The Grey Tier Read online

And I was, after a shower and a change of clothes. I snuck my half-coyote, half-lab, possibly some border collie pooch into the dingy motel room that smelled of stale cigarettes, bug spray, and mildew. She jumped on the bed with me and we fell fast asleep.

  Chapter Three

  A WEEK LATER, and Cass and I were still at Motel Hell without any future prospects. We had driven around the city a few hundred times, only to find that fifty-five bucks for a motel room was cheap, and we were lucky no one had caught me sneaking Cass in and out. I had applied for a variety of jobs, from Subway to Gag in the Bag (take your pick as to which fast food joint I am referring to), to a receptionist at a variety of nail salons. I even went out on a limb and applied for a position at Nordstrom in the cosmetics department. I figured, what the heck—Mama is a beautician—and I did sell Mary Kay for two weeks.

  We were in the VW driving around the city in search of inspiration and a Help Wanted sign. I reached over to pat Cass on the head—for the record, I don’t read animals, but I know for sure Cass has had a good life. I’ve raised her since she was a pup.

  “What should we do, Cass?” I’d already gone through almost a grand between the gas, food for the two of us, and the motel. Time was running out.

  “I need a singing gig,” I said.

  Cass lifted her head and studied me. We came to a red light cruising north on La Cienega. The cross street was Fairfax, close to The Beverly Center where I’d applied for the Nordstrom job. It seemed like a decent area.

  Cass whined. I looked over at her. Her head was tucked under her paws. And suddenly, clear as day, I had an image of someone bowed in prayer.

  “Um, you think I should pray?” Thanks to my Southern Baptist minister dad, my home was prayer central. My parents raised me to believe in the power of prayer and miracles and trusting that God knew best.

  But when you’re twelve and your fifteen-year-old sister sneaks out late one night and vanishes into thin air, and you prayed and prayed for months for God to bring her home and He didn’t, well, it’s kind of hard to get behind the idea of prayer. It had been some time since I’d bothered with praying.

  Cass kept her head tucked under her paws and whined again.

  “You’re serious? You have been listening to Daddy way too much.” She lifted her head and gave me a long look, then tucked it once more under her paws. “Okay. Fine. I get it.” I took a deep breath, staring at the road in front of me, and feeling a bit silly.

  “Hi, God, Evie Preston here . . .” (Yes, I admit it. I was a huge fan of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret).

  “Yeah, so anyway . . . you must know what’s going on with me. You know everything, right? At least Daddy says you do. So, the singing thing . . . I could really use a break right about now. I don’t want to disappoint Betty LaRue, and I honestly don’t think you would either because, well, you know Betty, so could you help me out a little? Thanks. Amen.” I know. Lame, right? But it had been a long time since I’d prayed and, well, I was a little rusty.

  Cass sat up, and as we rolled up to the next light at La Brea, she let out a yelp.

  “What now?”

  She was looking out the window. A chalkboard sign on the sidewalk read, “Two dollar tacos and beer!!” My stomach growled in response. The place didn’t look like much, considering the area. A big, green, neon sign in the tinted window on the building read “Nick’s.”

  “Lunch time,” I announced. I found a meter and parked the van, cracking the windows and rolling back the sun-roof. “Stay put, girl. Doubt dogs are allowed.” Cass shot me an offended look, ears pinned back and head cocked to the side. “I know. It’s stupid. I’ll bring you back a taco and a Coke.”

  The atmosphere inside Nick’s was, needless to say, lacking. The place was a dive, which didn’t bother me because as a Texan, I knew a little something about dive bars (only at home, they usually served up some mighty fine barbecue and let folks walk around with guns). God forbid my father ever found out. He’d probably disown me.

  Mick Jagger was belting out “Waiting on a Friend” from a corner jukebox. The carpet was a muddy-reddish color with black smudges here and there. I’m sure at some point it had been true red. The bar itself was long and narrow, with a row of stools covered in cracked, brown vinyl facing a mirror lit up by dim lights across the top (with a few burnt out bulbs) covering the back wall. Liquor bottles sat displayed on the back counter. A handful of patrons, looking as if they’d been glued to those chairs for a number of years, sat in silence nursing their woes. On the other side of me were four rows of booths with the same cracked, brown vinyl seating. A younger couple sat in one of the booths playing grab-ass and giggling while downing a couple of beers.

