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The penthouse had been Johnny's de facto address for the past several months now. They had become regulars at the pool, grown accustomed to the sight of Sting playing the piano in the lounge or a glimpse of the celebrity couple du jour in the paneled dining room. Taj was half appalled and half amused by the whole thing. Not too long ago she and Johnny had made do with standing in line on La Brea for a cheap Pink's hot dog. Now caviar was being sent to his room by the bucketload.
She walked over to the next room, where a large white seamless background screen had been set up and a large silver umbrella kept the lighting at the optimum angle.
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Johnny was sitting on a stool, his guitar on his lap, while the photographer--one of the most famous ones in the business; Taj recognized him from his Vanity Fair contributor profile and numerous appearances on VHl's lifestyle shows--was behind the camera, clicking away.
The reporter girl, one of those women who were thirty-five going on fifteen--"ironic" butterfly barrettes in her hair, obligatory Marc Jacobs jacket, clodhopper boots, the zippy personality of a seasoned celebrity ass-kisser--stood to the side, cooing over each shot.
She turned to Taj. "Doesn't he look sooo hot?" Taj shrugged in reply, and the reporter looked nervous. Taj noticed that women who wanted to look like teenagers always seemed to be intimidated when they were in the company of real teenagers. The ersatz meeting the authentic and it wasn't pretty.
"Great shoes!" the reporter said as a friendly gesture, pointing down at Taj's feet. "Where'd you get them?"
"Oh," Taj said, trying to remember. She was a superb bargain-hunter and found most of her treasures in flea markets and designer clearance bins. She also made a lot of her clothing herself, or ripped up vintage items and refashioned them to her own tastes. "Some secondhand store in Pasadena, I think?"
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Johnny looked up, moved his bowl-cut bangs off his face, and noticed Taj.
"Where are you going?"
"Out." She shrugged. "My uncle's worried. I haven't been home in a week. Wants to make sure I'm still alive," she joked. Mama Fay was a permissive parent, but even drag queens had their limits. Come home, Mama Fay had ordered. I miss your pretty face.
He frowned slightly. "Stay."
"Can't."
Johnny sighed, as if she had wounded him deeply.
Once upon a time those limpid violet eyes of his could have induced her to do anything--she had let him in, damn it. Had let that voice, and that hair (fine, platinum blond, and soft as a baby duck's feathers), and those eyes do the trick--had let him talk her into doing so many things (like taking off her clothes, like sleeping with him on the first date, like putting up with the other girls--and with Johnny there were always other girls; it was part of the territory, part of the lifestyle, as he liked to call it, and she would have to be "cool" about it if she wanted to be with him, he'd explained).
"I told you, I can't do this anymore," Taj said. "I'm leaving."
Johnny stood up and put his guitar down. "Hold on a sec," he told his entourage.
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He followed her to the hallway, grabbed her hands, and stroked them softly, his touch like the tremor of butterfly wings.
"You know it's just a game," he said, smiling. "It's not real."
"It's not that," Taj shrugged. "I just . . . well, you know."
"But I need you, Taj. It doesn't mean anything without you."
Taj sighed. She could never say no to him; that was the problem.."I'll be back. Before the show."
Johnny drew her close and hugged her tightly. He kissed her forehead, her nose, and leaned down to kiss her lips gently, pressing upon her until she closed her eyes and kissed him back. She inhaled his scent--cigarettes and leather and lighter fluid and a trace of something sweet and expensive: cologne that came in crystal bottles from fancy department stores. She had found it in his medicine cabinet one evening and had teased him. It was gone the next day, but the smell remained.
"It's going to be all right," Johnny said, smiling with his eyes half-lidded. "You'll see."
"I hope so."
Taj watched him walk--no, strut--back to the photo shoot. The reporter girl was watching them from the doorway.
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"Johnny--can we do the interview now? Okay? Tell me, where do you get your inspiration? What made you write 'Bright Eyes'?"
