“This is Anton,” Esperanza said. “He says Lex is in bottle service.”
“Oh,” Myron said, having no idea what bottle service was.
“This way,” Anton said.
They traveled into a sea of bodies. Esperanza was in front of him. Myron got a kick out of watching every neck turn for a second glance. As they continued to wind through the crowd, a few women met Myron’s gaze and held it, though not as many as one, two, five years ago. He felt like an aging pitcher who needed this particular radar gun to tell him that his fastball was losing velocity. Or maybe there was something else at work here. Maybe women just sensed that Myron was engaged now, had been taken off the market by the lovely Terese Collins and thus was no longer to be treated as mere eye candy.
Yeah, Myron thought. Yeah, that
Anton used his key to open a door into another room-and seemingly another era. Where the actual club was techno and sleek with hard angles and smooth surfaces, this VIP lounge was done up in Early American Bordello. Plush sofas of burgundy, crystal chandeliers, leather moldings on the ceiling, lit candles on the wall. The room also had another one-way glass wall, so the VIPs could watch the girls dance and maybe choose a few to join them. Several robustly implanted soft-porn model types wore period corsets and merry widows and walked around with champagne bottles, ergo, Myron figured, the term “bottle service.”
“Are you looking at all the bottles?” Esperanza asked.
“Um, close.”
Esperanza nodded, smiled at a particularly well-endowed hostess in a black corset. “Hmm… Could do with a little bottle service myself, if you know what I’m saying.”
Myron thought about it. Then: “Actually, I don’t. You’re both women, right? So I’m not sure I get the bottle reference.”
“God, you’re literal.”
“You asked if I was looking at all the bottles. Why?”
“Because they’re serving Cristal champagne,” Esperanza said.
“So?”
“How many bottles do you see?”
Myron glanced around. “I don’t know, nine, maybe ten.”
“They go for eight grand a pop here, plus tip.”
Myron put his hand to his chest, feigning heart palpitations. He spotted Lex Ryder sprawled on a couch with a colorful assortment of lovelies. The other men in the room all shouted aging musician/ roadie-long hair weaves, bandanas, facial hair, wiry arms, soft guts. Myron made his way through them.
“Hello, Lex.”
Lex’s head lolled to the side. He looked up and shouted with too much gusto, “Myron!”
Lex tried to get up, couldn’t, so Myron offered him a hand. Lex used it, managed to get to his feet, and hugged Myron with the slobbering enthusiasm men save for too much drink. “Oh man, it’s so good to see you.”
HorsePower had started off as a house band in Lex and Gabriel’s hometown of Melbourne, Australia. The name had come from Lex’s last name Ryder (Horse-Ryder) and Gabriel’s last name Wire (Power-Wire), but from the moment they started together, it was all about Gabriel. Gabriel Wire had a wonderful voice, sure, and he was ridiculously handsome with nearly supernatural charisma-but he also had that elusive, intangible, the “you know it when you see it” quality that raises the greats to the status of legendary.
Must be hard, Myron often thought, for Lex-or anyone-to live in that shadow. Sure, Lex was famous and rich and technically speaking, all songs were Wire-Ryder productions, though Myron, being the one who handled his finances, knew Lex’s cut was 25 percent to Gabriel’s 75. And sure, women still hit on him, men still wanted to be his friend, but Lex was also the ultimate late-night punch line, the butt of all jokes involving second-to-the-point-of- irrelevancy bananas.
HorsePower was still huge, maybe bigger than ever, even though Gabriel Wire had gone completely underground after a tragic scandal more than fifteen years ago. With the exception of a few paparazzi shots and a lot of rumors, there had been pretty much no sign of Gabriel Wire in all that time-no touring, no interviews, no press, no public appearances. All that secrecy just made the public hunger for Wire all the more.
“I think it’s time to go home, Lex.”
“Nah, Myron,” he said, voice thick with what Myron hoped was just drink. “Come on now. We’re having fun. Aren’t we having fun, gang?”
Various vocalizations of agreement. Myron looked around. He may have met one or two of the guys before, but the only one he knew for certain was Buzz, Lex’s longtime bodyguard/personal assistant. Buzz met Myron’s eye and shrugged as if to say, what can you do?
Lex threw his arm around Myron, draping it over his neck like a camera strap. “Sit, old friend. Let’s have a drink, relax, unwind.”
“Suzze is worried about you.”
“Is she now?” Lex arched an eyebrow. “And so she sent her old errand boy to come fetch me?”
“Technically speaking, I’m your errand boy too, Lex.”
“Ah, agents. That most mercenary of occupations.”
Lex wore black pants and a black leather vest, and it looked like he’d just gone clothes shopping at Rockers R Us. His hair was gray now, cut very short. Collapsing back on the couch, he said, “Sit, Myron.”
“Why don’t we take a walk, Lex?”
“You’re my errand boy too, right? I said, sit.”
He had a point. Myron found a spot and sank deep and slow into the cushions. Lex turned a knob to his right and the music lowered. Someone handed Myron a glass of champagne, spilling a bit as they did. Most of the tight- corset ladies-and let’s face it, in any era, that’s a look that works-were gone now, without much notice, as though they’d faded into the walls. Esperanza was chatting up the one she’d been checking out when they entered the room. The other men in the room watched the two women flirt with the fascination of cavemen first seeing fire.
Buzz was smoking a cigarette that smelled, uh, funny. He looked to pass it off to Myron. Myron shook his head and turned toward Lex. Lex lounged back as though someone had given him a muscle relaxant.
“Suzze showed you the post?” Lex asked.
“Yes.”
“So what’s your take, Myron?”
“A random lunatic playing head games.”
Lex took a deep sip of champagne. “You really think so?”
“I do,” Myron said, “but either way it’s the twenty-first century.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s not that big a deal. You can get a DNA test, if you’re so concerned about it-establish paternity for certain.”
Lex nodded slowly, took another deep sip. Myron tried to stay out of agent mode, but the bottle held 750 ml, which is approximately 25 ounces, divided by $8,000 dollars, equaled $320 per ounce.
“I hear you’re engaged,” Lex said.
“Yup.”
“Let’s drink to that.”
“Or sip. Sipping is cheaper.”
“Relax, Myron. I’m filthy rich.”
True enough. They drank.
“So what’s bothering you, Lex?”
Lex ignored the question. “So how come I haven’t met your new bride-to-be?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Where is she now?”
Myron kept it vague. “Overseas.”
“May I give you some advice on marriage?”
“How about, ‘Don’t believe stupid Internet rumors about paternity’?”
Lex grinned. “Good one.”
