She’d been trying to get his attention most of the night. She danced close enough to the stage that Rob could see the sweat dripping down her cleavage. Her blonde hair was damp at the nape of her neck, and her face had a shine to it. Her eyes glowed with excitement.

Yeah, she was open. Wide-open.

What was it about most musicians that women desired? They would give up anything; their bras, their money, their bodies.

Rob had only been in Los Angeles two weeks when he found a position in a band. Before that, he had been sleeping in shelters, eating in the community kitchens, showering in the shelters, keeping his tennis shoes on to prevent disease.

It was by chance that he met Lennon Donovan. Rob had been at one public shelter for three days. His hair was turning greasy. He had been going into public restrooms and running his head under the tap at the sink. He had no shampoo, so he used the soap dispensers to wash his hair. He hated using the public showers in the shelters. He hated being around people that occupied them. He wasn’t one of them. He never considered himself homeless. All he needed was a break.

The first dollar jumped into his guitar case unexpectedly. Rob glanced up in surprise. 

“Great job,” the man said, nodding his head as he continued on his way.

Stunned, Rob stared after him. He glanced down at the case with the single dollar bill. Why didn’t he think of this before?

For the rest of the day, Rob continued to play and sing. By the time he exhausted himself, his guitar case held over fifty dollars. The next day over sixty dollars. He tucked his money away and sat on the sidewalk for the next four days. 

On his fifth day, he met Lennon.

Rob was tuning up his guitar when a pair of worn-out tennis shoes stopped in front of him.

“What the fuck, man?”

Rob glanced up. The guy had long blond hair, was tall and thin, and dressed in ratty jeans and a hoodie. He stood hunched over Rob, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

“Huh?” Rob wasn’t sure what to say.

“You got to be kidding me,” the guy said. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rob felt foolish for some reason. 

“Why aren’t you in a band, dude? Are you in a band? Why are you sitting here? You could be making real money, dude.”

Having no idea which question to answer, he shrugged.

The guy lowered himself to his haunches. “Look, man, do you know how to play bass?”

Rob nodded. “I can play anything.” 

“I’m Lennon,” he held out his hand. “Donovan.”

“Lennon Donovan?”

“Yeah, my parents are die-hard hippies. What can I say?”

Rob grabbed his hand to shake it, but instead, Lennon hauled him to his feet. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Rob.”

“You’re coming with me, Rob. I need a bass player and someone who can sing. You can sing, right?  We don't have a decent singer among us and my band is falling apart..”

“But I don’t own a bass.”

“I have an extra.” Lennon took the guitar, putting it in the case.

“Look, I appreciate the offer. I need to get out of the shelters, but this gig right here works for me. Until I find somewhere else to live, I’m pretty much stuck here.”

“You can crash on my couch. I’ll even let you take a shower. Get the rest of your shit, man. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

So, Rob joined Lennon Donovan’s band. They called themselves The Crazy Boys, and Rob hoped they would let him come up with a better name. He slept on Lennon’s couch for a month.

Once he started singing in the club, the women started hanging on. They never asked how old he was. It never bothered them some of the things they did were illegal in forty-eight states. There was only one thing on their minds. Rob was only too happy to oblige.

After the last song, he put his guitar away and jumped from the stage, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "Hello, baby," he whispered in her ear. "Want to have some fun?"

"Yes," she responded shyly.

Funny how they suddenly grew shy once he was off the stage and up close. He had to laugh. He knew better. These women weren't shy about anything.

He led her backstage where the rest of the band enjoyed the comforts of other ladies. The booze flowed freely. The marijuana and cocaine, too. He led her to a vacant chair and pulled her onto his lap. He kissed her greedily. Her lips opened for him.

"Want a drink?" he asked.

She shook her head, no.

"Want some coke? Or reefer?"

She shook her head again.

"Well, then." He kissed her once more. "Why don't you follow me, and I'll give you what you came for."

They rose from the chair and maneuvered around bodies and beer cans. He led her to the bathroom. Candles were scattered on the sink, the bathtub, and the floor. Rob lit several then turned off the overhead light.

"Much better." He pulled her to him. "Let's get rid of this.” He unbuttoned her blouse, then unhooked her bra. Her breasts sprung free, the nipples red and inviting. Rob took one in his mouth and tasted it. "Very nice," he whispered. "Show me what else you got."

She unzipped her jeans and they fell to the floor. She had no panties on, her pubic hair was neatly trimmed. She kicked her jeans loose, then waited for his approval.

“Oh, hell yes,” he murmured.

She reached out and unzipped his jeans. Pulling him free, she got down on her knees and slipped him into her mouth.

Rob froze. "Stop," he whispered. 

She didn’t stop.

He grabbed a lock of her hair. "Stop, you fucking bitch!" he cried.

She stopped and looked up at him. "What's wrong?"

Rob grabbed his jeans and pulled them up. His hands trembled as he zipped them up.

"Are you okay?" she asked, reaching out to touch him.

He backed up against the wall. He didn’t want her touching him. "Get out.” He pointing a finger at the door. "Get out and never come back."

She started to cry. "What did I do wrong?"

