Chapter Text
It’s not that she means to let it get this bad. Eddie tries. She really does. She even got one of those stupid folders to keep her bills organised!
It’s hard to organise your mail if it’s left unopened, though.
And it’s even harder to pay bills without a steady income.
So she doesn’t open the mail, she ignores the growing number of unread emails in her inbox, lives in denial like that’s her full time job.
She even tries dodging Wayne’s calls, too ashamed of the mess she’s gotten herself into to answer the phone. She can’t admit that her move to L.A. was a mistake disguised as a pipe dream. It had been easy to fall back on confidence and naivety when she was eighteen and freshly out of high school, thinking that Corroded Coffin would make it out here. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew it wouldn’t happen instantly, but she had still thought that it would happen.
Suddenly she was nearing her mid-twenties and still as broke as the day she started. Maybe even more broke, since she had to pay out of pocket for sessions in a dingy recording studio and they didn’t make all that much playing in dive bars that wouldn’t even let them play their original music. She had been resigned to playing covers of Queen and Meat Loaf. Not the worst music she’s played, but Dad Rock isn’t really doing it for her.
Wayne hangs up only to call again immediately after, so Eddie flips her phone upside down on the counter with a groan. She digs the heel of her hands into her eyes and prays to whoever’s listening that her problems will be gone when she opens them.
The phone stops ringing just as there’s a banging on the door.
“Kid, you betta open up this damn door.”
Shit.
The only thing more embarrassing than being unable to pick up the phone and admit her failures to Wayne?
Having to admit them to his face when he’d driven cross-country to confront her. Trust her uncle to be stubborn enough to drive thirty-odd hours to reprimand her.
With a resigned sigh and a silent scream, Eddie makes her way over to the door. She plasters a sunny smile onto her face before swinging the door open – was it too late to go into acting?
“Heeeeey Wayne!” She tries to keep her tone light, hopes that it distracts enough from the pizza on the counter that’s almost definitely growing mould at this point. “Fancy seeing you here!”
Wayne pushes past her with an eye roll, “I ain’t buying that shit, Ed. Wanna tell me why in hell you’re avoiding me?”
“Hi Wayne,” she tries again, closes the door gently and hopes the living room is somewhat presentable as Wayne steps further into her shoebox of an apartment. Two small rooms, one of which has two twin beds stuffed into it. “How are you, Wayne? It’s nice to see you, Wayne. How was the drive? Or did you fly this time, Wayne?”
Wayne twirls his keys around his finger in an answer, levelling Eddie with a stare that turns her blood into ice in her veins.
“Where’s the boy?” Wayne asks, arms crossed over his chest.
Eddie sighs; she won’t win this fight, and she knows better than to try for much longer. “Work. He’s got a shift at the bar.”
Wayne nods, but offers no other answer.
“You really didn’t have to drive all the way out here, I’m –”
“You’re what?” Wayne challenges. “You’re not ignoring my calls because you think I give a damn about anything other than my niece being safe?”
“I’m sorry, Wayne, I –”
“You gonna lose the apartment?”
Eddie shakes her head in defeat, knowing it’s not her time to talk, that she can reassure Wayne enough without a verbal answer.
“Got enough to pay the bills?”
She doesn’t shake her head this time. She doesn’t nod either. She stands still enough that she thinks she might shatter. Fragile, like glass.
Wayne sighs, the bitter tang of his disappointment floods Eddie’s senses. “I just worry about ya kid, d’you need help?”
“No, no,” Eddie rushes out. She knows Wayne would help her in an instant, even if it meant he went without hot water for a month, and she can’t let him do that. “We’re okay. I pick up shifts at the bar when I can. They don’t always need the help and I’m looking for something more permanent and –”
Wayne cuts her off by pulling her into his arms.
He’s not an overly affectionate man, so it catches her by surprise when he suddenly sweeps her up. It doesn’t last long, and then he’s standing two steps away from her once more.
“You just let me know if you need anythin’.”
“I will,” she nods, feeling a little like a scolded toddler.
He stalks over to the fridge without another word, opening it and appraising it silently. He lets out a gruff sound that Eddie can only assume is disappointment.
“Jesus, kid,” he sighs. “What are you eating?”
