No less than twenty people called out his name in asynchronous harmony. Hands descended on his shoulders to pat him. He was told it had been a great show in a dozen different ways. They pressed all around him, mostly the girls, vying for his attention. Several of the closer girls made a point to "accidentally" rub their breasts on his arm or on his back. He acknowledged as many people as he could, shaking a few hands, throwing out a few words of thanks and a few other small commentaries. He kept a slight smile on his face-the signature shy smile people had come to love about him. As he walked towards his first priority-a stiff drink-the gathering moved with him. As he approached the bar, those in front of him and those who were not part of the gathering but were merely waiting at the bar for their own drinks, parted to either side, leaving him a clear path.
"Wassup, brother?" asked Mohammad Hazim, a full-time bartender for D Street West and a part-time struggling guitarist whom Jake had taken under his wing over the last few months. Mohammad's parents had come to Heritage from Iran in 1962, when he was just two years old. They were devout Muslims who still wore the dress of their native land and were quite horrified by their only son, who had gone to school in the Heritage Public School system and had become fully Americanized by the age of thirteen.
"Wassup, Mo?" Jake asked, holding out his right hand and exchanging a soul brother shake. "You comin' to the party tonight?" Mohammad was one of the select few who fell into the personal friend of the band category in regards to Matt's parties. As such, he had an open invite for every one and he did not need to bring an intoxicating substance along for admission (although he often did anyway).
"Bet your ass," he said, taking a water glass down from above the bar and filling it with ice. He poured a triple shot of 151 proof rum into it, filled the rest up with Coke, and then handed it over to Jake, not asking for payment on a drink that would've cost anyone else four bucks. "Here ya go. You good on smokes?"
"For the moment," Jake assured him.
"Yell me down if you need anything."
"I will," Jake said. "Thanks, Mo."
Mo moved off down the bar to serve some of the paying customers and Jake pulled out one of his cigarettes. Two of the guys moved forward to light it for him, both whipping out Zippos. The larger of the two-a blonde, surfer type in a Van Halen T-shirt-got his up and ignited first. Jake accepted the light from him and spent a few moments conversing with him. It turned out the guy was a guitarist as well-probably a hopeless hacker-and wanted to know details on several chords that Jake had played. Jake remained polite and cordial as he answered his questions.
"Thanks, dude," the surfer told him about halfway through the smoke. "Good fuckin' gig tonight. You guys rock."
"Thanks," Jake said. "We try."
The surfer had a laugh at that and disappeared into the crowd. He was instantly replaced by one of the girls, who wanted to know just how one went about securing an invitation to the after-gig party.
Over the next thirty minutes, Jake was promised sex ten times by ten different girls-one of whom had offered to take him out to her car right at that moment and fuck him in the backseat. During this time he consumed two and a half of Mo's potent drinks and as the alcohol began to surge into his brain he went from politely deflecting each offer to seriously considering which one of the girls he was going to take to Matt's. After all, he'd done it the other night and had enjoyed it immensely, hadn't he? Why shouldn't he enjoy it tonight as well? It wasn't like he had a girlfriend any longer.
It was as he was working on his fourth drink and debating between Allison, the naughty looking short girl in the red mini-skirt, and Cindy, the exotic looking Asian in the Calvin Kleins, that a blonde woman worked her way through the throng and stood before him. She was wearing a conservative, businesslike dress, complete with nylons and high-heels. Her make-up was lightly applied and her eyes were a striking shade of blue. She seemed to be considerably classier than the average female who patronized this establishment.
"Hi," she said, flashing a brief smile. "You're Mr. Kingsley, right?"
"Mr. Kingsley?" he said with a laugh. "That's very formal. You can call me Jake."
She seemed to shrug in a manner that was almost condescending. "As you wish, Jake," she said. "My name is Trina. Trina Allen. I tried to get over to talk to Mr. Tisdale there, but he's got quite the crowd around him."
Jake glanced over in Matt's direction. There was indeed a huge crowd surrounding the lead guitar player. "Yeah, Matt's a friendly guy, all right. Anyway, its nice to meet you, Trina." He held out his hand. "Did you like the show?"
She offered her hand and gave him a brief, businesslike shake. "Yeah," she said analytically. "It was good. Much better than I was expecting, really. But then I'm more of a soft rock fan. Elton John, Billy Joel, stuff like that."
"I see," Jake said slowly. This was certainly not the typical adoring groupie conversation. "Well, I'm glad we were able to keep you entertained."
"So am I," she said. "But anyway, I have a friend that would really like to speak to you and Mr. Tisdale, if that's all right."
"Of course it's all right. We're gonna be getting out of here pretty soon and heading over to Matt's place, but just bring her on over. I'm always happy to talk to a fan."
"Well, in the first place," she said, "she is a he. And in the second place, he's not really a fan, per se."
Jake began to get an uncomfortable sensation. "Really?" he said. "Well, whoever he is, just have him come on over and I'll say hello."
"He would like to speak to you and Mr. Tisdale together," she said. "And he's outside. In his car."
"Uh huh," Jake said. "Well... to tell you the truth, Trina, if he wants to meet us, he's just gonna have to come inside. We don't usually go meet people out in the parking lot."
"I think perhaps you should adjust your policy on that matter," she said. "The gentleman I represent is Ronald Shaver."
"Ronald Shaver?" Jake said, his mind spinning. That name sounded familiar, but he didn't know why.
"We're from Los Angeles, here in Heritage on business," Trina said. "Mr. Shaver is a talent agent whom Mr. Tisdale recently sent a correspondence. He caught your show tonight and would like to speak to the two of you before he goes back to the hotel." She gave him a calculating look. "That is, if you're not too busy engaging in your minor league debauchery preparations?"
Ten seconds later, Jake was forcing himself through the crowd of people surrounding Matt, shouldering scantily dressed girls and drunken men to either side, causing six spilled drinks, two extinguished cigarettes, and one drunken fall. Only the fact that he was Jake Tisdale saved him from getting his ass kicked on general principals. Finally, his target came into view, one hand wrapped around a tall Jack and Coke, the other wrapped around the girl he had vowed to fuck earlier, his fingertips caressing the top of her breast through her blouse.
"Jake!" Matt yelled in his three-quarters drunken voice. "How the hell ya doin', brother?" He turned to the admirers around him. "Do y'all know Jake? He's the singer for the band."
This caused a few laughs among the crowd. Jake ignored them. "I need to talk to you, Matt," he said.
"Well fuckin' talk, homey," Matt said. "What's got a bug up your ass?"
"The same thing that's gonna have a bug up your ass," Jake replied. "Come with me."
Matt responded to the serious tone of his voice. He looked around at his admirers. "If you will all excuse me for a few? It looks like Jake's got some serious shit he needs to talk." He turned to the virginal innocent on his arm. "Don't go nowhere, okay?"