"Her name is Tiffani Rizzolo, but she's been going by her stage name since she dropped out of high school last year," Alex explained to Brandi as the two surveyed the record store, neon fliers in hand. Alex pulled a Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers album from one of the shelves and examined the sleeve. "She doesn't talk because she says bassists don't get a voice. I think it's just because she hates everyone. She really hates you."
"Me?" Brandi repeated defiantly, flipping through the Def Leppard section. "Why does she hate me?"
"You're the lead singer," Alex replied matter-of-factly. "You get the attention; you're beautiful, you've got a great voice, you're the one the spot light shines on."
"That's not true, Rizzy's far more beautiful that I am. And she's a great bassist! Paul McCartney would be jealous. She has no good reason to hate me and no good reason not to talk to anyone but you."
"Hun, she hardly talks to me. All she ever says, really, is converted into lyrics. I don't know, I kind of feel bad for her. She's had family problems, too. She's like the epitome of a rocker."
Brandi hesitated. The anger rising inside herself was not at all justified and she tried to fight it. Rizzy was just a poorly mistaken bassist and Brandi knew she deserved more recognition than just "the bassist." She sighed and pursed her lips. "We'd better finish putting up fliers," she drawled, watching as Alex slowly replaced the Cinderella album in her hands.
They knew they would get business if they put up fliers at Tower Records, and with it now conquered, they thought of more places to go.
"We haven't done Sunset Boulevard yet, have we?"
"I was going to since I live on that street so you can get back to Inglewood before midnight."
"I'll go with you, I don't mind. Maybe we'll run into Deb-- she said she was going to the Whisky for some drinks. She said some guy was playing there that she's been seeing for a bit."
"Who now? Patrick Dempsey? He was last week, right?"
"Ha-ha," Alex chortled sarcastically. "If you can get it, get it, you know? I envy her. But no, she's seeing some guy named Mikey, but I don't know who he is."
"Mikey?" Brandi reflected, trying to put faces to names, but she, too, didn't know who he was.
"Yeah, have you heard of Spütnic?"
Brandi's heart missed a beat and her arms went limp, the neon band fliers falling to the ground with a swoosh! Alex reacted immediately and took Brandi's shoulder, asking if she was alright, but Brandi couldn't say anything. She stooped to collect the papers, unable to think of anything but the horrible irony in the fact that Michael had found another victim.
Victim? she thought. Victim of what? He told me he wasn't a robber... But how dare Debbie see Michael! How dare she back-stab me like that! But... Brandi sighed and a slight smile touched her face. Debbie doesn't know my history with Michael, she's not a backstabber. Why am I jealous? I can't like Michael!
"What the hell?" Alex's voice entered Brandi's reverie, snapping her out of it. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah!" Brandi breathed. "Yeah, just-- muscle spasm. I get those a lot."
Alex bent to help collect the papers, eyeing her friend curiously. "Okay... as long as you're sure you're fine."
Brandi looked over at her seriously, catching her green eyes with her own brown ones. "I'm positive."
When they had collected all the fliers from the ground, leaving one with the store manager, the two girls exited the store and climbed into Alex's run down Buick Regal. She drove them up to the Whisky-A-Go-Go on the edge of the Strip and parked on the side of the road a block away, darkness setting in as the autumn sun set over the ocean. They carried a few fliers inside and Alex left to find the manager.
Brandi stood in the threshold and watched as people began collecting in the bar. She found herself searching for Michael and Debbie but she couldn't find them. Sighing at her failed attempt, Brandi glided over to the bar and ordered a can of Budweiser.
"You sure you don't want a Margariter?" the man at the counter asked, his lazy southern drawl adding unnecessary "-ers" to his words. "I never seen a woman ask for a beer. You sure you can handle her?"
Brandi glared at the man, sick of hearing the same thing from every bartender on the Strip. "Your mom could obviously handle beer while she was pregnant with you. But you're right, beer's a little too light. If you have any Absinthe, I'd take that."
The man rolled his eyes and disappeared under the counter, returning a moment later with a white and red can of beer. Brandi placed three one dollar bills on the counter. The bartender looked both ways before leaning toward her, a hand shielding his mouth from his coworkers. "And we do have Absinthe, but you've got to be somebody to get it. Hey, how old are you?"
