“I find normal more fascinating than outrageous. I’m surrounded by chaos all the time. Normal is way more interesting.” ~Johnny Outlaw
After three weeks on the road, Dalton returns to L.A. and I jump him the minute he shows up at my door. It isn’t pretty or romantic. I’m just so damn happy to see him. He drives me crazy like that, so romance flies out the window. I was sore for two days afterward and have absolutely no regrets about it.
It’s been blissful to spend five days straight with him. He left for his house this morning to ‘take care of business’ as he put it, but most of the time, he’s at mine. I think he likes the normalness of the neighborhood. No paparazzi or fans have discovered him over here… yet.
“I want to take you to my friends’ house today. Are you busy?” Dalton asks me over the phone.
While sitting in my office, I lean back in my chair and swivel to face the window. “I’m free for you.”
“I like that.”
“I like you.”
“Okay, I like that even more.”
“I really like that you like that even more.” I giggle, feeling silly.
Chuckling, he asks, “With this big like-fest going on, do you have any openings I can fill before we head over? You know, openings in your schedule.”
“I have several… openings you can fill. What works best fo—”
“I’m on my way.”
Dead air. At least it’s for a good reason. The man is insatiable and I love it. Jumping up, I run into the bathroom and freshen up. Thank goodness I decided to take a shower this morning. I put on a little makeup and spritz with perfume. I whip my hair up into a ponytail and rush back into my office to shut everything down.
Dalton arrives in record time. When I open the door, I greet him by saying, “You’re a motivated man.”
“You know how to motivate me.”
“C’mere.” Feeling a lot motivated myself, I kiss him hard. He backs me further inside, lips joined with mine, until the back of my legs hit the end of the couch.
Not wasting time, I push down my shorts and pull off my shirt.
“I like this look on you,” he says, running his finger over my bare breasts.
“You mean naked?”
“Yeah, naked. I like you naked best.” Kneeling before me, he leans forward, his heated breath hitting me right before he kisses me again, but much lower this time. Motivation does funny things to people and we lose the next hour to moans and breathy sighs as pleasure is built and satisfaction is found.
I’m nervous as we drive over to Dalton’s band-mate’s house. This neighborhood is not where you expect a guitarist from one of the most popular bands in the world to live. It’s down-to-earth, not pretentious at all. The house is in the middle of the Valley and most of the homes are similar ranch-style homes, but it suits all the good things I’ve heard about Cory and Rochelle.
When we walk in, Dalton’s hand tightens around mine, which makes me wonder if he’s a little nervous too. Introducing me to his friends is stressful stuff and definitely makes us more than just two people who have sex, even if it is a lot of sex. After a few hellos, Dalton continues out the sliding glass door to find the hosts. The backyard is an oasis. Not a rocker’s oasis but one many would envy—green grass, vegetable garden in the corner, a nice deck, and a fountain against the house that adds to the casual ambience.
Walking straight across the lush lawn to where a group of people are gathered, Dalton says hi to Cory, “Hey man.” They shake hands, but Cory pulls him in with a few hard pats to the back. I recognize him from a CD cover.
Looking back at me, Dalton introduces me, “This is Holli.” I note how he doesn’t call me Holliday. Looking at me, he says, “Cory’s our bassist and writes a lot of the songs, most of the hits actually.”
“Hi,” Cory says, shaking my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I heard you created that lime.”
I Laugh. “Guilty.”
“That’s cool. It’s funny stuff.”
I shrug. “It certainly was when I was drunk and thought of it. Now it’s taken on a life of its own.”
He nods as if he understands. “Yeah, I can see that. The music business can be the same.”
A petite brunette—hair highlighted from the SoCal sun, olive skin, big dimples in her cheeks, pregnant—joins us. “You must be Holli.”
“Yes, I—”
She hugs me, an embrace that comes with genuine warmth. “It’s so good to finally meet you. Johnny has told me so many wonderful things about you.”