And look, she knows it’s bad. She knows the shelves are bare with the exception of some questionable leftovers. She mostly lives on ramen and pure hope at this point in the month, cash depleted once bills and rent have been paid, until Gareth gets paid again or she’s able to land a gig.
She’s saved from the sheer mortification of explaining her eating habits to her uncle by the sound of keys in the door. She hadn’t expected Gareth back so early, but fuck if she wasn’t grateful for it.
He freezes in the doorway, greeted by the sight of Wayne frowning at the empty cupboards, having moved on from the fridge. Say what you want about their shitty little apartment, Eddie’s glad for the lack of hiding spaces now. Gareth can’t escape the interaction with Wayne either, and that means she’s somewhat saved.
“Gareth!” Eddie calls out, mostly to make Wayne aware of his presence, to get the heat off of her for a moment. “I thought you were working a double.”
“Slow night,” Gareth replies, closing the door behind him in slow motion, as though the slightest disruption could upset the balance of the universe. “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Munson.”
Wayne scoffs, “Told ya not to call me that.”
“Wayne,” Gareth corrects. “It’s nice to see you, Wayne.”
“Nice to see ya too, kid,” Wayne nods. “Now do either one of you wanna tell me why you’re starving?”
Eddie and Gareth share panicked glances; Gareth’s well aware that Wayne can easily ensure that his mom knows exactly how they’re living and, well –
While Wayne wouldn’t drag Eddie back home, necessarily, she knows the same can’t be said for Mrs Emerson. She’d once seen her drag Gareth out of a campaign session by his ear because she suspected he wasn’t drinking enough water. It was the week before they left for L.A.
“We’re doing fine, Wayne,” Eddie tries to appease him. “We eat, I promise. Gareth brings back food from the bar most nights.”
Gareth holds up a plastic bag full of takeout containers demonstratively. Eddie’s glad that he was able to swing some of the wasted food tonight, eating for free is always better than not eating at all, and it’s even better when it proves her point to Wayne. It helps that Gareth and the Chef (Cook? What were they called in dive bars?) have some kind of will-they-won’t-they romance going on. She thanks a God she’s not sure exists for Chrissy.
Wayne eyes the bag suspiciously, “How many vegetables are in that bag?”
Gareth’s eyes flash over to Eddie and the hesitation seems like enough for Wayne to pounce.
“Get your shoes on, Ed,” he orders. He hasn’t even removed his jacket yet, so he simply takes a step closer to the door. “I’m gettin’ some real food in ya. Vitamins and all that shit.”
“Wayne –” she tries to protest. She’s cut off by a glare.
“I won’t hear none of it. Shoes. Vitamins. Let’s go,” Wayne stomps out of the door, giving Gareth a nod of his head to let him know that he’s expected to join them.
Eddie follows along, head hanging between her shoulders, torn between feeling coddled like a toddler and feeling grateful for Wayne’s insistence. She really could use an actual meal.
*
Gareth corners her once they’re back in the apartment.
Wayne had dropped them off before heading to his Motel for the night. Eddie almost begged to stay with him, rather than in their cramped bedroom that was not big enough for the twin beds that had been crammed into there, but she kept her mouth shut. Wayne could likely only afford a room with one bed, and she would much rather be in her own bed than sharing one with her old man.
She regrets her decision when Gareth blocks the cramped hallway that leads to their bedroom and bathroom.
“You need a job.”
Eddie sighs, “Thank you for that, Gareth. I had no idea.”
She tries to push past him, to get to the bathroom and into the shower so that she can ignore him for a little while longer. It’s not like she hasn’t been trying, and yeah – maybe she could be trying a little harder – but she refuses to hand in applications for Urban Outfitters or somewhere equally vomit inducing. It’s not her fault that the semi-cool stores in the mall are never hiring. She’s even tried Spencer’s, for fucks’ sake.
Her escape is sabotaged by a hand on her arm, holding her still.
“Eddie, this is serious,” he sighs. “We can’t lose the apartment.”
“We won’t,” she grumbles, pulling her arm from his grasp but not moving away from Gareth.
“We’re close to it,” he counters. “My job and infrequent gigs at dive bars aren’t cutting it.”
