Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place (2 page)

‘Oh,
ok.’ Her voice relaxes again. ‘Well we just had sex and he told me I’d get a
signed CD. Is it your job to bring me it?’

Oh
dear. I wish I could say that this was the first time something like this had
happened but I’d be lying. Every now and then Dylan meets a girl with real
integrity, a girl who won’t sleep with him just because he is Dylan King from
The Burnouts – lucky for Dylan, these girls can usually be talked around with a
signed album.

‘Is
Dylan still there?’ I ask.

‘He’s
gone to get champagne. So are you going to bring me my CD?’

‘Yes,
just tell me where you are and I’ll bring it now.’

‘Awesome,’
she squeaks. ‘I’m at the Williamson Hotel, room 192.’

Luckily
for me, The Williamson Hotel is where we’re staying – it’s the only hotel in
this tiny town, which is situated somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Everyone
who performed at the Rockin’ Radio Summer Roadshow is staying here, so at least
Dylan is exactly where I need him to be.

After
a short taxi journey I arrive at the hotel. I had expected to find Dylan
propping up the hotel bar, but he must have gone back up to see his special new
friend for round two.

I
knock on the door of room 192. An underwear-clad girl answers the door,
completely unfazed by the fact that she is nearly naked and I am a complete
stranger.

‘Are
you Nicole with the CD?’ she asks me.

‘Are
you the random girl with the Dylan?’ I ask in return.

She
stares at me blankly, yep, she’s just Dylan’s type – nearly naked and entirely
stupid.

‘Dylan
never came back.’

‘Right,’
I reply. I’d pretend to be surprised to spare her feelings but I don’t think
she’d even notice. ‘Well, can I have his phone, please?’

‘CD
first,’ she insists.

Funnily
enough I’m not in the habit of carrying around signed copies of any of The
Burnouts’ albums, but I need that phone.

‘Sorry,
we’re all out. It’s a busy time of year for him.’

‘Whatever,’
she replies. ‘No CD, no phone. Get me my CD or I’ll start forwarding photos.’

I
cannot believe Barbie’s slutty brunette BFF is holding Dylan’s phone for
ransom.

‘Ok,
I’ll find you a CD,’ I promise her.

‘Awesome.
Laters,’ she replies, slamming the door in my face.

‘Laters,’
I repeat to myself. I have no idea where I’m going to get one of Dylan’s CDs –
let alone one he has signed. I suppose I’ll have to find the man himself for
that, but I need the phone find him in the first place. It’s a catch 22
situation. Bloody rockstars.

As
I am heading back down to the hotel reception, I bump into Claire. The poor
woman looks frazzled. Her short brown hair is all ruffled and unless she's been
dragged through that ditch she was talking about earlier, I'd guess she's been
tearing it out.

‘Here.’
She pushes a keycard into my hand. ‘The spare key for Dylan’s room, he’s your problem
now.’

‘You
already said that,’ I call after her, but she isn’t sticking around for a chat.

I
place the keycard safely in my purse. I’m supposed to be sharing a room with
Dylan tonight so I would have needed it anyway – not that I’ll be getting any sleep
until I find him.

I
hear girls screaming outside the hotel as more musicians are ushered in by
security. As I look outside I see a lot of Dylan fans, but one in particular
who is right at the front of the barrier could be the answer to my problems.

‘Excuse
me, did Dylan sign that t-shirt today?’ I ask her.

‘He
sure did,’ she tells me excitedly. ‘Not that long ago actually, he came out
here and spoke to us. I’m his biggest fan.’

‘That’s
great. How much for the t-shirt?’ I ask, cutting to the chase. If I can’t get
the chick in room 192 a signed CD, maybe a t-shirt will do.

The
fan gasps. ‘It’s not for sale!’

‘Come
on,’ I say. ‘I’m a friend of Dylan’s, I can get you something even cooler.’

‘Yeah,
right,’ she says with a laugh. ‘If he’s your friend, why not get him to sign
that dress you’re wearing?’

