FRISKY FRIDAY FLASHY FICTION
Happy Friday! How are you?
I’m doing great now that this year’s NaNoWriMo is behind me. I still have roughly 27,000 words to reach the goal for the novel. Reaching the first 50K, though, is an accomplishment that I’m good with.
As promised, here’s the next installment of Love Struck!
With the problem of skeevy Steve solved, I showered and dressed. Before I prepared my morning cup of Joe, however, a fresh problem summoned me to my doorstep.
Standing on my front steps was my personal demon dressed inappropriately for her age—skin-tight black leather leggings, thigh-high lace-up boots, a cleavage-revealing floral tank top, and a cropped Moto jacket. Just once, I would love to see her in a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. Anything would be better than a nearly sixty-year-old sporting an edgy rocker vibe. It wasn’t fashionable. It was just sad.
My mother’s rheumy gaze raked over me. She swept a hand through her locks in shades of hot pink, purple, and blue and pushed her way inside my house. “You look like shit, Joss.”
Slamming the door, I shouted, “Wonderful! Then I achieved my goal. What do you want, Mom?”
Frankly, it was too early for her bullshit.
She made a beeline for the kitchen at the end of the hall. “I need a favor.”
Of course she did.
“What now?” I entered the room and returned to making a pot of coffee.
“Alan’s arranged a documentary for me. I need—”
“No!” I had no desire to spout made-up words about how great my mother was. She sucked. If they wanted the truth, I’d gladly tell that.
“Joss, it would help my album.”
“Ah, yes, the anniversary release.” Alan Ricks, her agent, thought it a fantastic idea to do a compilation of El Mercury’s greatest hits. Supposedly, he’d convinced the members of Deep Pink to contributing a tune or two. The radio stations, including satellite, were already playing a live version of Tarantula.
Mom came over and took the canister from my hands. “What’s the problem, Joss? Have you forgotten my career paid for your education, your cars? This fancy house?”
What I wanted to forget were all the men who came in and out of my mother’s bedroom. I wanted to forget the endless nannies who complained about me. They claimed I was too sassy, too rude, too much for them to handle. Most of all, I wanted to forget those times I found El Mercury aka Ella Landers aka Mom passed out on the floor beside an empty bottle of booze.
She set the canister on the counter. “Now that’s settled, Alan needs you to come by the studio tomorrow morning. Six a.m.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not up that early.”
“I’m sending a car for you.” My mother touched my hair. “Actually, make it five. You need work before getting in front of a camera.”
Staring at the granite surface, I muttered, “Whatever makes you happy.”
Mom kissed my cheek. “That’s my love. I’ll have my assistant shop for some appropriate clothes. Ross will be there, too.”
“I thought he was on tour.” I dumped coffee grounds into the filter and pressed the start button.
“He is, but he loves his mother. Plus, Alan said it would be good publicity for Ross.”
My brother was following in his father’s footsteps. He’d resurrected Billy King’s rock group, Millenia. The band primarily played covers of the original hits, but Ross wanted to make his own way. Hooking up with Alan was a step in that direction. I just hoped the demons that tormented Billy King remained in the shadows. Although his death was tragic, dying young was the man’s fate. He drank too much and swallowed every illegal substance he could get his hands on.
“Anything and everything for baby bro.”
“Joss, that’s not—”
Suddenly, my front door opened and the voice of someone I didn’t want to hear from called out, “Babe! I got your breakfast!”