Brandi turned and faded into the mob of dancing people without another word. Toto's Africa blasted over the house stereos and Brandi was pushed and shoved as people danced sensuously together. The song ended abruptly and the whole club complained, shouting and yelling for the song to come back on. Brandi instinctively looked toward the stage.
For the third time since she had moved to West Hollywood, Brandi watched as Spütnic took the small stage in the corner, a familiar woman on drums. Brandi took a sharp breath when she realized it was Debbie and she turned to find Alex, who was nowhere to be found.
"Thank you," BJ hollered into the microphone, the applause from the crowd quieting. "Zack was sick tonight so we filled in for him. Give it up for our guest drummer for the evening, Debbie Winslow! Her band, Sinner, plays every Friday at Kingdom! Spütnic has recently been signed by Unipa records and our first album, Spütnic, will be released this coming December!"
Cheers erupted from the small crowd, people clapping their hands over their heads, some times with a drink in hand. People surged toward the stage and Brandi found herself in the back of the sea of bodies. Anger curdled within her. She didn't even notice that BJ had done her a favor by putting the word out for her own band; to hell they'd be stealing her drummer.
Brandi settled at the bar far from her original bartender and listened to the band, refusing to watch them. A person behind her tapped her on the back and she swiveled to see that Alex had returned. She hopped on a stool beside her friend and ordered a drink, combing through her auburn hair with her fingers.
"Isn't it great?" Alex shouted over the din, guiding the straw in her drink to her mouth. When Brandi said nothing, she explained, "Other bands are giving us recognition! And they're hearing Debbie play, and she's good, so they'll want to see us!"
"They're stealing our drummer, Alex!" Brandi yelled back, trying to enunciate dramatically for her words to be understood over the deafening sound of the band. "We need to get back at them."
"How?"
"We need to organize a giant get-together at Kingdom, get the word out. We need to invite a record producer over to see us play. We have to get put on the map, Alex. I'm thinking we throw a huge party this Friday--"
"I thought that was what we were doing?" Alex ventured, slowing down as the alcohol took effect. She pulled something from her pocket and handed it to Brandi. "You need to chill, man. Take these."
Brandi studied the white pills in her hand with curiosity; whether they were Quaaludes or acid, she wasn't sure. Alex shoved them toward her insistently and Brandi took one of them, stuffing it in her pocket for later. Alex shook her head and took the remaining pill between her index finger and thumb. Without a word, she forced Brandi's mouth open and set the pill on her tongue, her eyes half closed. Brandi let the pill dissolve in her mouth, blood pounding in her ears in secret fear of what the drug might do.
Before the drug could ruin her ability to function, Brandi dismounted the stool and made her way through the maze of people to the stage. The band finished off a cover of W.A.S.P.'s Wild Child and announced they'd be taking a two minute break for drinks. Brandi saw her opportunity. Staggering slightly, she climbed the steps to the stage and grabbed Michael by the forearm, dragging him across the stage.
"What are you doing with my drummer?" Brandi snarled, releasing him at the steps. "You have your own."
"He's sick and Debbie's a killer drummer. She happens to be real good looking, too."
"Oh, shut up. You don't have my permission to use my drummer."
Michael laughed and glanced over at Debbie. "I don't recall seeing your name on her. We gave you guys publicity, what more could you want? Just admit what we both know, Bran; you're jealous."
"Of you? Of course not! I'm better off than you with this band, even if we haven't been signed yet."
"No, jealous of Debbie. You want some of this."
Brandi made a point to scoff loudly, trying to cover up the fact that it was true. "You're a pig. I'm taking Debbie home. You can't just steal another band's drummer!"
Michael took a large step toward Brandi, eliminating any space between them. She shivered as she stared up into his warm brown eyes. "Says who?"
Brandi couldn't talk. The drugs began to settle and she found herself rotating slightly, unable to keep still. Everything behind Michael turned black and he became the center of her vision. A worried expression painted itself on Michael's face and Brandi couldn't resist the temptation any longer. She tried to tell herself it was her heart that made her do it, but she knew it was the drugs. Without skipping a beat, her lips flew to his and he hesitated a second before placing hands on either side of her face.
A third hand tugged at her hair and she was pulled away from Michael, a voice near her echoing slowly, "Hey, he's mine!"
Brandi saw Debbie as she was pulled around. Everything changed and it was as if she were in the music video for Take On Me by A-Ha. She didn't think as her lips found Debbie's, kissing her for a few seconds before moving back to Michael. That was all she remembered before everything went black.