Finding Sadie (Los Rancheros #0.5) by Brandace Morrow

 
     
     
     
    “If you touch my boob again, I’m gonna kick you in the nuts so hard you’ll have to start a new band.  As a soprano.  You get me?” I warn my drummer, Maury, who is currently playing Santa for this photo shoot.  I’m on his knee in a ridiculous costume that’s itching like a freaking hair coat.
    “Chin up.  Head tilted.  Other side.  Eyes wider.  Squint a little bit.  More glare.  Shoulders back.  Arch your back a little bit more.  Open your mouth.  No, close it.  Now give me some teeth.”
    At this point I look like a freaking chicken on speed.  “Alright.  I’m out,” I say, dropping the pose, and walk off the set in a pair of platform elf shoes, toe curl and all.
    “Wait, wait!  We didn’t get the shot!”
    “Who fucking ordered this stupid set-up anyway?  I thought we were doing Rolling Stones.”  My reputation precedes me.  These people are looking at me like I’m unpredictable. But when you’ve been in an all-male band since you were fifteen years old, you learn to throw a punch like a dude real quick.
    My publicist, Tammy, sets about trying to keep up with me and soothes my feathers as I stalk to my trailer.  Very few people can walk in platform heels as well as I can.  Yup, it’s just Lady Gaga, me, and strippers across the world.
    “Popper, this is for Moorehead Cosmetics and Costumes.  I don’t know where you got Rolling Stones,” she titters, her eyes scanning the vicinity.  The whole crew, about twenty five people, has stopped working to watch my tantrum.  Sorry folks , I think as I pull the latch on the RV door and stomp up the rickety folding steps.  As soon as I’m inside the claustrophobic space, I start stripping.  The lime green polyester outfit gets thrown into Tammy’s face.  Then I advance on her.
    “You told me this was a big shoot.  You told me this would be everywhere.  You said Rolling Stones,” I seethe an inch from her face.  From here I can smell her high class perfume, see the nose job my money paid for.  I also see the fear.  She knows I don’t give a shit and would crush her perfect nose without much provocation at all.
    “I said Moorehead.  You must have misunderstood.”  Misunderstood is her little code for drunk or high.
    “You’re a fucking liar, Tammy.  Get out,” I growl before moving around her to sit on the rock hard couch and take off my white six inches heels, leaving me in a pair of frilly bloomers and striped knee highs.
    “We have to finish this shoot, Pops.  We have a contract,” she says in her I’m serious voice.  Too bad I’m not a little girl or that might have worked.  Yeah, probably not.
    “We are Chimera .  We are grunge metal.  We are not some KISS cover band who needs to put their faces on Halloween costumes.  Now get the fuck out before I kick you out.”  I manage to not raise my voice until that last sentence.  Good job, Popper.
    Tammy shakes her head, her eyes tired.  Yeah, well, I’m fucking tired too.  I’m twenty-one going on goddamned sixty.  Finally she leaves and I pick my clothes up from the floor—fishnets, black leather shorts, a lacy bra, and a tank top with arm holes too big to cover anything.  I zip up my high heel ankle boots, slip on my shades, and grab my keys.  Passing the mirror, I have to back up for a second.  Holy shit.   I rip the lime green mini Santa hat off of my head, pulling several strands of my bleach blond hair out by the roots.
    The door slams open and I force myself to look bored and nonchalant as I turn around.  My manager, Brian.
    “What the fuck, Popper?” he says between clenched teeth.
    “I’m out.  We aren’t putting our name on something this hokey.  It’s bullshit.”  I try to maneuver around him, but he grabs my arm tightly.  God, he’s such a cliché.  Gold chains, bald head and all. 
    “Do you need some oxy or something?  I’ve got some stuff if you need it to get through.”
    “Nah.  You’ve got two