Page 65 of Rock Bottom
Will had Micca and Davy with him, all three radiant and glowing and so obviouslytogether. I understood and agreed with all the reasons not to parade Julian around as my boyfriend, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.
He was home. Working. I’d be on a private jet tomorrow, so we’d be together tomorrow night. That helped. Some.
The limo crawled forward, inch by inch toward the red carpet, until finally it was our turn.
Ghost stepped out first, as always, assessing the crowd and making sure the coast was clear. Then Hailey, regal in deep green and black, made her graceful exit from silence into chaos.
My cue.
Mikey reached for my hand and I accepted it. I absolutely didn’t need help, but we were playing for the cameras — and okay, it’s easier in men’s shoes than in skyscraper heels, so the help was nice, but unnecessary. Our fans like to see that kind of thing though, so we give it to them.
The air hit me like a wall of heat and glitter. Fans screamed. Paparazzi lights strobed. My indigo gown shimmered under it all, the diamonds at my neck and wrists throwing light like starbursts.
I hadn’t meant for indigo to become my signature color, but once the designer said it, it was hard to argue. It worked — for girl-mode, boy-mode, somewhere-in-between mode. Indigo bends to my moods. It’s whatever I need it to be.
Tonight, it clung to me like a second skin. Feminine. Bold.
I was dripping with diamonds, which meant I had two security guards with me, hired by the jeweler.
Hailey stood for her red carpet interview first, all grace and confidence, and I pushed Mikey forward for the next one. Finally, it was my turn to stand in the flashing maelstrom and have my picture taken from every conceivable angle.
The interviewer always asks who I’m wearing. Today, she gushed about my gown, jewelry, and hair, which I saw as a good sign, and I smiled in relief and thanked her while carrying the conversation forward, thinking everything was fine.
Until it wasn’t, when she leaned down and said, “What a fascinating coin.”
I fought the instinct to glance down and give the impression I was surprised at hearing about a coin on my waist. I didn’t need to look — Iknewwhat she’d seen.
But I couldn’t help myself, so I glanced down to see a tiny little opening in the side seam of my dress that hadn’t been there before, and the coin was on the outside of my dress, gleaming gold against the deep indigo silk.
“Thank you,” I said, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near strangled. I scrambled for a distraction, anything to pull her away from it, but she leaned in and motioned to the cameraman.
“Can we get a close-up?” she asked. “There are symbols on it — some look like letters, but it isn’t English. Do you know which language it’s in? Which culture it’s from?”
Panic flared behind my smile. I couldn’t exactly sayIt’s a magical artifact that’s decided I’m its bitchon live TV.
So I found a truth I could tell the world, keeping it to the barest facts possible. “It’s an antique coin. Byzantine era,” I said so calmly, I surprised myself. “I can’t believe you noticed the writing.”
“Oh! My dad’s a collector. I can tell it’s old, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this.” She leaned even closer, and I braced for more, but someone must’ve given her the signal to move on.
“Thanks so much for talking to me,” she chirped, straightening. “I see Lord Byron approaching with his two pieces of luscious arm candy. You’ve been great!”
I barely heard her. Mikey offered his arm, I latched on, and we made our escape to the next interviewer, who thankfully didn’t mention the coin.
Kirsten had warned me that the necklace has a mind of its own and would act in service of its own goals. Apparently, subtlety wasn’t on the menu tonight.
It felt like we talked to half of the huge crowd — label execs, other artists, actors — everyone and anyone in the entertainment world.
By the time we made it to our table, my feet were killing me. Ilovebig fat wedge heels with lots of straps, the higher the better, but tonight I was in sharp stiletto five-inch heels with zero straps. Barebones, expensive, and uncomfortable as fuck.
But not as dangerous as the coin on my waist.
We were seated together at a table near the front, and someone came to get the band shortly before it was time for us to perform. In the dressing room, I glared at my waist when the dress came off. Damned coin.
My feet hurt even with the shoes off, but I ignored them as I stepped into my fancy rhinestoned bell-bottom jeans — dyed indigo, of course — and then pulled on a masculine black dress shirt, tucking it into the low-slung waistline. I slid black fluffy socks over my feet and then comfy black sneakers.Heaven
If we weren’t performing, I’m pretty sure I’d have had long fake nails blinged out to hell and back — whether I wanted them or not. But long nails and guitars don’t mix, and I’d put my foot down hard enough the consultant team had backed off, making do with buffing my nails and trimming the cuticles after theyfinallyagreed it was best to not add anything to draw attention to them — otherwise they’d have been painted the same color as my dress.
The heavy makeup came off, a swipe of eyeliner went back on, and I tucked my hair under an indigo denim ballcap with raw edges on one side. I stared at myself a few seconds and added a whisper of contour to my cheeks — enough to add a little drama without being noticeable as makeup.