‘Like
I’d let him anywhere my Alexander McQueen with his marker pen,’ I say, mainly
to myself, although now I have her attention.

‘That
is a nice dress,’ she says, smiling widely.

‘Thank
you, it’s…’ I trail off because I know what she’s thinking. ‘No way! Never
going to happen! For starters, I am wearing it, I can’t take it off. Also, do
you know how much it cost?’

‘I
have an idea,’ she says, raising her eyebrows. ‘And anyway, I’m wearing this
t-shirt. You can’t leave me topless.’

I
massage my temples as I think for a moment. She’s right, I can’t leave her
without clothes, but I can’t give her this dress. I love this dress. But if I
don’t find Dylan there will be trouble. I suppose Dylan can buy me a new one…
but I’ll still be bottomless in the meantime.

‘I
don’t have any other clothes with me,’ I tell her honestly.

‘That’s
ok, you can have my shorts too.’

Wow,
isn’t she generous?

‘Fine.’
Well, what else can I do? I need that phone, so it’s bye-bye favourite dress.

The
fan stars unbuttoning her shorts.

‘Erm,
can we do this in the toilets or something?’ I ask her, just in time to stop
her taking them off in front of all these people.

She
nods, and I gesture for a security guard to let her passed the barrier.

In
hotel ladies’ room we make the swap. My beautiful pink dress in exchange for
her super-short denim jeans and her signed t-shirt.

‘A
pleasure doing business with you,’ the girls say as she leaves the bathroom.

The
pleasure is all hers. I’m lucky we are almost the same size, but this look is a
little bit boy-ish for my girly-girl taste. Dylan will not only be replacing my
dress, he’ll be buying me a whole new wardrobe to make up for this. My only
problem now is that when I hand the t-shirt over to the girl in room 192, I’m
going to be wandering around in my bra. Hopefully if I call Mikey he will bring
me a spare t-shirt or a hoodie or something.

I
knock on the door of room 192, again, and the underwear-clad girl answers -
again.

‘Ew,
I much preferred the dress,’ she tells me, looking my new outfit up and down.

‘How
about a signed t-shirt in exchange for the phone?’ I ask, ignoring her fashion
advice.

‘No
thanks,’ she says with a cackle. ‘I’d have sooner swapped the phone for the
dress, designer wasn’t it? But I’m sure we can work something out, what shoes
are they?’

‘Fuck
off!’ I reply, before tuning on 
my
 heels and walking away.

‘Bitch!’
she calls after me, slamming the door closed yet again. Back to the drawing
board, Nicole.

I
can’t help but look at my hideous outfit in the mirror as I go down in the
lift. It’s just way too tomboy chic for me to pull off, but I didn’t bring a
change of clothes with me because I knew I’d only be stopping over one night
and it would only be more for me to carry around/potentially lose. I guess I’m
stuck with it.

I’ve
never been a big fan of t-shirts, band-branded or otherwise, and the shorts are
so short that the pockets poke out of the leg holes. As I try to tuck them back
up, I feel something in one of the pockets – it’s a green iPod Nano. I press a
button on the front, causing it to spring to life. It opens up on the video
camera, and curiosity gets the better of me so I press the play button. Who
should pop up on the screen but Dylan King himself, the fan must have filmed
him as he chatted to them.

I
listen carefully for clues – where the hell was he going?

‘I’m
always forgetting things,’ I hear him say. He sounds so bloody drunk, who is
still giving this man alcohol? ‘I need to remember my room number, but I’ll
forget. I wrote it on my hand.’

‘What
if it washes off?’ one of the fans asks him.

‘Ah,
well I have that problem sorted,’ he slurs. ‘I’m going to get it tattooed on. I
haven’t washed my hands in hours.’

‘Eww,’
the girls all say, totally in sync, before bursting into fits of giggles.

I
know he’s drunk, but he wouldn’t really go and get his room number tattooed on
his hand, would he? This is Dylan, of course he would.