  A middle-aged guy—tall and skinny—who looked older than he probably was, walked towards me. He had longish, graying blonde hair that skimmed his shoulders, and wore a worn pair of too-big jeans and a red polo. The name “Nick” was stitched in black across the right side of his shirt. He semi-smiled and his green eyes, although sad, cast a little light in them through wire-rimmed glasses. “Welcome to Nick’s.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Here for lunch?”

  I nodded. “Two-dollar tacos and beer sound awesome, but I think I’ll have a Coke instead.”

  He laughed. “Sit anywhere. Take your pick,” he replied, his voice surprisingly deep and guttural.

  I chose the back booth far from the couple and settled in to think a little more about my predicament. I noticed photos of various celebrities lining the walls, many of them autographed personally to Nick.

  Five minutes passed since I’d last seen Nick. It seemed he was a man of all trades and acting host, owner, cook, and bartender of this place. Finally, he appeared and sat three tacos and a beer down in front of me.

  “Oh no. I haven’t ordered yet. And I wanted a Coke, please.” I smiled up at him, remembering my manners.

  He sat down across from me. “You’re not from here.”

  I shrugged. “It shows that much?”

  He laughed warmly. “Look, I serve two-dollar tacos every Tuesday and hands down, I know I make the best in town.” He pointed at my plate. “You got chicken, steak, and my specialty—fish—there. You have to have a beer with them. Tacos without beer is, like, sacrilegious.”

  Now I laughed. I don’t think my daddy would’ve agreed with Nick, but to each his own. “You must be Nick.”

  “That obvious?”

  “The name on the shirt sort of gives you away.” I decided to walk on the wild side for a moment and try the fish taco. I’d never had one before (we didn’t get a lot of fresh seafood in landlocked Brady). It was mouthwatering.

  “Oh, my gosh. This is amazing!” I looked Nick, and then back at the taco, and took another bite.

  “Told you,” he said, winking. “I am actually planning to open a taco bar. Two in fact. One in Santa Monica and one in Hollywood.”

  “No kidding? Well, I’ll be your top customer,” I said.

  “It’s not fair for me to keep a world-class fish taco from everyone. That’s my secret recipe right there.” He pointed at the taco, smiling.

  From the other side of the room, a slurred voice called, “Wonder what your buddy George thinks of that. He has a different story.” A peroxide-blonde woman seated at the bar spun her bar stool around to look at Nick and me. Her brown eyes were glassy and hazy with drink.

  “Ah come on, Candace. You know George is full of shit. I don’t even know why you listen to that guy,” Nick said.

  “I thought you two were partners,” the middle-aged woman, replied.

  Nick waved a hand at her. “Honey, you believe what they print in The Enquirer, for God’s sake. Go back to your Candace Special. I’m visiting a new customer here.”

  Candace gave me a little wiggle with her fingers and spun herself back around. She shouldered the guy next to her. He wore an eye patch covering one eye. She whispered something in his ear and they both started laughing.

  Nick cleared
his throat, grabbing my attention. “Don’t mind her. She loves to stir the pot. Where you from?”

  I set down the taco and wiped my hands. “Sorry. I’m Evie Preston. I’m from Brady, Texas.”

  Nick tilted his head to the side, looking, oddly enough, like Cass when she was puzzling over something. “You don’t have much of an accent.”

  I shrugged. “My father is from the Midwest. He’s never had a Texas accent, and my mother, well, she definitely has a drawl, but I guess I take after my dad.”

  “I can hear it a little. Not much, though. What brings you west, Evie Preston? Let me guess—actress or singer?”

  I took a sip of the beer. He was right. Tacos and beer were a perfect match. Especially the fish taco. “You’re good. Singer and guitar player.”

