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Giselle
It was a balmy Thursday in Los Angeles, the late afternoon winding lazily down to evening. High above the city streets, the heavens were a-glow. The golden light of the sun was made hazy by the heat waves and the occasional puffy painted cloud passing over. As the sun slowly set, the sky bloomed in bright hues of pink, orange, and yellow, like scoops of sherbet melting over the mountains in the distance. The air was calm and warm, save for the occasional refreshing breeze that rolled in from the Santa Monica shore. With a deep breath, you could smell the sea, even taste it in faint, salty puffs. Even miles from the coast, in the storied neighborhood of Hollywood, the sea made herself known.
The streets were filled with beautiful people dressed in designer shorts and floaty summer dresses, sandals and teetering wedges. It was late May in southern California, and the dry heat was a near constant. The temperatures soaring into the nineties and beyond brought out the short skirts, mini-shorts, and revealing tank tops that made men turn their heads on the street. Especially on Hollywood Boulevard, where people came to see and be seen. This part of town was flush with cultural landmarks and local flavor. Just around the corner was the legendary Hollywood Walk of Fame, the pavement studded with stars of the screen. The vintage favorite of record-collectors and music fanatics, Amoeba Music, beckoned on the corner of Hollywood and Argyle. The Capitol Records building loomed circular and shiny just a few streets over. Farther down, you could gaze up in awe at the Dolby Theatre, famous for hosting the Academy Awards. No matter the time of day, Hollywood was a prized destination.
The famous thoroughfare was lined with trendy shops, cafes, and bars. Every now and again, you might catch a fragrant whiff of delightful dishes wafting out from an open restaurant door, or a split-second of upbeat music pulsing inside a bar. Some businesses wore their enthusiasm right on the sign, with neon lights and flashy posters to catch the attention of passersby. But other businesses kept a low profile, with flat, color-blocked facades and unassuming entryways, hardly even a sign to indicate what kind of debauchery went on inside.
A chic, exclusive bar called The Swirling Cosmos was garnering attention as a short line, consisting mostly of pretty young women in flashy outfits, formed at the entry. A bouncer dressed in all black guarded the door. But the mood was anything but formal, as the bouncer joked and flirted with the wannabes. Pedestrians passing by pointed out the mural painted on the building that depicted a giant martini glass with a colorful, starry galaxy swirling inside it. There was no window to show what was going on within the bar, but just past the doorman, behind the brick facade, was a nightly party in its fledgling stages.
The Swirling Cosmos was a popular meeting space for young creatives—artists, musicians, actresses, models, the usual suspects. The interior was dimly lit with neon pink lighting and a slow, constant strobe of white spotlights glimmering across the glossy bar and brass fixtures. A disco ball hung and rotated from the ceiling, adding even more shimmer to the scintillating dots of light throughout the bar. People sat elbow to elbow at the bar counter, while others gathered in cozy booths or glittery high-top tables. Up-tempo classic rock with a glam twist emanated from the speakers throughout the bar. Everywhere you looked, patrons were tapping their toes or nodding their heads to the beat. The noise was a low, constant hum of laughter, hushed conversation, and the occasional singalong. The majority of the clientele were women, and the same seemed to go for the bar staff. Everyone was good-looking, at the bar and behind it. A less confident person might have been intimidated to walk into such a place, but in one corner of the Swirling Cosmos sat a group of young women with enough collective confidence to do just about anything.
The four women in their twenties were gathered at a corner booth. One held a film camera while the other manned a video camera, and the third scribbled down notes in a no-frills spiral notebook. The fourth woman was the most intriguing of all, and not just because she was the subject of the interview taking place.
She was intensely beautiful, with a sharpness and ferocity to her ample charms. The young woman couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, but she carried herself with the assuredness of a much older, accomplished woman. There was a big, shining smile on her pretty face, with just a hint of mischief. Her skin was milky-pale, especially for sun-soaked Los Angeles, giving her the glow of some otherworldly nymph. In sharp contrast, her hair was a glossy jet-black. It had a fluffy, straight texture with tons of volume that puffed it out at her crown and temples. Her bangs were a choppy cut, the black fringe fluffy and playful around her forehead. Her hair reached just barely to her shoulders, where the ends curled ever so softly. Somehow, she managed to simultaneously look like she had just come from an edgy salon and like she had just rolled out of bed, hair untouched. Either way, she stood out among the blonde dye jobs populating the bar around her.
