"Tell you what," said my guy. "You charge me extra for the size of my truck, and I'll charge you the same for looking at my girlfriend."

"Do you want me to take you home?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Am I—" I gasped. "Am I too much of a chick?"

He laughed softly. "Girls cry easily; it doesn't always mean what it seems to mean."

I nodded, realizing he was right. Was I crying over the song? The song was about saying goodbye, and Rory and I were just starting our relationship. I sighed and wiped my eyes carefully, then smiled at him. "Do I look terrible?" I asked.

He laughed again. "No way am I dumb enough to answer that the way you asked it. You look like a very pretty girl who's been crying."

I pulled down the vanity mirror and took a look. Eesh. "I look like an old barn!" I complained.

That made him laugh more.

"I meant…" I began.

But he waved my explanation away. "You mean—you mean you need—a fresh coat of paint?" Now he laughed harder.

At first, I was annoyed, but then I laughed, too. "I'm so vain, aren't I?" I asked.

"You keep asking, and I keep dodging," he laughed.

I didn't feel like giggling, but I forced one out. "I need to make repairs," I said. I had my kit in my big purse. I even had a small bottle of water and some wipes.

He nodded, wiping his own eyes. "I am really glad," he remarked, "that guys don't have to do that stuff."

"Mmp," I said. "Can we stop somewhere? The bathrooms at the concert are probably just going to be portajakes."

He nodded, but gestured at the area we were driving through––what is euphemistically described as a depressed area. Abandoned warehouses, seedy strip malls, ramshackle housing––an unpainted barn would not have stood out. There wouldn't be a place to stop, and if there were, it might not be safe.

I sighed.

"There's a whole bunch of places, we get past USC," he said.

"Okay," I agreed. I didn't know the city the way someone who drove, would know it. I took out my water bottle, and after a sip, I soaked some tissues and held them over my eyes. I didn't know if that would work, but it seemed like it might help get rid of some of the puffiness.

Rory drove but managed to keep an eye on me too. "You're good at this," he said.

"Good at what?"

He laughed. "Being a chick. I've seen other girls do the water on the eyes thing. Your mom teach you?"

I thought about it. Well, she did put the tiny bottle of water in my purse, and I had seen her over the years deal with various feminine emergencies. "Some," I admitted. Then I grinned at him. "But mostly, it's just natural talent. Like, for any celebrity, you have to learn this stuff."

"Celebrity? Oh, you're channeling that Rachel Bock person, again."

"Heather Bock," I corrected him, in as snotty a voice as I could summon.

He laughed about that until we found a safe place to get off the freeway.

*

Rory helped me back into the truck after I made repairs in a bathroom of a MacDonald's on Figueroa. Mickey D's always has dependable bathrooms.

"Feel better?" he asked when he was back in the driver's seat.

"Lots," I said. I wasn't an expert at doing makeup repair yet, but I'd had some practice over the last few days, and some good teachers. I pulled down the vanity mirror to check, licking my lips for no reason at all.

"Well, you look better," said Rory in a fake joking tone. "Just saying."

I slapped him on the arm.

"Ow," he said, faking injury. "Watch the talons, lady."

I checked my nails for damage, but they were fine. I would have been pissed if they weren't, since I did have a bottle of polish in my kit, and could have fixed them if I'd noticed.

"You're fine. It's only a flesh wound," I said airily, after pretending to examine his arm.

He laughed again. "I saw you look at your nails first."

I giggled, nodding. "I have to look good for my public."

He snorted at that as we got back on the freeway. "We're in plenty of time. The sun is still up," he noted.

To the west of us, the sun was putting on a show. Like an old-time stripper in a Dance of the Veils, the golden orb peeked out between layers of pink and purple clouds, thin as promises, brilliant as lies.

*

We drove through the edge of downtown, first on one freeway then on another, ending up heading into the sunset on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was still early Saturday night, but some of the Boys of the Boulevard were already out plying their trade.

I didn't want to look at them. It made me uncomfortable. Considering how I was dressed and what I had between my legs, it was too ironic by half. The specific section of the boulevard where this goes on changes from year to year, but the boys in their trashy glamor are always out there.

"Sorry," said Rory, and I knew what he was apologizing for. I smiled to let him know he was forgiven. We weren't actually too far from Mom's condo, in miles, so I knew there really wasn't a better way to get to the area we were going to.

