* * *
I don’t seeKarl anywhere when I storm into the apartment, and I rush into my bedroom, shed my clothes, and jump in the shower. I need to get the grime of this infuriating day off of me, and I dip my head back under the rain showerhead, letting the warm water soothe me.
After I wrap myself in a towel, I startle when I look over at my bed. I stormed into the shower in such fury when I first got here, I didn’t even glance in that direction.
My hand floats to my chest.
I left my bed unmade this morning. But someone—Karl—has made it for me. And on top of it, he’s neatly placed a beautiful little black dress. It is a flared mini-dress with a single layer of ruffle at the hem. Triangles of black fabric wrap the bodice under the bust and meet at the center in a gold clasp with a design of Medusa. It’s very rock and roll but super elegant at the same time. The double spaghetti straps have mini versions of the gold clasp. I approach the dress tentatively and read the label: Versace.
I take a step back. I’ve never been in the same room with a designer garment before, not unless cleaning for wealthy clients counts. I’m almost afraid to touch it. I’m pretty confident these types of dresses cost in the thousands. And I’d bet my signed headshot of Robert Trujillo this dress is worth more than my car. I laugh at the thought of me in this dress behind the wheel of my car—my car with the plank holding up the backrest.
What has my life come to?
There are two boxes next to the dress, wrapped in shiny gold paper. I take the envelope sitting on top of the boxes and set it aside to open the first box. From it, I produce a black clutch with a golden chain strap and a gold “V” with leaf details in the metal on the face of the bag. Does Karl have some type of deal with Versace or something?
When I open the larger box and find shoes, I half-expect them to match the brand. But they don’t. They’re Jimmy Choo’s. The shoes I’ve only ever heard mentioned on television. And they are fucking spectacular.
Shoe porn. They are fucking rock and roll shoe porn.
The black suede platform heels are sky high and exactly my size. I hurry to try them on, and my eyes close with pleasure. They fit like a glove. I squeal with excitement I can no longer contain.
I tear open the note next.
“Iggy,
I’m sorry we argued this morning.
You’re right. You should work if that’s what makes you happy.
Please let me make it up to you.
Be ready at seven. We’re going on a date.
~K”
When I’m done readingthe note, I frown. He called me Iggy in the note. The name he uses when he is being playful or detached, not wanting to show his attraction to me. If this were an actual date, he’d have addressed the note asdoll, the nickname he uses when he’s turned on or being sweet. Maybe this is just for the press. Not an actual date.
Stop it, Lo. You’re reading too much into it. Just let yourself enjoy this.
It’s been so long since I’ve been on an actual date. My stomach flutters with both excitement and nerves. I finish getting ready, and I’m only ten minutes late when I walk into the foyer and find Karl waiting for me. He stands by the elevator doors, and his face beams when he slowly draws his gaze from my toes to my face.
I straightened my hair for tonight, something I rarely do because I don’t want to fry it, and am wearing a heavy, smokey eyeshadow with about a million coats of mascara and thick winged eyeliner. I’m going to freeze in this outfit, but I’m not ruining it with my stupid jacket. Besides, it’ll only be for a brief moment when we get out of the car and into the restaurant.
Karl cleans up nice too. He’s wearing black slacks and a crisp white shirt with the top two buttons undone. His sleeves are rolled up to his thick, veiny forearms, giving him a bit of a relaxed look. Despite that, he looks dapper. Or as much as a metal head can look dapper.
“You clean up nice,” I say with a smile.
He takes my hand in his and spins me around, whistling slow and making me giggle when I find his face again. “You look stunning, doll.” He lifts my hand in his and kisses the back of it. Then grabs a suit jacket that matches his slacks and throws it over his shoulder as we head out.
My heart flutters.Why, stupid heart?Because he called medoll. That’s why.
Game on.
* * *
It wasin June of 1970 in Cincinnati when James Newell Osterberg, Jr—best known by his stage name, Iggy Pop—decided to crowd-surf in the most unconventional way. He walked over the audience’s hands with incredible balance, and they didn’t let him down.
In one infamous act, a fan handed him a jar of peanut butter, and Iggy—still standing on the hands of his fans—took the jar, sunk his fingers in the condiment, ate some, smeared some over his naked chest, and flung some in thick clumps at his audience.