Page 30 of For Eva

“Not maybe,” Eric said, finally releasing his bottom lip and nodding slowly. “She’s right. She’s exactly right. It’s too polished.”

“I don’t know, man. I want it to be clean, I just…” Danny trailed off, taking a long drag off his smoke before sighing and pushing himself out of the chair. “Fuck. All right, I’m callingMandy. And Keith. Maybe they can toss those tapes in the trash and let some of the dirt settle back on ’em.”

“Make sure they leave them in there for a while,” I called after him.

Eric drew in a deep breath as he walked the few paces across the room and flopped onto the couch beside me. “Good call, Eva from Illinois.” He held up the magazine and chuckled. “Glad I picked this up the other day.”

“I sure as hell knew it wasn’t Danny’s.” I paused, reaching down to grab my cigarettes from my purse. “And listen, I didn’t mean to cross any lines. But you asked, and I wanted to be honest because you know I believe in you guys, and I really think this album can be the one to blow the fucking roof off the—”

“Shut up, Eva,” Eric said, pulling out his lighter and flicking it at the tip of my smoke. “Ididask. And the reason I asked is because I’ve seen you sitting there in the studio, looking like the wheels in your head were turning so fucking hard they were gonna spin out. So, I wanted your…opinion, I guess.”

A smile spread across my face, so wide it caused my jaw to drop. “Oh my God, you like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you do.”

“I don’t.” He cleared his throat. “But uh, while we’re at it, Mandy told me what you said. About me.”

My brow creased. “What do you mean?”

“When you first met her. Some bullshit about me being a great guy.”

“Oh, right. Well, I was lying, of course, but now that we’ve gotten so close.” My lips rolled inward to stifle my laughter.

“Yeah, we’re not close,” he said as he dug in his jeans pocket. “But are you and Mandy?”

I lifted my chin, looking at him from the corner of my eye. “Why?”

He lit the Marlboro between his lips. “Because she keeps telling me she has this rule about not getting involved with anyone she works with. But I don’t wanna getinvolved. I just wanna fuck the chick. So, can you, like, remind her what agreat guyI am so she’ll—”

“Gross, Eric.” I rolled my eyes as I forced a stream of smoke from the side of my mouth. “And no.”

FOURTEEN

Eva

March 1989

Iswept into El Compadre, taking a moment to steady myself while my eyes adjusted to the soft glow of the sconces adorning the wood-paneled walls. Traffic had been particularly hellish, even by LA standards, and I was nearly thirty minutes late. I’d been looking forward to my plans with Danny all week and prayed he wasn’t on his way home thinking I’d forgotten.

I frantically searched the red leather booths in the dimly-lit space, my shoulders falling along with my hopes when I finally spotted him at the back of the room in a large, round booth with the rest of the band and Keith. Their meeting was scheduled to be over by five, at which point Danny and I were supposed to have been eating fajitas and drinking flaming margaritas.

Maybe the meeting was just running late, like I’d been. Maybe Danny told them they’d have to wrap things up as soon as I arrived, and they were all about to leave. Or maybe there were important band decisions still to be made, and I’d end up stuck in another traffic jam on the way home to watchCheersand eat popcorn for dinner.

Things were fine.Wewere fine. But with the album scheduled to drop the next week, the label’s promotional machine was running full steam ahead. The first single and video had been released in February to give the public a glimpse of what was to come, and it garnered enough attention to secure the band the opening slot on Hott Blood’s North American tour starting in May. Then in the fall, they’d headline their own gigs at smaller clubs across the country before hopping back onto an arena tour with some other supergroup.

During the holidays, we’d taken advantage of the brief calm before the next storm rolled in. Rather than heading back home and numbing myself with mimosas as my father and his wifeoohedandaahedover each present their daughter opened, Danny and I had driven down to Baja, spending the week of Christmas at the cheapest oceanfront hotel we could find. I got him a black leather guitar strap with turquoise conchos and silver rivets. He got me a tattoo.

My skin was still burning from the needle when we sat on the deserted beach the night before we left, smoking a joint, drinking tequila from the bottle, and talking about how our next vacation would be in Hawaii where women in coconut shell bras and hula skirts would serve us mai tais in real glasses. I’d tell him to stop staring at their tits, but they’d be so amazing I’d be staring at them, too.

We’d stay there for two weeks.

Or a month.

Or maybe we’d stay there forever.

At some point, we decided not having sex on an actual beach would be a wasted opportunity, but I kept tipping over on top of him, and we couldn’t stop laughing about how we were too hammered to come. So, we eventually gave up and melted into the soft, cool sand. I dreamed that my mother was the brightest star in the sky, looking down, telling me in her gentle Italianlilt that I was still hertopolina—her little mouse—and she didn’t blame me for what had happened. It felt real enough that the tiniest splinters of guilt worked their way out of my heart each time I caught a glimpse of the scrolled letters on the back of my shoulder.

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