My eyes meet Dalton’s over her shoulder while a sly grin teases the corner of his mouth. “This is Rochelle—the heart of the band,” he says.
She turns and smacks him in the stomach. “Stop it. Don’t embarrass me. Everyone knows the great Johnny Outlaw is the heart of the band. I’m just a groupie these days.”
Dalton reaches forward and wraps his arms around her and she does the same to him. The hug is sweet, the embrace sincere. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Big,” she replies. “How are you?”
“Happy.” His gaze flashes to me, then back to her.
Rochelle smiles. “I like happy on you.”
Dalton steps next to me and takes my hand. “So do I,” he says, as if the emotion is something he’s trying on for the first time. “Rochelle is eight months pregnant. Cory managed to knock her up twice out of wedlock.”
Cory laughs, beer in hand. “Ha! Not for lack of trying to shackle her to me. She’s the hold-out, not me.”
Looking at her, she smiles like she’s heard this a thousand times and maybe even a faint blush is hidden in those dimples of hers. “Ask me again when you’re not drunk and lonely on the road.”
“Done,” he says, draping his arm around her shoulders and kissing her on the head. She rubs his stomach over his T-shirt, the gesture loving. They feel so different from what I expected. By the way they look at each other, I can tell they’re more than just significant in each other’s lives.
Suddenly, the realization that I’m Dalton’s current ‘other’ hits me like a sledgehammer.
“Holliday?” Dalton sounds distant though he’s standing right next to me. His hand takes hold of my elbow and he calls me again, “Holliday?” When I look up, his green eyes are curious. “Rochelle just asked if you want something to drink.”
Turning to her, still a little shaken, I say, “Yes. Yes, I think that will be nice. I’ll go with you.” My hand drifts from Dalton’s, one of my fingers keeping contact until he’s out of reach.
Rochelle smiles at me, and says, “Johnny says you own your own business.”
“I do,” I reply as we stroll. “It’s grown a lot in the last year and I’m expanding the brand.”
“Sounds like a lot of hard work. Guess you won’t be joining them on the road.”
“No, my schedule sucks right now. This afternoon, Dalton had to force me away from my computer.”
“I like the name Dalton. I used to call him Jack but it got complicated in public. The masses want Johnny Outlaw. Anyway, I’m glad you came over. Johnny came over on Wednesday and had dinner with us. Neil, our little guy playing over in the garden, loves him. Calls him Uncle Johnny.” She nudges me. “I think Johnny has a soft spot for kids, too.”
Kids? That’s not a topic I’m ready to broach anytime soon. “Maybe just Neil.”
She laughs, knowing I’m trying to change the topic. “Yeah, maybe just Neil.”
I’d call Rochelle a modern day flower child, but she has a rock n’ roll edge to her that makes her a paradigm to place. The skirt is full and flowy with a knot holding it high above her left knee, exposing her lean legs and bare feet. A simple, man’s white tank top fits her pregnant body and exposes a few tattoos. I suspect she has more, but not on display. One tattoo is a ring of wildflowers that adorns her wrist. It’s colorful and pretty, reminding me of mine.
She leads me to a light blue metal swing set and she sits. The set is not new and has rust spots and is a duplicate of one I had when I was six. I love that it’s not a rich kid’s swing set or even one of the large treehouse-type playscapes that fill suburban neighborhoods. I sit down in a swing and push off, my ass feeling way too big for this small seat.
“How did you meet Cory?” I ask, leaning my head on the chain of the swing and watching her.
Her eyes find him across the yard. He’s laughing while pushing a popping kid’s toy and running from their son. She smiles, then turns to me. “Would you believe I’m from the streets of elite—a goth, Greek girl who grew up in Boston?”