Traffic on Saturday evening through Hollywood was undependable at best, but we moved along at a good speed. Passing the Forever Cemetery, where lots of notables were buried, the hoors were doing business on our side of the street. I kept my eyes on the strip mall that hid the green lawns and artificial hills around the graves of people like Mel Blanc, Judy Garland, and DeeDee Ramone.

"Down, down to Goblin Town, we go," I misquoted from the old cartoon version of Lord of the Rings. If South Central was a depressed area, this qualified as a depressing one.

"West Hollywood is Goblin Town?" Rory asked, looking sideways at me.

"I'm in a weird mood," I admitted.

"I thought West Hollywood was Fairyland," he whined, making a crude joke about the city's reputation.

That got me to laugh, at least.

*

Since construction of the concert venue had taken up the largest empty lot in the area, parking was going to be a problem. We cruised around the neighborhood and, sure enough, found someone renting out their lawn as a parking space for only twenty dollars.

"Oughta charge you extra for the monster truck, bruh," joked the kid taking the money. He'd been checking out my legs as Rory helped me down.

"Tell you what," said my guy. "You charge me extra for the size of my truck, and I'll charge you the same for looking at my girlfriend."

"Fair enough," the other guy agreed. "Sorry, miss," he apologized to me. "You look familiar."

"I may act friendly," I said. "But I never get familiar on such short acquaintance."

Rory laughed at that, taking my arm. "Your fame precedes you. Where do you keep coming up with these putdowns?"

I shrugged. "Watching old movies, I guess." I looked around warily. "Do me a favor and shoot the first paparazzo you see. I don't want Heather Bock stealing my publicity."

That cracked him up, so we were in a good mood for the three-block walk to the concert gate. The platform sandals I was wearing weren't ideal for walking that far, but they weren't bad, and I had Rory to hold on to for balance.

I'd done without my big hat, since the sun was so far down, and I felt pretty and flirty in my denim skirt and heels. I got a lot of looks, and I appreciated them. Three days ago, no one gave me a second glance.

We had to walk down one long side of the chain-link fence around the lot, and could see and hear that they had a battle of the bands as a pre-concert show. Always a lot of local garage bands in L.A., and some of them are pretty good, but it reminded me of something.

"Didn't you say you were in a band?" I asked Rory. I had to repeat myself because some metalhead was making his guitar imitate a jet takeoff.

"Yeah," he shouted back at me. "And that's the kind of music we play!"

"Ah," I said, remembering. "You're a screamer." Which Rory had described as the person who screams out the hook so the audience can scream along.

"That's right!" Rory agreed. Then he demonstrated his screaming prowess. I was already giggling, so I had to hold onto him to stay upright when I started laughing for real. We got a few extra looks from Rory's antics, but my vanity said they lingered a little longer to get a good look at me.

*

Rory showed our tickets and found us seats, high enough up in the bleachers that we could see the stage, and far enough back we didn't need earplugs. The sun was competing against the battling bands––and winning on showmanship, anyway.

I snuggled against Rory and wondered if the expected onshore breeze would turn cold. It was the last day of June and warm enough for summer, but I hadn't brought a jacket, and LA’s famous ‘June gloom’ sometimes lasts into July. If nothing else, I still had my cover-up rolled up in the bottom of my purse, and I could put that on if it got chilly.

Or I could just wait for one of those hot flashes I'd been having. I'd sort of figured out they must be the result of the hormone shot I'd gotten on Friday. Kind of like what middle-aged women went through, but in reverse. They weren't pleasant, but they didn't last long, either.

For now, Rory's arm around me and us touching all along my side was enough to keep me warm.

"This guy Jones, he must be in his 50s or 60s," Rory was saying, "he had a career back when MTV was a new thing. And his drummer is even older."

"Uh-huh," I said, but my mind had gone sideways, wondering just when Heather Bock had been in a band with her brothers. What would it be like to have brothers? I had half-sisters and step-sisters, but they were in the Philippines, and I had never met them. Having or being a sibling was a foreign country to me—literally.

"Hey," Rory said. "Look." He pointed toward a big blocky guy just coming through the gate, holding his hands over his ears.

"Huh," I said. I knew that shape.

"Is that Armand Gower?"

We both stared. "Ma-ay-be?" I ventured. The figure did move like Armand, sort of in starts and jerks, with no smoothness. (Like his puppeteer suffered from nervous tics or something.)

Rory turned to look at me, and he seemed—concerned. "Is he following you around?"

I sighed. It seemed conceivable that Armand would do something like that. Completely innocently, but who knows? "Maybe he thinks he's stalking Heather Bock?" I suggested.

We laughed at that, but not as if we were sure it was funny.