_
An
Excerpt From "Parallel Lives"
By Jade Blackmore
Copyright 2003 All Rights Reserved
E-book version to be released in spring of 2012 from Smashwords
Malibu met Jacqui at a poetry reading in downtown L.A. Jacqui was a minor celebrity on the burgeoning spoken word scene and had been married to her high school sweetheart for three years. Malibu was an artist/musician/dater of rock stars or in local parlance, a "starfucker". Malibu wore a pair of thigh high black velvet boots. Jacqui wore a zebra striped tophat. They became instant friends, and a permanent staple in the underground rock press as reigning scene-makers and groupies.
------------------------
Another Saturday night in Hollywood. Jacqui and Malibu met for dinner at Johnny's Steakhouse, an old haunt of Ronald Reagan, then went their separate ways for a night of clubbing. At midnight, Jacqui got out of a cab in front of the Phoenix, a punk rock club, and searched for Malibu. It didn't take long to find her, as she held court in front of the club with a few Scooter kids from Huntington.
"What the hell happened to you?" Malibu called. "You look like your pimp just beat you up!"
"I went to the Gully. One of the girls there got pissed because I was flirting with the singer for BigGuy and slapped me, so I shoved her and then she pushed me down on the sidewalk.
"What the hell are you hanging out there for? Listen, you're gonna get nothing but heartache with those poseurs at the Gully, anyhow. I know you just divorced Paul and you've been having fun, but you're going after the wrong dudes."
"I need something. I need…"
"Hot dirty love like Paul could never give you-but you want it from a good guy, right?"
Jacqui smiled broadly.
"Lemme tell ya. Sex with a superficial lunkhead with long bleached blonde hair is not sexy. I learned that the hard way after I lived with Daryl Culligan and his asshole friends. Lemme show ya real sexy."
"OK, this place is a trash heap. Trash heaps are not sexy." Jacqui announced, noting the empty beer bottles littering the entrance. Patrons stepped over them, and in some cases, gleefully stomped on them with Doc Martens. The place smelled nasty. Not that the Gully was much better, but at least they could pay a janitor. "Now trust me-- you can get fucked into a stupor by a guy with a brain. That's much better-I bet we can find ya one here."
Jacqui and Malibu sat on the steps smoking cigarettes and flirting with the guys who happened up and down the staircase. After a few minutes of bantering with the regulars, Malibu spotted him. "Oh fuck..Ollie, Oliver Reynolds, is that you? You made it back to L.A.!!"
Ollie, the tall, gangly American drummer for the British band Blue Vagabonds, had returned to his California homebase. But were his bandmates far behind?
"Are you still with the Vagabonds?"
"Yeah. Andy and Sean haven't killed each other yet. Fuckin' miracle."
"And who's this?" Ollie's cheerful brown eyes settled in on Jacqui's face, then quickly skittered down to her exposed belly.
"Ollie, this is my friend Jacqui."
"Hello, Jacqui, pleasure to met you." Ollie winked at her, and she returned the favor with an uncharacteristically coy blush.
"Ollie, where are the bastards-- er I mean Andy and Sean." "Aah they're playing with the Rangoons at some hotel bar-the San Martine, I think."
"With wankers like the Rangoons? Since when?"
"Since we got a contract with Samoa Records. They're on the label too, so we're playing a few shows with 'em- at least Andy and Sean are. I can't stand those assholes."
"Hey," Malibu looked down at Ollie's shiny blue snakeskin boots. "What the hell are you wearing?"
"Hey, I had to splurge on something when we got our contract from Samoa. Ya like 'em?"
"Christ, Ollie, they are so tacky." Malibu was apalled.
"I think they look good." Jaqui smiled her sweet, slightly tipsy half smile. Ollie winked at her. "Why now see your friend here has good taste."
That's when Malibu knew she would be a maid of honor again.
"How come you're not playing with the wankers?"
"Aww, I hate those bastards. I'm playing drums for the Strippers."
"That's an an all-girl band."
"More fun for me."
"I know the Strippers!" Jacqui interjected. "The bass player used to be my room-mate."
"I'm gonna get a beer. Ya wanna come with me?" Ollie reached his hand out and helped Jacqui stand up.
"It's good to see you again-but then I always knew our paths would cross back in the States."
Ollie kissed Malibu on the cheek.
"You want anything, Malibu?"
"No thanks, I'm all set."
Jacqui and Ollie disappeared into the sweaty crowd.Malibu lit a joint. Freddie, the doorman sauntered up to her. "Can I have a hit?" "Sure." They stood against the graffitti cluttered wall, languidly soaking in the aftereffects of pot and watered down screwdrivers.