I’m too intrigued to interrupt and I have a feeling most people would feel the same. She has a great energy about her. Her brown eyes are welcoming and her smile warm as she sways on the swing next to me, and continues, “I was born and raised in Boston, Beacon Hill to be precise. Well, raised is relative. I lived there until I was sixteen. I left at seventeen before I graduated.” She laughs, pushing herself off, and swinging with her legs out in front of her. “Feels almost stereotypical to say, but my great-grandfather was in shipping and freighting back in Greece and did very well. Very Aristotle Onassis of him. He moved to America, coming over on a luxury yacht, opting out of the rickety sea ships back in those days. He settled in Boston, feeling it was nicer than New York, which was going through an industrial transition at the time.”
She stops, her feet dragging in the grass below. “It’s my history that led me to Cory.” She stands and starts to walk and I follow, catching up with her. “I hear you have tattoos?”
“Just one, right here on my side.” I lift my shirt up just enough to show her, suddenly wanting her approval and friendship.
She stops and leans down as much as her baby belly will allow and studies it. “Johnny called it sexy,” she says casually. “I’d have to agree. It’s very sensual in the artistry of the curves. Does it represent anything special?” She stops and looks me in the eyes, genuinely interested.
“It represents my journey, everything that is my life.”
“It’s beautiful, Holli, and very you.”
“Thank you.”
She shakes her head as if a thought just hit her. “Oh, you were asking about Cory. So I decided the Colonial Colonies weren’t for me. Yeah, Boston wasn’t exactly Plymouth and not quite Massachusetts Bay, but it wasn’t me either, so I sat my parents down and had a heart to heart with them. I told them I was moving to the City of Lost Angels because it felt more like the place I was supposed to be.”
“And they just let you go?”
Laughter. “Um, no, but I was too determined. I packed one suitcase—five albums and three outfits in it. Pulled on my Doc Marten’s and caught a flight to L.A. the next day.”
A long story might bore some, but she’s so animated that I’m happy to listen till the end.
At the picnic table, she pours herself a glass of lemonade, offering me one, and continues. “My parents gave me a monthly stipend if I worked on my GED, which I did, and I got a full-time job at a guitar store. That’s where I met Cory. He was this geeky seventeen-year-old, who had mowed lawns all summer to buy a guitar, hoping to learn how to play and woo the ladies. We became friends because he hung around so much. I was self taught from the age of thirteen and gave him lessons five days a week. I sucked. He knew it, though he won’t admit it.” She shrugs and smiles again. “I don’t know what it was that drew me to him. He had no cool moves and he didn’t own a vintage rock shirt to save his life, but he was shy and really sweet when you got to know him. He made me laugh, made me feel pretty, and won me over.”
“Wow. That is such a romantic and sweet story.”
Her eyes are on Cory again and she smiles. “Just like him.”
I follow her gaze. Dalton’s talking to Cory, both of them looking our way. He sends a little wave in my direction, and I return one with a smile.
“We met Johnny two years later. He walked into the store with all this bravado and attitude—angry at the world, and very determined. We all got to talking one night over beers in this garage that he was renting and it just came together. The start of the band.”
Neil comes from behind her and tugs on her skirt. She looks down and around and a wide grin covers her face. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a little monkey to tend to.”
“Of course. No problem.”
While walking away, she turns around, and says, “I’m glad you came today. It’s really nice to meet you, Holli.”
“You too. Thanks for having me.”
“Anytime.” She disappears into the house.
A hand slides around my waist, and a warm whisper tickles my ear. “I’ve been missing you. That can’t be normal, right?”
I turn in Dalton’s arms and wrap mine around his neck. “You might need to see a doctor about that?”
He tempts with a lick of his bottom lip, and says, “I’d love to play doctor with you. You have any openings… in your schedule?” One of his hands slinks under my shirt, getting dangerously close to the underside of my boob.
As his thumb strokes back and forth, taunting, teasing, I repeat my earlier invitation, “I have several openings you can fill.”
Standing upright as if shocked by my response, he says, “You are a very dirty girl, Holliday Hughes.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “You led me straight into that trap.”
“I’m gonna lead you into more later. Let’s go.”
We say our goodbyes and make a quick exit, heading back to his place to fill those openings… in my schedule.