“I wouldn’t say that.”
“No?”
“No.” And he said nothing more. All of the gorgeous angles of his face stayed in their typical no-emotion setting. Lady Gaga should have just dedicated the song “Poker Face” to him and been done with it.
After Detective Ortega’s visit a few hours ago, it had been nice to have the distraction of a get together to look forward to. Given that the stalker creep had worn gloves, and given them no leads, there wasn’t much they could do. Plus, she probably had way more serious crimes to investigate than me and my unwelcome deliveries. No point dwelling on the situation. I was committed to putting it out of my head. Or at least trying.
“Well, all right then,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Half a dozen people were already hanging out in David and Ev’s apartment. It was basically the same layout as mine, but here the floor boards were painted black, and there were lime green couches. Lou Reed played on the stereo, gold and platinum records lined the hallways, and a plentiful collection of amps and guitars sat on display in one corner. Thankfully, Lena and Jimmy were in attendance so at least I knew them.
“I could have been a model,” announced Mal Ericson, the drummer for Stage Dive. He sat on the sofa beside his heavily pregnant wife Anne. “Supermodel, I mean. Obviously.”
David just snorted in disbelief.
“Yeah?” I asked, being polite.
“Absolutely. I can strike a pose.” Mal jumped to his feet, doing his best duck lips. “Just watch.”
“So perfect,” said Lena, tongue in cheek. “That’s exactly how they do it. Good job, Mal.”
Anne just shook her head. “Please don’t encourage him.”
“I’m a natural.” Mal ran through a variety of awkward looking poses that would have put a yoga instructor to the test. Madonna in her Vogue heyday would not have been jealous of his styling. I daresay, Madonna would have laughed her tight buns off. “When you think about it, it seems almost cruel to deny the world my beauty. Hidden at the back of a stage behind a kit is just a waste.”
“I was just thinking that,” said Lena, taking a sip of white wine.
“Who’s hidden away?” complained David. “The platform you mount the drums on is almost a podium, you’re up so high. I swear it gets half a foot higher with every tour, you show pony.”
“That’s only because you guys wouldn’t let me play suspended in a cage above the crowd, Mötley
Crüe style.”
“I’m down with any plan that puts the words ‘Mal’ and ‘cage’ in the same sentence,” said Jimmy, the lead singer. “Besides, I’ve been on about a million photo shoots with you, Mal. Standing still basically kills you. How the hell do you think you have the attention span to actually model?”
“I’m dynamic. Constantly in motion. It’s part of my look. Check it out, this is my blue steel,” yelled Mal, rushing into the hallway to do a handstand. Upside down, he asked, “Great. Right, Mae? So unexpected. Avant garde even.”
Oh my God. “Um, yeah. So great. There are no words to describe it really.”
He proceeded to walk around on his hands clown style, his long blond hair looking ridiculous as it almost brushed the floor. “You have Anna Wintour’s number, right? Get her on the horn, I’m ready for the cover of Vogue.”
“I will definitely get right on that in just a moment or two.”
Lena huffed out a laugh.
“I’m kind of surprised you even know who Anna Wintour is,” said Ev, beer in hand. She stood beside the end of the long couch with David next to her. His arm hung loose around her waist.
All these happy couples. *insert gagging noises here* No, I shouldn’t be so down on love. Love was great. It just hadn’t worked out for me in recent years. Or like…ever.
“Why?” Mal righted himself. “I’ll have you know I’m very fashionable. I know things. Tell them, Mae.”
“Apparently he knows things,” I dutifully repeated.
“Babe, those are the same pair of ripped black jeans you’ve been wearing since I met you,” said Anne. “You still wear band shirts with holes in them the size of my head, that you’ve owned since you were like twelve.”
“So? They’re classics. Vintage. All the cool kids are wearing them.”
“Anne, maybe don’t leave him alone with the baby for the first eighteen years or so,” suggested Ev. “Just in case.”