"They look good," she said, gazing down at second stairwell that led to the basement. She took a deep drag from the joint.
"Who? Oh, yeah." Myopic Freddie squinted in the direction of the lower stairwell.
"That's your friend Jacqui, right?"
"Yeah."
"She lost weight."
"Who's the guy?" My friend Ollie- I met him in London. He's drumming for the Strippers tonight." Jacqui had Ollie up against the wall and sucked his cock. She'd dropped her halter top and leather mini, which was really nothing more than a swath of black around her pubic bone, and wore nothing but dancers' panties- a g string with a plastic clasps at the sides for easy on stage removal.
"Jacqui's kind of easy, but she's a nice girl." Freddie took the joint from Malibu. He puffed on it so long and hard he coughed for a full minute afterward.
"Yeah, I know. " Malibu sighed. She glanced at Ollie, who squirmed in ecstasy against the wall.
"How'd she get the bruise on her thigh?"
Jacqui flicked the finished roach onto the floor and stubbed it with her bootheel. "Aaah, she got into a fight with some bitch at the Gully-over who was gonna fuck the singer for BadGuy. Can you believe that?"
"Aaa, they're a buncha fuckin' poseurs at the Gully. Dumber than shit, too." A slight smile gripped Freddie's face as he watched Ollie come over Jacqui's tits.
Ollie plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaned Jacqui's breasts, then sunk down to the floor, kissed her on the forehead and cuddled her against his chest. He twisted open the bottle of beer that had been sitting beside them and held it her mouth. She drank from it greedily, like a thirsty baby. Her fingers crept through his shaggy black hair and she whispered in his ear.
"Oh, they're having a private moment. I think we better go." Freddie said, ever the gentleman. "I have to a make sure nobody sneaks in without paying- 'cept for you, that is."
Freddie stumbled up the chipped black stairs. Malibu smiled wistfully at her laughing friends and headed downstairs where the opening band played their set.
Two songs into the set, Malibu lost interest. Rich, the chubby bartender who always looked he slathered himself in a vat of chicken grease before appearing in public, plied her with free drinks, but to no avail. She wandered round the club looking for Jacqui and Ollie, but they had disappeared. Maybe they'd make it back in time for the Strippers' set, maybe they'd be too busy doing other things. Malibu said good-bye to a few of the regulars and apologized in advance to Clara, the Strippers' pink Mohawked drummer, for missing their show. Then she got in the beat-up Mustang she used to tool around Hollywood and headed to the San Martin Hotel.
--------------------
The San Martine, a renovated apartment building, had originally housed silent film starlets and craftsmen in the '20s. By the late '60s, its' owners had let it fall into disrepair, and hippies squatted in its once regal parlors. An enterprising entrepreneur turned the once grand building into an exclusive hotel catering to show biz types, complete with a nightclub that featured hip musical acts that were too cool for regular venues.
Malibu parked her car, slipped off her motorcycle jacket, and replaced it with a long fuzzy angora sweater. She took few deep breaths as dabbed on some of the Joy perfume she kept buried in the bottom of her handbag.
Her entire body shook, an earthquake rattling her central nervous system. Seeing Ollie had been pleasant, a joy really, but the prospect of seeing Sean Paige again terrified her. Avoiding him, however, was not an option.
She sat in the drivers' seat, brushing her hair and checking her make-up. She walked to the entrance when she heard Willy Bly, the monotone voiced DJ to the stars, announce the band.
The doorman recognized her and let her in without carding her. Usually, she ignored the dirty looks she got from the kids queued up on the wrong side of the velvet rope, but tonight it bothered her. She stood at the back of the crowded club by the bar and ordered a soda. She'd had her fill of alcohol at the Phoenix.
Sean. He stepped onstage all in black the leather pants, the tight black T-shirt, the shoulder length brown hair. But instead of evoking Jim Morrison, he evoked something all his own. The danger without the drugs, the pain without the self-indulgence, the poetry without the pretense.
His eyes seared through her, right at her, as though he knew she would be there and planned it that way. She did not move closer to the stage. No, let the little girls who wanted him pay homage with their tearful screams and tossed panties. After all, they understood him more than she did, even though he never understood or even acknowledged them. While Sean worked the stage, alternately spitting out his lyrics and insulting a drunken Yuppie in the front row, Mailbu turned her attention to Andy, the bass player. Sturdy, sensible Andy, the consummate musician without much to say except "Let's play" or if a female was handy, "let's fuck."
