Story teaser
May, 1986, Los Angeles
Jack Walker’s baby daughter had been crying in the hotel room adjacent his for what seemed like hours, what probably could’ve been hours, before he got up and looked. His head was pounding from the noise and his vision was blurry as he made his way into the groupies’ room.
“Christ, Jewell, can’t you shut that kid up,” he began, then stopped, rubbing his eyes. “Hell,” he swore, more stunned than angry.
The blowzy groupie who had been a constant presence around Wyld Lyon for the last 3 years was gone - as were, it seemed, all the other band followers who had shared this hotel room. His daughter - Ophelia, Oprah, something like that - lay in the middle of the bed in her diapers, still crying. Nearby, a piece of hotel stationary was scribbled with a quick note. Jack picked up the note first, uncertain what to do with the baby.
Jack,
I can’t do this. It’s too much work. Sorry.
Her name is Obsidian and she likes Gerber formula best.
Jewell
Jack swore again, angry more than anything, and looked at the crying bundle on the bed. He picked her up gingerly, turning towards the doorway as his manager, Todd, came through the door. The older man assessed the situation with his trademark three-second overview, then took the note from Jack’s hand.
“Well, it looks like you’re stuck with her, Jack. I’ll see if I can scare up a stainless steel nanny for you. Maybe an ex-Marine. Blimey.” He shook his head and turned to leave.
Jack nodded absently, still looking at the note. “Obsidian? What sort of name is that?”
“It’s like onyx, I think,” Todd answered, taking the baby - who had subsided to whimpers now - from Jack before he dropped her.
“Onyx?”
“It’s a black stone. Like in your earring,” the manager pointed.
“Onyx-Black. Much easier to manage,” Jack decided. It took Todd a moment to realize the singer had just renamed his daughter.
“All right, man.” He took the baby out of the room, shaking his head. Of all times for the groupies to ditch the band… especially Jewell. Well, they’d do they best they could, he supposed.
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Onyx-Black filched a dime bag of marijuana from her dad’s suitcase and shoved it in her own duffel bag. The hotel room was like thousands of others she’d stayed in: same tacky polyester bedspreads, same expensive, useless furniture, same perpetually broken TV - this one with the screen shattered as well - same ice-bucket half full of condoms. As a home, it was pretty lousy, but she was used to it. Life for Onyx had, for the last 12 years, consisted mostly of tour busses, hotels, groupies, and loud music.
The sixteen-year-old ex-virgin on the bed snorted and rolled over in her sleep, startling Onyx. Dad would be back from partying any minute now for one last tumble before crashing on the bus, she realized, as she glanced at the other girl. She grabbed her duffels, scooped up the change on the dresser as an afterthought, and ducked out the door. She didn’t want to be around while her dad was making nice with the fans, and with any luck, the bus would be empty, and she could hide out there, maybe smoke some of the pot she’d snagged, until the show got moving and everyone was too exhausted to bug her.
Luck was not with her, although it showed its hand long before she got near the bus. Todd, her father’s band’s manager, caught her just outside the room.
“Onyx! Where in blazes have you been! I’ve got to get you on the plane in half an hour! Come on, girl!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her along impatiently. Onyx allowed him to drag her, pushing her much-shorter legs to keep p, until his words sank in. She dug her heels into the carpet and resisted with all her 92 pounds, staring at Todd through blue-tinted Lennon sunglasses.
“What plane? Dad hates planes. He don’t fly.”
Jack Walker’s baby daughter had been crying in the hotel room adjacent his for what seemed like hours, what probably could’ve been hours, before he got up and looked. His head was pounding from the noise and his vision was blurry as he made his way into the groupies’ room.
“Christ, Jewell, can’t you shut that kid up,” he began, then stopped, rubbing his eyes. “Hell,” he swore, more stunned than angry.
The blowzy groupie who had been a constant presence around Wyld Lyon for the last 3 years was gone - as were, it seemed, all the other band followers who had shared this hotel room. His daughter - Ophelia, Oprah, something like that - lay in the middle of the bed in her diapers, still crying. Nearby, a piece of hotel stationary was scribbled with a quick note. Jack picked up the note first, uncertain what to do with the baby.
Jack,
I can’t do this. It’s too much work. Sorry.
Her name is Obsidian and she likes Gerber formula best.
Jewell
Jack swore again, angry more than anything, and looked at the crying bundle on the bed. He picked her up gingerly, turning towards the doorway as his manager, Todd, came through the door. The older man assessed the situation with his trademark three-second overview, then took the note from Jack’s hand.
“Well, it looks like you’re stuck with her, Jack. I’ll see if I can scare up a stainless steel nanny for you. Maybe an ex-Marine. Blimey.” He shook his head and turned to leave.
Jack nodded absently, still looking at the note. “Obsidian? What sort of name is that?”
“It’s like onyx, I think,” Todd answered, taking the baby - who had subsided to whimpers now - from Jack before he dropped her.
“Onyx?”
“It’s a black stone. Like in your earring,” the manager pointed.
“Onyx-Black. Much easier to manage,” Jack decided. It took Todd a moment to realize the singer had just renamed his daughter.
“All right, man.” He took the baby out of the room, shaking his head. Of all times for the groupies to ditch the band… especially Jewell. Well, they’d do they best they could, he supposed.
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Onyx-Black filched a dime bag of marijuana from her dad’s suitcase and shoved it in her own duffel bag. The hotel room was like thousands of others she’d stayed in: same tacky polyester bedspreads, same expensive, useless furniture, same perpetually broken TV - this one with the screen shattered as well - same ice-bucket half full of condoms. As a home, it was pretty lousy, but she was used to it. Life for Onyx had, for the last 12 years, consisted mostly of tour busses, hotels, groupies, and loud music.
The sixteen-year-old ex-virgin on the bed snorted and rolled over in her sleep, startling Onyx. Dad would be back from partying any minute now for one last tumble before crashing on the bus, she realized, as she glanced at the other girl. She grabbed her duffels, scooped up the change on the dresser as an afterthought, and ducked out the door. She didn’t want to be around while her dad was making nice with the fans, and with any luck, the bus would be empty, and she could hide out there, maybe smoke some of the pot she’d snagged, until the show got moving and everyone was too exhausted to bug her.
Luck was not with her, although it showed its hand long before she got near the bus. Todd, her father’s band’s manager, caught her just outside the room.
“Onyx! Where in blazes have you been! I’ve got to get you on the plane in half an hour! Come on, girl!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her along impatiently. Onyx allowed him to drag her, pushing her much-shorter legs to keep p, until his words sank in. She dug her heels into the carpet and resisted with all her 92 pounds, staring at Todd through blue-tinted Lennon sunglasses.
“What plane? Dad hates planes. He don’t fly.”