"Just go.”

She grabbed her clothes and dressed hastily, fleeing the bathroom. He heard Oscar and Bruce inviting her to have a seat, a beer, a snort. Come 'ere, Baby. I'll take care of you if Rob can't., Hey, Sweetheart, come sit on my lap, and we'll talk about the first thing that pops up. They roared with laughter.

Rob leaned against the wall. He sobbed as quietly as he could into his hands.

He reached the shower tap and turned on the hot water. Once it started to steam, he stripped off his clothes and got under the spray. He almost screamed out loud as the water scalded his skin. He didn't care.

He took the soap from the tray and scrubbed himself. It didn't help. He rinsed off and washed again. He still felt dirty. He washed again, all the while thinking of Greta. He knew he could stand under scalding hot water until his skin burned off. But he would never be able to wash away what Greta had done to him.

***

“No, no, no, no, no,” Lennon stopped his sticks, his head shaking back and forth. “Wrong, wrong.”

“What’s wrong about it?” Brad asked.

“What’s wrong about it, he asks.” Lennon looked to Rob.

Rob wanted nothing to do with this fight. He set his bass down and walked over to the table where the group kept their refreshments. He grabbed his bottle of Jack Daniels, poured a hefty shot over ice, and added the Coke. He downed the drink, then poured another. He was tired of the arguments between these guys. He’d been tired of it for a long time now. When he first started with them, they were fun. They all got along. But they spent their money as fast as they made it. What they couldn’t put up their nose they drank. It was a party every night after their gig. Rob stuck to Jack Daniels. He didn’t want cocaine screwing up his voice. It was the only thing making him money.

They practiced every day. Lennon insisted on it because he took his music seriously. He wanted his band to be successful. But out of all the guys, Oscar on lead, Brad playing rhythm, Bruce at the keyboard, and Rob on bass, Rob was the only one who shared Lennon’s passion for music. Rob knew how to eat, sleep and drink music, because that’s the way he was raised. The other guys did nothing but fuck around during rehearsals, and it showed in their stage performances.

When Rob moved in with Lennon and borrowed his bass, he was completely dependent on him. Before he accepted Lennon’s offer, he made it understood he would be moving on his own at the first opportunity. After playing the first month with them at a place called The Bar, Rob had enough money saved, along with his street money, to put a deposit on a small apartment.

“Goddammit, Brad, you were playing the wrong song!” Lennon shouted from his drums.

“Well, if I could hear the damn lead, Oscar, I wouldn’t be playing the wrong song.”

Oscar set his Fender down and walked away, shaking his head.

Rob watched the argument unfold, decided that the practice session was over, and put his bass away.

Oscar came out of the bathroom, a wet towel in his hands. He wiped his face and the back of his neck. “I’m really sick of this shit,” he shouted. “All we do anymore is bitch and moan.”

“If you’d play the right fucking song there wouldn’t be any bitching,” Brad shouted back.

“I wasn’t the one playing the wrong song, motherfucker.”

“Oh, you weren’t?”

Oscar let the wet towel fly. It hit Brad in the face. His eyes blazed with fury as he pulled the towel off his face. “Son of a bitch,” he swore. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“I did it,” Oscar laughed. “It was pretty funny, too.”

“I’ll give you funny,” Brad threw the towel on the floor and started toward Oscar.

Rob would’ve laughed if the situation hadn’t been so serious. “Guys,” he said, holding up his hands. “This is getting us nowhere. Maybe we need a break.”

Brad turned to Rob, his face red with anger. “That’s a good idea, Rob. Why don’t we all just take a break? A fucking permanent one.”

***

It started with a little shaking of his hands. Rob chalked it up to nerves, hoping this would calm itself down with time. It didn't. He started having trouble sleeping, waking up in the night with tremors from nightmares. He grew paranoid, thinking people were looking in his windows at him. He taped black trash bags over the glass. It helped him feel better. But he still wasn't sleeping.

He didn't want to be around people. They made him more nervous. He couldn't be himself. He always felt like he had to be on. Yet, he was afraid to be alone.

His creativity was at an all-time low. Any song he tried to write ended up in the trash. He kept breaking guitar strings. He wanted to smash his guitar to pieces. He wanted to jump off a cliff. At one point, he almost walked into the path of an oncoming car just to get it over with.

Instead of seeing a doctor, he hit the bars. Drowning himself in alcohol helped him to sleep without the nightmares. He started writing again. He took the trash bags off his windows and even opened them to let the fresh air in. He always kept a bottle of Jack Daniels in the cupboard and a bottle of Smirnoff in the freezer.

The manager where the band played took a liking to Rob and asked him to stay on once the band dissolved. He wanted to turn Rob into a single act. Just Rob and his guitar. He promised to pay him well.

How ironic that he fought his father and brothers every step of the way, not wanting to sing or play music. Now he had to do it for a living. He didn't choose it. It chose him.

It was on a Sunday afternoon, his second week playing alone, that the strange man walked into the bar. He was short, large around the middle, and balding on top. He was dressed in paisley pajamas, a bright red robe, and blue bedroom slippers. He ordered a six-pack of beer to go, turning to watch Rob on stage while he waited, a big cigar clutched in his fat fingers.