  “Really?” He pointed to the lime on my plate. “Squeeze that into the beer and sprinkle a little salt in there.”

  “Okay.” I did the lime-salt thing and continued to be impressed. “Yes, really. Why the surprise?”

  “I dunno. I thought actress for sure. Woulda put money on it, actually.”

  “Nope. Have no desire to act.”

  “What kind of music do you play? Sing?” He stood and went behind the bar, grabbed himself a beer, and sat back down.

  “I like it all. I’m partial to the blues . . . I like folksy, kind of, I don’t know, I think Sheryl Crowe is great. I love Stevie Nicks if you’re going for some old school rock, and Heart is awesome, too. Um, Adele, Amy Winehouse, and Ellie Goulding definitely inspire me.” I realized he was older and might not even know who the last few singers were.

  “Love ‘Rumor Has It.’ Reminds me of old school jazz in a way.” He was up on his music. Of course, this was LA where people of all ages were surrounded by famous musicians. “Evie Preston wants to be a singing star, huh?”

  I nodded, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

  “Okay. You got your guitar?”

  “With me?”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “I do.”

  “Great.” He turned and pointed behind him. “See that spot over there in the corner next to the jukebox? The little step up? That’s our stage.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Grab your guitar and sing some songs. I know a few show business types, and I wouldn’t mind having live entertainment to bring some people in. That is, if you’re good.”

  “Really?!”

  “Really.”

  “Wow. Okay.” I stood. “Can I get another taco?”

  “You’re hungry, huh? Usually three fill my customers up.”

  “It’s for my dog. She’s out in my van.”

  “Bring her in. She doesn’t bite does she?”

  “Oh no. Not even.”

  “I love dogs. Go get her and the guitar. I’ll make her up some tacos.” He glanced over at the two barflies. “Hey Mumbles, Candace, we’re gonna get some live entertainment in here!”

  Candace turned back to us and said in her scratchy voice, “Good. The kid looks like she might bring this place some much-needed class.”

  The patched-eye guy mumbled something completely indecipherable.

  “You two are always busting my balls.” Nick laughed, shaking his head.

  I hurried out to the VW and slid open the door. Cass was curled up in the back. She lifted her head and I blew her a kiss. “Hungry?”

  She perked right up and leapt out of the van. I grabbed my guitar, and we headed into Nick’s, me wondering if playing music at a dive bar might just be the answer to my prayers.

  Chapter Four

  TWO WEEKS PLAYING and singing at Nick’s taught me quite a bit, including how to make his famous tacos (except for the fish, his top secret recipe). I’d also learned how to pour a stiff drink or two. When my mama and daddy called every other day, I found myself telling little white lies about eighty-percent of the time. I told them a story about a fancy resort I was playing at out in Malibu and how Cass and I were doing just fine.

  I guess in some ways we were. The hours at Nick’s were great—six to midnight every night but Monday (bar was closed . . . Nick said he needed a day off, but I had a sneaking suspicion there was more to it than that). The pay wasn’t great, however. I made eight bucks an hour plus tips, and the tips were, well, on the meager side, considering patrons like Candace and her sidekick Mumbles.

  Speaking of Mumbles, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how he got his nickname. He was a stout old guy with deep lines across his forehead and around his visible eye. Nearly bald, he never took off the eye patch. He was a character. Don’t know how he got the patch, but one day, I’m sure I’ll get the backstory. If I can understand it, that is. I think his accent is Irish—hard to say, though.

  One warm evening I slapped him on the shoulder as I came in, guitar strung on my back, Cass tailing me. I hadn’t thought about it before I did it—it was a light pat but he was wearing a tank top so the shoulder was bare, which meant no barriers. Now, I realized pretty much anyone who sat at that bar day after day probably had some significant trauma in their life, but what came rushing at me in a wave was pretty intense. There was no vision of anything, but I could hear something awful—black, loud, and scary as . . . well, you know. It was only two seconds worth, but I yanked my hand off his shoulder like I’d burned it and brought both my hands up to cover my ears. I began shaking my head frantically, trying to rid myself of the pain and confusion. That had never happened before. I had only seen traumas before, never heard them.

