Page 3 of Ring My Bell

“I don’t know, some animal that flops its bits out, trying to assert dominance! Focus, damn it! What do you mean, in denial?” I rounded back on Sonny. “Vicky said the same thing. What the hell is going on here?”

Raymond, finally tucked away and less red-faced, stepped out of Sonny’s grasp towards me. When I jabbed a finger at him threateningly, he stopped in his tracks. “Babe… Iggy,” he corrected at my snarl, “I told you last month, I think you’re too old for this gig, all right? And I can’t afford to keep throwing you at opportunities you’re not gonna take or blow off.”

Remember those old cartoons where a character would eat something spicy or get real mad and their entire body would go red, and then the top of their head would pop off?

That was me. In Raymond’s home office. Instead of the top of my head popping off, though, I threw the first thing at hand: a heavy crystal shard, an award from the California Music Makers Association. It bounced off his desk, missing him and Sonny entirely, and I barked a laugh at the plastic clattering sound. “Not even real. Of course it’s plastic. Of course! And you never said that to me, Raymond! You claimed you didn’t think I was a good fit for the Kids’ Choice Awards spot since the other performers were all from teen shows, and the only so-called opportunities you’ve been offering me since April have been in your pants!”

Sonny blinked, slow and lizard-like at me. “You’re too old for the Kids’ Choice awards, Iggy. I mean, you’re, like, twenty-nine, right?”

“Twenty-three!”

Sonny shrugged. “See? I’m twenty. The perfect age, right baby?” He turned his saccharine, too-much-gums smile to Raymond. “That’s what you told me last night when you—”

Raymond found his voice again. “Iggy, no one is asking for you, all right? You had the one hit, and that’s fine. That’s respectable. Not everyone coming out here gets as much.” He sighed, shaking his head. “That’s it, kid. I’m sorry you can’t wrap your brain around it, but…” He shrugged, spreading his hands.

“That. Is. Bullshit,” I snarled. “I’ve been busting my ass to set up meetings while you’re, what, fucking my roommate?”

Sonny pouted. “He’s been helping me get meetings, Iggy. Meetings. If you’d helped me months ago, maybe you’d still have your sugar daddy!”

“Sugar daddy!” I’m not proud of the shriek that came out of my mouth, mainly because it was not good for my throat.

But with that sound, Sonny realized I was not going to skulk off quietly into the night. Not with Raymond treating me like a mushroom and Sonny stretching out my favorite (ex-favorite) shirt.

I was glad I took off my shoes. If I’d been wearing them, I never would’ve been able to leap at Raymond.

And I definitely would’ve twisted my ankle when the cops pulled me off him a few minutes later.

I was taken from Raymond’s house and to the police station. Raymond declined to file charges so long as I never bothered him again. By the time I was processed and released, Sonny made it back to the apartment, and most of my things were in boxes on the landing.

He kept half my clothes.

Fine. I hoped he was allergic to the laundry soap and got a horrible rash in embarrassing-to-scratch places.

The locks had been changed, as well. “What the fuck! Damn it, Sonny, let me in! I’m not camping on this doorstep! Sonny!” My palm stung from smacking the door repeatedly. I was so tired I didn’t know if I should cry or collapse into a pile of Iggy-shaped bones right there in front of my (Sonny’s now, I suppose) front door. “Sonny! My name is still on the damn lease!”

“Not anymore. Or, well, it won’t be after close of business,” Monty said from behind me. I spun to face him, grabbing the first weapon to hand. “Whoa! Okay, put down the commemorative Star Trek plate, Iggy!”

I glanced at it. “It’s fine. It’s Tom Paris. I don’t care if I lose this one.” I brandished it like I knew what I was doing. “Get the hell away from me, Monty. Tell Raymond I’m going to take my fucking music and make him suffer when I’m famous. I’ll tell everyone how he—”

“No,” Monty sighed. “You won’t. That’s what I’m here to tell you. I mean, kind of.” Hands raised placatingly, he took a cautious step towards me. “Raymond’s having you evicted. He owns the building so…” I growled, raising the plate again, and Monty took a step back. “I hate Vicky, okay? And I only work for Raymond because he hired me with no experience. Everyone else in this town, it’s who you know or who you blow. My parents aren’t famous, and I’m not about that ‘kneel to succeed’ life, okay?”

“If you knew Raymond was shit, why are you still working for him?” I hated the whine in my voice.

“Dude. California is fucking expensive. And I can’t just pick up and move, you know?” Frowning, Monty raked his fingers through his hair. “I’d love to just say fuck it and go, but even that takes more money than I got. Raymond pays jack shit, but it keeps a roof over my head.”

I winced, looking away. I knew the feeling—it was damn near universal, I thought. Most of us were struggling to get by, to keep our heads above water long enough to see land, but I wasn’t going to forgive Monty.

Okay, maybe a tiny bit.

“How long did you know he was fucking around on me?” I demanded. “A week? Month?”

“Ah. Since he hired me.”

“A year and a half?” I screeched. Down the hall, someone opened a door and shushed us, slamming it before I could see who.

Monty winced. “Look, I can’t change what’s happened, okay? I can only give you a heads-up and hope for the best.” His smile was thin and weak, disappearing entirely under the power of my scowl. “Here. Take this.” He shoved a small, business-sized brown envelope at me. I had to catch it against my chest or risk dropping it. “And, um… I guess, if you want, I can find somewhere to store your stuff?”

“No, I’m good,” I sighed, exhausted. “Go away, Monty. Tell Raymond to eat shit for me, all right?” I turned my back on him and sank to sit on my—well, now Sonny’s, I guess—doorstep.

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