all that well. “Let’s go check out the buffet.” The two of them
grabbed their glasses and headed off through the crowd.

            “That’s great
mate, really,” Dylan said after the boys wandered off. “You still making
music?”

            “Just at the
local wells mostly. Selina—dat my main squeeze—is going pop me out a bwoy in a
few weeks. Can you believe it? I’m going to be someone’s
fadda,
mon.”

            Dylan grinned
and hugged him. “Fucking brilliant, mate. You’ll be great at it, I’m sure.” He
surprised himself by feeling a passing twinge of jealousy, and thought, not for
the first time, about what it might be like to a father. “Is she here?”

            “Nah, she
home. I ‘ave business here and wanted to get it done before he’s born. You be
makin’ a new album, den?”

            Dylan nodded.
“We’re recording here, actually. This just kind of popped up in the middle of
it all…”

            They passed
about an hour standing at the small table; shooting the shit and reliving old
memories. Lots of folks stopped by; expecting them to follow the standard
protocol of greeting everyone who approached their table like long lost
friends; and Dozer couldn’t help but notice that a lot of them were women. 
“You still got da ladies fallin’ at your feet mon,” Dozer said. “I was always a
bit jealous of dat, but it could be a curse too, ya?”

            “More often
than not,” Dylan said as two blondes who’d been eyeing them for quite a while
grabbed the boys’ drinks off a waitress’s tray, turned away for a moment and whispered
to each other, and glided up to their table. They were practically carbon
copies of each other—big blonde hair, huge fake tits, legs that went all the
way up to their chins, unbelievably high heels, and micro-dresses that left
absolutely nothing to the imagination. Dylan rolled his eyes slightly and
tipped his fresh Maker’s and Coke in Dozer’s direction to punctuate the
statement.