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coffee.” Slade went over and grabbed the plastic cup, and jabbing a straw in it, he looked to Bebe and said, “You girls go on over and we’ll meet you there later.” It was a command, not a suggestion. Slade fished out a wad of cash and handed it to Bebe. He pecked her cheek and rejoined his circle.

    Bebe was Slade’s staple. Her role was to play the temporary Mrs. McAllister on an “as needed” basis. She was his L.A. “live in” who picked up the mail, paid the gardener and kept the refrigerator stocked. However, Bebe did work, as a yoga instructor at a very elite gym located in Beverly Hills with a high profile clientele, and on every other Friday night she could be found as Bebe Bemire, femme fatale mud wrestler, at the Hollywood Sports Bar. But when Slade was in Los Angeles she donned the proverbial apron and provided him with necessities such as clean socks, aspirin for a hangover, an ear to hear the most minimal of complaints, and a body to keep his bed warm. When Slade didn’t need her, she was to make herself invisible. It wasn’t a bad deal, really. Bebe got to live rent free in Slade’s beautiful home perched in the Hollywood Hills and hang out by his pool working on her permanent tan while an illegal immigrant mowed and maintained the lawns and flowerbeds. The best perk though was driving his Aston Martin. It gave her distinction driving around Mulholland or Beverly Hills. But to the insiders of the music industry, girls like Bebe were anywhere and everywhere.

    The girlfriends left the studio and the conversation went from equipment, to musical tastes and the who’s who in rockdom. Noting the time, Eddie announced she had to leave.
    “I can take you home,” Slade offered.
    “No, that’s alright, Raven drove, so we’re okay.”
    “Esther,” Slade said, “let me drive you home.”
     
    The three walked out to the parking lot and as Slade waved goodbye to Raven, he pushed the button to unlock the door to his car. Eddie slipped into the dark leather seat of the midnight blue Aston Martin DBS. If she had ever been in a car labeled “sexy,” this would be it.
    Sitting in the quiet of the expensive machine, Slade declared, “I’m happy to take you home. Besides, there is something I wanted to ask. I know we just met yesterday, well, it’s after midnight, so day before yesterday, but I feel like we’re friends, fellow musicians, right?”
    Eddie was having flashbacks to when Ginger told her about the Todd Rivers’ Grammy debacle in her van. “Slade, if you ever want to talk, get my musical bent on anything, I can promise that you’ll never get anything but the naked truth from me, and I can only hope that you will, in turn, do the same for me. That’s what true friends do. They tell you when the girlfriend shows up to the gig and you’re entangled with another. Is that candid enough?”
    “That’s what I thought you’d say.” He paused. Eddie could see the wheels of his mind turning, his eyes darting in the dark of the car.
    “What is it, Slade?”
    “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but – you don’t like the tracks you heard in the studio tonight, do you.”
    “Why would you say that? I was very careful.”
    “Exactly, you were careful , what, to not step on my toes? You had no problem amending my previously released material last night.”
    “Did I say something wrong?”
    “No, you didn’t.”
    “Slade, please, I’m really sorry.”
    “No, Eddie,” he stopped her. “One should never apologize for being truly passionate. But having said that, I did listened to you going on and on, extolling my guitar set up, my sound, Taz’s work on the tracks, but you never said a word about the music, my work, itself. And that’s what I really want to know. Did you like anything you heard?”
    “Well,” Eddie began, “I did just promise you the truth. So, I’ll give you the dope, the dreadful, and the dead but only because you asked for it.” Slade nodded, looking