At least he was predictable.
By Jade Blackmore
Copyright 2003 All Rights Reserved
E-book version to be released in spring of 2012 from Smashwords
Malibu met Jacqui at a poetry reading in downtown L.A. Jacqui was a minor celebrity on the burgeoning spoken word scene and had been married to her high school sweetheart for three years. Malibu was an artist/musician/dater of rock stars or in local parlance, a "starfucker". Malibu wore a pair of thigh high black velvet boots. Jacqui wore a zebra striped tophat. They became instant friends, and a permanent staple in the underground rock press as reigning scene-makers and groupies.
------------------------
Another Saturday night in Hollywood. Jacqui and Malibu met for dinner at Johnny's Steakhouse, an old haunt of Ronald Reagan, then went their separate ways for a night of clubbing. At midnight, Jacqui got out of a cab in front of the Phoenix, a punk rock club, and searched for Malibu. It didn't take long to find her, as she held court in front of the club with a few Scooter kids from Huntington.
"What the hell happened to you?" Malibu called. "You look like your pimp just beat you up!"
"I went to the Gully. One of the girls there got pissed because I was flirting with the singer for BigGuy and slapped me, so I shoved her and then she pushed me down on the sidewalk.
"What the hell are you hanging out there for? Listen, you're gonna get nothing but heartache with those poseurs at the Gully, anyhow. I know you just divorced Paul and you've been having fun, but you're going after the wrong dudes."
"I need something. I need…"
"Hot dirty love like Paul could never give you-but you want it from a good guy, right?"
Jacqui smiled broadly.
"Lemme tell ya. Sex with a superficial lunkhead with long bleached blonde hair is not sexy. I learned that the hard way after I lived with Daryl Culligan and his asshole friends. Lemme show ya real sexy."
"OK, this place is a trash heap. Trash heaps are not sexy." Jacqui announced, noting the empty beer bottles littering the entrance. Patrons stepped over them, and in some cases, gleefully stomped on them with Doc Martens. The place smelled nasty. Not that the Gully was much better, but at least they could pay a janitor. "Now trust me-- you can get fucked into a stupor by a guy with a brain. That's much better-I bet we can find ya one here."
Jacqui and Malibu sat on the steps smoking cigarettes and flirting with the guys who happened up and down the staircase. After a few minutes of bantering with the regulars, Malibu spotted him. "Oh fuck..Ollie, Oliver Reynolds, is that you? You made it back to L.A.!!"
Ollie, the tall, gangly American drummer for the British band Blue Vagabonds, had returned to his California homebase. But were his bandmates far behind?
"Are you still with the Vagabonds?"
"Yeah. Andy and Sean haven't killed each other yet. Fuckin' miracle."
"And who's this?" Ollie's cheerful brown eyes settled in on Jacqui's face, then quickly skittered down to her exposed belly.
"Ollie, this is my friend Jacqui."
"Hello, Jacqui, pleasure to met you." Ollie winked at her, and she returned the favor with an uncharacteristically coy blush.
"Ollie, where are the bastards-- er I mean Andy and Sean." "Aah they're playing with the Rangoons at some hotel bar-the San Martine, I think."
"With wankers like the Rangoons? Since when?"
"Since we got a contract with Samoa Records. They're on the label too, so we're playing a few shows with 'em- at least Andy and Sean are. I can't stand those assholes."
"Hey," Malibu looked down at Ollie's shiny blue snakeskin boots. "What the hell are you wearing?"
"Hey, I had to splurge on something when we got our contract from Samoa. Ya like 'em?"
"Christ, Ollie, they are so tacky." Malibu was apalled.
"I think they look good." Jaqui smiled her sweet, slightly tipsy half smile. Ollie winked at her. "Why now see your friend here has good taste."
That's when Malibu knew she would be a maid of honor again.
"How come you're not playing with the wankers?"
"Aww, I hate those bastards. I'm playing drums for the Strippers."
"That's an an all-girl band."
"More fun for me."
"I know the Strippers!" Jacqui interjected. "The bass player used to be my room-mate."
"I'm gonna get a beer. Ya wanna come with me?" Ollie reached his hand out and helped Jacqui stand up.
"It's good to see you again-but then I always knew our paths would cross back in the States."
Ollie kissed Malibu on the cheek.
"You want anything, Malibu?"
"No thanks, I'm all set."
Jacqui and Ollie disappeared into the sweaty crowd.Malibu lit a joint. Freddie, the doorman sauntered up to her. "Can I have a hit?" "Sure." They stood against the graffitti cluttered wall, languidly soaking in the aftereffects of pot and watered down screwdrivers.