‘Oi,’
I call out to the fan-girl when I’m back outside again. ‘You left your iPod in
the pocket.’

‘Give
me that back,’ she insists.

‘I’ll
swap you it for the dress.’

I
thought this would be a reasonable offer, but she just laughs at me.

‘I
could sell this thing and probably buy another three iPods.’

More
like five, bitch.

‘Are
you local?’ I ask her, noticing her accent.

‘Yeah,
why?’

‘If
I wanted to get a tattoo, where would I go?’

I
hold the iPod out in front of her, but pull it back as she reaches for it.

‘We
only have one tattoo parlour, but it’s rough as hell. It’s on West Street.’

I
hand her back her iPod and take one last look at my beautiful dress before
hopping in one of the empty taxis waiting outside the hotel. Dylan will be
getting my bill for today, don’t you worry about it.

‘West
Street, please,’ I tell the driver.

He
looks at me in the rear view mirror. ‘Pretty young thing like you don’t want to
be going down West Street alone.’

‘Thanks,
I’ll be fine. West Street,’ I tell him bluntly – a little too bluntly perhaps,
because he drives me straight there and he doesn’t speak to me again until he
wants paying.

‘Good
luck,’ he says as he drives off, leaving me all alone on a street with nothing
but garages, a pub and a tattoo parlour. At least I’m in the right place.

I
push my way through the door bum first, reluctant to touch the door handle.
I’ve never actually been in a tattoo parlour before, but it’s everything I
imagined. The walls are covered in pictures of tattoo designs and photos of
satisfied customers showing off their freshly-inked body parts. Two men are
sitting behind a table, and a third man with a skinhead is hovering by the chair
where I imagine his victims sit, doing something with his torture tools – I
don’t know what that something is, but I’m fairly sure it isn’t cleaning them.

The
three men share a laugh at my presence here.

‘Looks
like another lost city slicker,’ one of the guys behind the table says. ‘Must
be our lucky day, two city slickers gracing us with their custom.’

I
have two choices. I can be sweet little Nicole and possibly get walked all
over, or I can put on a badass front and possibly get my head kicked in.

‘I’ll
do this one,’ the guy other guy behind the table calls out, but it’s the guy
with the skinhead and the tattoo gun who walks over to greet me, tool in hand.

‘Don’t
worry, I’ll give her what she wants,’ he says, stroking my cheek with the
handle of the tattoo gun.

‘The
only thing you’ll give me is hepatitis, get that the fuck away from me,’ I snap
– so I’ve decided to go for badass Nicole then.

‘Watch
your mouth, little girl,’ he warns me, as the other two men stand up and join
him in crowding round me.

‘I
just –‘I start speaking, but I don’t know what to say. So much for my badass
routine.

‘What’s
going on here?’ I hear a gruff female voice call out.

‘This
city chick said I was going to give her herpes,’ skinhead replies.

I
didn’t say herpes, I said hepatitis – although herpes seems just as likely. I
don’t say this out loud.

A
gothic-looking girl appears in front of us. She’s dressed head to toe in black
leather with various chains attached. She has at least fourteen piercings –
that I can see – and she has more skin occupied by ink than she does without a
mark on it or a hole in it.

‘I
like your look,’ she tells me. ‘Those are some nice shorts, you cut them
yourself?’

‘Yes,’
I lie.

‘I
like that. Too many folk selling their souls for designer togs these days.
Those shoes and that bag look expensive though.’

‘Their
fakes,’ I tell her, thinking fast. ‘I wear them sarcastically.’

Goth
girl smiles. ‘I like that, you know. I like that. Let her go boys, she’s ok by
me. You here for a tattoo?’

‘Actually,
I’m just looking for my friend. Dylan King, he was coming here for a tattoo.’

‘404,’
skinhead chimes in. ‘He wanted me to ink over a number on his hand, said he
needed to remember it no matter what.’

‘That’s
Dylan, where did he go?’