But even if she hadn’t been a striking raven beauty, her clothes were enough to make her stand out in this crowd. Everyone else was dressed in the typical flowy, floral, colorful dresses and jumpsuits that were trending in the city. But the girl with the naughty smile was dressed in a short, form-fitting black dress, her long legs bare except for the loose-knit fishnets stretching over her pale skin. She wore a true vintage band t-shirt from some 1970s world tour, and draped over the seat was a well-worn, black faux-leather jacket with a scarlet rose embroidered over the heart. Her shoes were a clunky pair of lived-in black boots, and there was a single, simple black and gold choker around her throat. She wore very little makeup, just a flick of black eyeliner and some red-tinted lip balm dabbed on her full, plush lips. Her skin was naturally smooth and looked soft to the touch.
She raised her arched brows and grinned as the three other women greeted her. All three looked a tad nervous, like they were intimidated by the sheer bravado emanating from their interview subject. Despite her delicate, petite frame, the girl gave off a powerful “don’t mess with me” vibe. Still, she hadn’t turned that ferocity on them—in fact, she smiled at them warmly and complimented them on their punctuality, fancy equipment, and professional attitude. It wasn’t that she actually cared much about things like that, but she knew they did. And she wanted to make them feel at home, even as they interviewed one of LA’s most notorious, talented divas on the music scene.
She was far from the type of girl who viewed fellow women as competition. Her confidence wasn’t meant to be a weapon against other women, only a deterrent for irksome men. Her confidence was contagious, making the women in her proximity feel inspired and strong.
To some, she was a troublemaker. To others, she was freedom incarnate.
“I have to say, Miss Kingston, it is a real honor to be here talking with you tonight,” the interviewer said, starry-eyed. She tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear, her fingers curling around the edges of her notebook.
“Oh, you can call me Giselle. ‘Miss Kingston’ makes me feel like a kindergarten teacher.” The subject laughed, waving her dainty ringed hand dismissively. “And your name?”
The interviewer blushed. Clearly, she wasn’t used to people asking her questions.
“I’m Lola. Jennifer is taking film photos for the magazine piece, and Carrie here is recording clips for our website,” Lola said, gesturing to the other two.
Giselle nodded at them and leaned back in her chair, taking a wide stance with her arms crossed over her ample chest. She looked much more comfortable than the average Swirling Cosmos patron, often straining to be seen under only favorable lighting with perfect posture and the most flattering angle. Giselle seemed immune to the pressure, though she was lucky enough to look good from any angle.
“A pleasure to meet you all. Very professional operation you’re running here. So, lay it on me. What do your readers want to know? The deep, dark, and filthy stuff?” she asked with a waggle of her expressive brows to show she was half joking.
“Well, first of all, we at Sirens magazine want to congratulate you on the success of your second album,” Lola began brightly. “Record-breaking sales again, just like your first release?”
“That’s what the big man tells me,” Giselle remarked.
“You mean your producer at Hot House Entertainment?” she asked.
Giselle nodded. “Good ole Bruce Jimenez. He may be wound tighter than a mechanical clock, but the guy sure knows how to market an album,” she answered. “Everybody has their skill set, I suppose,” she added with a giggle.
“Right, but surely there’s much more than just marketing behind your wild success in the music industry,” Lola pointed out. “To be honest, I interview a lot of female musicians for Sirens, and none of them have the same…”
“Je ne sais quoi,” filled in Carrie from behind her massive video camera.
“Yeah. Pretty much,” Lola said. “Your fans aren’t just rabid listeners of your music with Tortured Hearts; they’re fans of you, as a person. Or rather, a persona?”
Giselle smirked. “No persona here, Lola. What you see is what you get. I learned a long time ago that people were going to love me or hate me no matter what I did, so why not just be myself? This is me. Take it or leave it.”
“So cool,” murmured Jennifer as she snapped a photo.
“If you had to sum up your music style in three words, what would you choose?” Lola questioned, her pen at the ready.
Giselle looked contemplative for a moment, then held up three fingers. With each word, she put down a finger. “Fast, fun, and fierce.”
Lola grinned and wrote down her answer. “You’re the frontwoman of your band. How do the guys of Tortured Hearts feel about that? Any scrambling for the spotlight?”