"They look good," she said, gazing down at second stairwell that led to the basement. She took a deep drag from the joint.
"Who? Oh, yeah." Myopic Freddie squinted in the direction of the lower stairwell.
"That's your friend Jacqui, right?"
"Yeah."
"She lost weight."
"Who's the guy?" My friend Ollie- I met him in London. He's drumming for the Strippers tonight." Jacqui had Ollie up against the wall and sucked his cock. She'd dropped her halter top and leather mini, which was really nothing more than a swath of black around her pubic bone, and wore nothing but dancers' panties- a g string with a plastic clasps at the sides for easy on stage removal.
"Jacqui's kind of easy, but she's a nice girl." Freddie took the joint from Malibu. He puffed on it so long and hard he coughed for a full minute afterward.
"Yeah, I know. " Malibu sighed. She glanced at Ollie, who squirmed in ecstasy against the wall.
"How'd she get the bruise on her thigh?"
Jacqui flicked the finished roach onto the floor and stubbed it with her bootheel. "Aaah, she got into a fight with some bitch at the Gully-over who was gonna fuck the singer for BadGuy. Can you believe that?"
"Aaa, they're a buncha fuckin' poseurs at the Gully. Dumber than shit, too." A slight smile gripped Freddie's face as he watched Ollie come over Jacqui's tits.
Ollie plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaned Jacqui's breasts, then sunk down to the floor, kissed her on the forehead and cuddled her against his chest. He twisted open the bottle of beer that had been sitting beside them and held it her mouth. She drank from it greedily, like a thirsty baby. Her fingers crept through his shaggy black hair and she whispered in his ear.
"Oh, they're having a private moment. I think we better go." Freddie said, ever the gentleman. "I have to a make sure nobody sneaks in without paying- 'cept for you, that is."
Freddie stumbled up the chipped black stairs. Malibu smiled wistfully at her laughing friends and headed downstairs where the opening band played their set.
Two songs into the set, Malibu lost interest. Rich, the chubby bartender who always looked he slathered himself in a vat of chicken grease before appearing in public, plied her with free drinks, but to no avail. She wandered round the club looking for Jacqui and Ollie, but they had disappeared. Maybe they'd make it back in time for the Strippers' set, maybe they'd be too busy doing other things. Malibu said good-bye to a few of the regulars and apologized in advance to Clara, the Strippers' pink Mohawked drummer, for missing their show. Then she got in the beat-up Mustang she used to tool around Hollywood and headed to the San Martin Hotel.
--------------------
The San Martine, a renovated apartment building, had originally housed silent film starlets and craftsmen in the '20s. By the late '60s, its' owners had let it fall into disrepair, and hippies squatted in its once regal parlors. An enterprising entrepreneur turned the once grand building into an exclusive hotel catering to show biz types, complete with a nightclub that featured hip musical acts that were too cool for regular venues.
Malibu parked her car, slipped off her motorcycle jacket, and replaced it with a long fuzzy angora sweater. She took few deep breaths as dabbed on some of the Joy perfume she kept buried in the bottom of her handbag.
Her entire body shook, an earthquake rattling her central nervous system. Seeing Ollie had been pleasant, a joy really, but the prospect of seeing Sean Paige again terrified her. Avoiding him, however, was not an option.
She sat in the drivers' seat, brushing her hair and checking her make-up. She walked to the entrance when she heard Willy Bly, the monotone voiced DJ to the stars, announce the band.
The doorman recognized her and let her in without carding her. Usually, she ignored the dirty looks she got from the kids queued up on the wrong side of the velvet rope, but tonight it bothered her. She stood at the back of the crowded club by the bar and ordered a soda. She'd had her fill of alcohol at the Phoenix.
Sean. He stepped onstage all in black the leather pants, the tight black T-shirt, the shoulder length brown hair. But instead of evoking Jim Morrison, he evoked something all his own. The danger without the drugs, the pain without the self-indulgence, the poetry without the pretense.
His eyes seared through her, right at her, as though he knew she would be there and planned it that way. She did not move closer to the stage. No, let the little girls who wanted him pay homage with their tearful screams and tossed panties. After all, they understood him more than she did, even though he never understood or even acknowledged them. While Sean worked the stage, alternately spitting out his lyrics and insulting a drunken Yuppie in the front row, Mailbu turned her attention to Andy, the bass player. Sturdy, sensible Andy, the consummate musician without much to say except "Let's play" or if a female was handy, "let's fuck."
At least he was predictable.