Rob was in the middle of a ballad, a song he had written himself when he saw him. The odd sight made Rob miss the words in the second verse. He cursed inwardly. He was forced to lead into the bridge, then start the second verse over. When he finished the song, he placed his guitar on the stand and left the stage.

"Jack and Coke, Rob?" the bartender asked him.

Rob leaned his elbows on the bar and rubbed his temples, nodding his head slowly. He was starting to get a headache. "Thanks, Jimmy," he said when the drink was placed in front of him. He picked up the glass, draining it in one swallow. "One more, please, Jimmy." He pushed his empty glass to the edge of the bar for Luke to refill it when Mr. Robe and Slippers approached him.

"Do you have a manager?" he asked Rob.

Rob turned. "What?" He was feeling aggravated for some reason and didn't want to be bothered. He just wanted to get through his sets and go home. He wanted to get blind running, wasted, drunk as a skunk—all the above.

"Someone to manage you. Do you have one?"

Rob didn't answer him. He picked up the fresh drink that Jimmy placed in front of him, took another long swallow, and started for the stage.

"You didn't answer my question," Mr. Robe and Slippers said, trailing behind him. "Are you represented by anyone?"

"Nope," Rob answered as he continued toward the stage. "Excuse me. I have to go to work."

"Hold on a minute. I want to talk to you," Mr. Robe and Slippers followed him to the stage.

"I'm busy," Rob stated.

Mr. Robe and Slippers waved his hand around the mostly empty room. "You're not that busy," he said. "Look, I think you have a great voice. If you don't give me a minute of your time, you're going to miss out on a golden opportunity."

"Listen, asshole," Rob swore. "If I don't get my ass back up on that stage, I'm won't be able to pay my rent. Now get out of my face."

"Five minutes," the man kept pushing. "Give me five minutes, and you won't have to worry about paying your rent again."

"Really?" Rob said sarcastically.

"Meet me at Capitol Records first thing tomorrow morning."

"I think you're full of shit," Rob left the man standing by the stage and started to climb the small set of stairs.

"Just show up," he said. "I'll show you who's full of shit."

***

The alarm rang at seven o'clock on Monday morning. Rob reached over and hit the snooze button. He didn't feel like getting up. His head was pounding, his stomach was churning. He had a whopper of a hangover.

After coming home from the bar, he hit the shower then poured a nice, tall glass of Jack and Coke over ice. After chugging it down, he decided that it tasted so good that he would have another, then another. After that, the rest of the day was a blur.

Now this baloney with the guy in the robe and slippers. Why should he trust this guy? He didn't even know his name. Should he even show up at Capitol Records in Los Angeles? What if he did, only to make a fool out of himself? What if this guy was not for real? He was sure it would amount to nothing, but was he willing to take that chance? What if he was for real? Weren't most of these people eccentric? Hence, the way he dressed.

The covers fell as he sat up in the bed. He was bare-chested. He lifted the covers. He was bare everywhere else, too. The blackouts were getting more frequent and lasting longer every time. He never knew what to expect when he woke up from one.

There was a muffled snore from the other side of the bed. Rob glanced over to see a swatch of long auburn hair looming over the top of the blanket. He picked up the covers again and glanced at the nude body underneath, petite, slender, shapely. He certainly didn't expect that. He also didn't have time for it this morning.

He crawled from the bed and staggered to the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, he took out the Tylenol, popped six tablets into his mouth, then swallowed them with a glass of water from the sink. He turned on the hot water in the shower.

It always took a while for the water to turn hot, so he let it run. The apartment was the only one he could afford now. He was paid well at the bar, but the rent was high in California. He was lucky to find this place. It came partially furnished with a bed, a light green sofa that had seen better days, and a chair that matched. His kitchen was a small galley with not much room to cook, but it did fit a small two-seater table.

The water in the shower was finally hot enough to wash away his hangover. He stepped tentatively under the spray. He had to grit his teeth against the pain until his body grew used to the stinging heat, then he grabbed the bar of soap and lathered up, humming to himself. His headache had started to ease up. He would have a quick drink once he was done in the shower to alleviate his roiling stomach.

"Want some company?" her voice came through the shower curtain. She pulled it aside, stepping in without waiting for an answer. "Lucy," she said.

For a moment, Rob looked at her, confused.

"You look like you're trying to remember my name. Want me to wash your back?" she asked, taking the soap from his fingers. Again, she didn't wait for an answer. She turned him around gently and started to soap up his back. "Feel good?"

It did feel good. Rob could feel himself getting hard.

"We made a good team last night," Lucy said. "We raked in a shit ton of money."

"We did?" Rob asked, turning around to face her.

"We did. We should keep doing it." Very slowly, she slithered down Rob's body, her mouth licking the water from him. "It could prove profitable," she said, her voice muffled. His body became a slippery surface. She dropped to her knees, taking Rob into her mouth.

Rob reached down and grasped her under the arms, pulling her up to him. "I might consider your offer," he said. "If you never do that again."

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