  Mumbles was staring at me with his one eye, a look of concern spreading across his face. I quickly pulled myself together and shot him a weak smile.

  “Hey, Mumbles. How’s it going?”

  It’s hard to tell but I think his answer was something like, “Good. Yep. Okay . . . don’t know, really. You? Your ears covered! Okay?”

  I decided to mumble back, “Good. Okay. Think so anyway. Ears are fine.” And that was the beginning of my strange and unexpected friendship with Mumbles.

  Candy—who preferred to be called Candace even though she revealed to me one night her name was really Barbara—always sat two seats away from Mumbles. I think she’d once been beautiful. She had deep-set brown eyes, long, white-blonde hair, and a terrific smile, but time, a hard life, and booze had taken a toll on her. It’s funny what people will reveal after they’ve had a few drinks. It didn’t take long before I knew all about Candace’s four husbands, her hopes of being an actress, her daughter who hadn’t spoken to her in eight years, and her cat, Goldy. I didn’t have to touch Candace to quickly understand the traumas in her life.

  I also learned a bit about Nick himself. He didn’t exactly have as many show biz contacts as he’d initially indicated. Turns out, he was the child star of a 1970s show called Next-Door Neighbors. He didn’t talk much about it, but I know he played the precocious kid named Jeff.

  I didn’t know much about actors or actresses. We were not allowed to have a TV in the house growing up. The only exposure I ever really had to television was the one in my mama’s beauty shop.

  One Tuesday night, not too long after I started at Nick’s, things were a bit busier than usual. Some of the college kids from USC liked to pop in on occasion. I had just finished playing a set, and decided to take a break and grab a bite to eat. I sat between Candace and Mumbles. No one ever sat between them but me. Candace smiled. She was already a good three sheets to the wind and it was only nine o’clock. Then again, she’d been pretty bombed around six when I set up for the night. She patted my knee. Fortunately the jeans I had on were a good barrier. “You are such a pretty girl, sweet pea. And so talented! Isn’t she Mumbles?”

  Mumbles bobbed his head up and down slowly “Yep. Pretty.”

  I smiled at them both and then scanned the bar. “Thank you. Hey, where’s Nick?”

  Candace spun around on the red vinyl and pointed to a booth near the kitchen. “He’s visiting with some old friends,” she said. />
  Nick was seated across from a woman who, from where I sat, looked Hollywood pretty. She had a too-perfect, plastic quality about her, but whoever had done the work had done a good job. She sat next to an older, handsome guy . . . he was probably about fifty. Nick appeared kind of uncomfortable, but he was having a drink with them and the conversation looked light and cordial to me. I decided to get my own tacos.

  It was one of those nights when things simply felt out of place and a little off. Candace excused herself to go to the bathroom when another woman who she seemed to recognize walked in. The woman was an attractive redhead—petite, probably close to Candace’s age, but again, hard to tell age since guessing Candace’s actual age is near impossible.

  Candace glanced at me. “I’m going to the restroom to put some lipstick on.”

  Hmm. Now that was a first.

  The redhead sat at the end of the bar. A few minutes later, I saw Nick come back behind the bar and head over to her. He kissed her on the cheek and they hugged. He looked happy to see her. I contemplated getting up to introduce myself when someone sat down next to me. Someone I had noticed in the bar before.

  “Hi. I’m Jackson.”

  I turned to face the guy. He could frequently be found in a back booth with his laptop open, sipping a tall glass of iced-tea. I’d seen him speak with Nick a few times but decided not to force an introduction . . . partly because he was always so focused on his computer, and partly because of how intimidated I get around hot guys (and yes, he was hot).

  “Hi,” I said, looking into his brooding, dark eyes. Yeah, I know. I sound like the heroine of a romance novel. But what can I say? He had nice eyes. He also had deep brown, disheveled waves of hair . . . very sexy. And, he was talking to me.

  I started to stick my hand out and then thought better of it, “I’m Evie.”