bedroom again and Lou started to play. Quietly, but at least with Chris no longer staring at her, she could manage. He re-entered, dragging a box, paying absolutely no attention to her, then disappeared into the small kitchenette. Lou continued to play. As long as he ignored her, she could do it. Nervous, true, and not on her best form, but she was managing.
“Louder,” he barked.
Lou upped her volume a little, feeling a pang of anxiety, but the words stayed with her, even if she couldn’t blast them out the way she was supposed to on this song.
Chris returned and plopped down in front of her. She froze.
“Play, damn you,” he growled.
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can!”
He approached her, then shoved a sparkly blond wig on her head. “You’re not Lou. You’re Maggie May. Or Jolene.” He took a few steps back, then returned with some oversize sunglasses, which he shoved on her face. “You’re Billie Jean or some other badass woman who doesn’t give a fuck about anyone except herself.”
Lou stood there, disbelieving. “I don’t think—”
“Just play the same chord over and over. Sing la-la-la. I don’t give a shit. Just play something!”
Lou placed her left hand on Beloved’s neck, formed her fingers into the first chord she’d ever learned. She strummed it once, then sang “la-la-la.” This was ridiculous. The wig wasn’t on properly, the sunglasses kept slipping down her nose. Suddenly she was playing a different chord. Her voice wavered as she sang some silly words, an old nursery rhyme her mother had sang while dandling her on her knee. She stared into the back of the sunglasses, avoiding the sight of Chris in front of her, her voice growing stronger. She was playing… She was playing! She attempted a little run up the neck then switched into another song. The words were right there in the front of her brain where she needed them to be. She grinned, then opened her mouth to start singing—
“Tits out or get off!”
Lou froze. He didn’t. He didn’t. He didn’t just say that. It was too cruel. He’d never be that unkind. She looked at him over the sunglasses, a lump lodging in her throat.
“Tits out or get off!” he screamed. “Play that G chord. Sing la-la-la. Now!”
Lou sniffed hard and attempted the chord. No sound came out of her mouth. The large lump prevented anything from escaping.
“Sing it, Maggie May! Then get your tits out.”
She closed her eyes. She wouldn’t have believed he could be such an arsehole. Her Zippy.
She sobbed.
“Cry louder, Jolene! Or get off!”
Lou dropped her hands from Beloved, the tears steaming down her face. His eyes were so hard; he didn’t care if he was hurting her.
“You’re wasting my time,” he growled. “You need to get back to whatever gutter you crawled out of. You’re nothing. You’ll never amount to anything. You’re useless. Can’t even get your tits out.”
Lou gripped Beloved. Hit him with her treasured guitar? Or put it down and use her fists?
Chris wrestled with something in his hands. He finally managed to wrench the top off the bottle of beer. He approached and poured the bottle over her head. “Tits out or get off,” he whispered.
Lou felt something rise from deep within her gut. Not just anger. Not just rage. Something more. Something to do with the unfairness of it all. Having found him, having trusted him, having put herself in his hands—just so he could humiliate her, hurt her. Deep within, she found a hard knot of pride. She grabbed him by the scruff of his t-shirt, wiped her face on it, then shoved him hard in the chest. She bent over, plugged Beloved into the amp and turned the volume up to eleven. She was in the Chelsea fucking Hotel in New York fucking City in front of a man who used to wear nothing but a ridiculously small thong on stage.
And she was better than all of them!
She gritted her teeth, put her hands on Beloved, and hit a power chord while screaming her rage right into
“Louder,” he barked.
Lou upped her volume a little, feeling a pang of anxiety, but the words stayed with her, even if she couldn’t blast them out the way she was supposed to on this song.
Chris returned and plopped down in front of her. She froze.
“Play, damn you,” he growled.
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can!”
He approached her, then shoved a sparkly blond wig on her head. “You’re not Lou. You’re Maggie May. Or Jolene.” He took a few steps back, then returned with some oversize sunglasses, which he shoved on her face. “You’re Billie Jean or some other badass woman who doesn’t give a fuck about anyone except herself.”
Lou stood there, disbelieving. “I don’t think—”
“Just play the same chord over and over. Sing la-la-la. I don’t give a shit. Just play something!”
Lou placed her left hand on Beloved’s neck, formed her fingers into the first chord she’d ever learned. She strummed it once, then sang “la-la-la.” This was ridiculous. The wig wasn’t on properly, the sunglasses kept slipping down her nose. Suddenly she was playing a different chord. Her voice wavered as she sang some silly words, an old nursery rhyme her mother had sang while dandling her on her knee. She stared into the back of the sunglasses, avoiding the sight of Chris in front of her, her voice growing stronger. She was playing… She was playing! She attempted a little run up the neck then switched into another song. The words were right there in the front of her brain where she needed them to be. She grinned, then opened her mouth to start singing—
“Tits out or get off!”
Lou froze. He didn’t. He didn’t. He didn’t just say that. It was too cruel. He’d never be that unkind. She looked at him over the sunglasses, a lump lodging in her throat.
“Tits out or get off!” he screamed. “Play that G chord. Sing la-la-la. Now!”
Lou sniffed hard and attempted the chord. No sound came out of her mouth. The large lump prevented anything from escaping.
“Sing it, Maggie May! Then get your tits out.”
She closed her eyes. She wouldn’t have believed he could be such an arsehole. Her Zippy.
She sobbed.
“Cry louder, Jolene! Or get off!”
Lou dropped her hands from Beloved, the tears steaming down her face. His eyes were so hard; he didn’t care if he was hurting her.
“You’re wasting my time,” he growled. “You need to get back to whatever gutter you crawled out of. You’re nothing. You’ll never amount to anything. You’re useless. Can’t even get your tits out.”
Lou gripped Beloved. Hit him with her treasured guitar? Or put it down and use her fists?
Chris wrestled with something in his hands. He finally managed to wrench the top off the bottle of beer. He approached and poured the bottle over her head. “Tits out or get off,” he whispered.
Lou felt something rise from deep within her gut. Not just anger. Not just rage. Something more. Something to do with the unfairness of it all. Having found him, having trusted him, having put herself in his hands—just so he could humiliate her, hurt her. Deep within, she found a hard knot of pride. She grabbed him by the scruff of his t-shirt, wiped her face on it, then shoved him hard in the chest. She bent over, plugged Beloved into the amp and turned the volume up to eleven. She was in the Chelsea fucking Hotel in New York fucking City in front of a man who used to wear nothing but a ridiculously small thong on stage.
And she was better than all of them!
She gritted her teeth, put her hands on Beloved, and hit a power chord while screaming her rage right into
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