Eddie hates it when he’s right.
“I’ll up my game,” she sighs. “I’ll apply to even the most menial and degrading jobs.”
She expects Gareth to nod and walk away, to leave her with her self-deprecating thoughts as he usually does. He surprises her.
“I think you should go on tour,” he says.
And – what?
“What?”
Gareth holds out a scrap of paper with a number scrawled on it. Eddie takes it from him for something to do with her hands; she can tell that the writing isn’t Gareth’s, but everything else remains a mystery. There isn’t even a name.
“Chrissy has an old friend who ended up in the music industry. She’s a manager for an artist who’s looking for a guitarist to go on tour with them,” Gareth flushes at the mention of Chrissy, but Eddie decides that it’s not the time to mention it. “She wants an all-female band. I think you should call her.”
“Who am I calling, exactly?”
Gareth heaves a sigh, as though dealing with Eddie is the most frustrating thing he’s ever done. “Her name’s Nancy.”
“Sounds like a priss,” Eddie comments, just to be contrarian. She stares at the paper, begging it to transform into something she can argue with. She wants to tell Gareth that she can find something on her own, that she doesn’t need handouts.
But, well, perhaps she does need the handout.
Gareth levels her with a stare; he’s not as intimidating as he would like to be – he’s shorter than Eddie and has even less muscle – but it’s annoying enough for her to acquiesce.
“I’ll call her,” she promises before pushing her way to the bathroom, feeling thankful for her friend.
She scripts the conversation with the mysterious prissy Nancy in her head while she combs the conditioner through her curls. Eddie’s very aware that she needs to sell herself; there are hundreds of female guitarists in the city alone, maybe even thousands.
She thinks of her strengths: she can play by ear, she picks up chords and melodies as easily as breathing. She can own the stage with a solo, or hang back and let the lead shine, her ego won’t be hurt either way. Gareth didn’t mention the genre of music of the artist in need, but she’s got the rockstar look that fits anywhere in the music scene, so she’s not worried about that. It helps that she’ll play for bare minimum, as long as she can pay rent and bills upon her return and help Gareth out while she’s away.
By the time she’s stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around herself, Eddie’s pretty happy that she’s put together a decent enough pitch for herself. She’s even excited to call – she would’ve called right then and there if it weren’t edging towards ten p.m., she at least had to appear professional.
*
Eddie’s restless for most of the night and, for once, it has nothing to do with Gareth’s snoring. By the time morning rolls around, she’s not sure that she’s slept at all.
Still, she drags herself to the kitchen to pour herself a coffee. Black, because they ran out of sugar and creamer a week ago and decided to only spend money on essential groceries, which did not include the ingredients needed to make coffee somewhat bearable.
She dials Nancy’s number before she can think too much about it, before she can talk herself out of it or allow anxiety to crawl into her chest. Instead, she focuses on her script.
“Hello, you’ve reached Nancy Wheeler,” the voice on the other end of the phone is much sunnier than Eddie at this point in the morning. Either she’s had much more coffee than Eddie has, or she’s one of those sadistic types that enjoys the morning. She’s probably been up for hours already. Psycho.
“Hi, hello!” Eddie fumbles her way through her greeting, cringing at her inability to function like a regular human. “I got your number from – well, a friend of a friend, I guess. I’m Eddie. Munson. Eddie Munson.”
“What can I do for you, Eddie Munson?” Nancy asks, amused.
She takes a breath, steadying herself, before she replies. “I heard you're looking for a guitarist for an upcoming tour and –”
“Do you have much experience?”
“I’ve been playing since elementary school,” she nods enthusiastically, forgetting that Nancy can’t see it. “Been guitarist in my own band since middle school, we play every other week. A small audience, but an audience nonetheless, and –”
Nancy cuts her off, “You think you can learn the music in two weeks?”
“Yeah,” Eddie nods again. “Easily. I can play by ear and –”
“You’re hired.”
Eddie’s taken aback by the swiftness of it all, she didn’t even need to break into her script. She’s a little upset by the fact – it was a pretty good pitch, if she did say so herself.
“I – that’s it?” She asks, her filter truly shot by the unexpected turn of events. This wasn’t how industry jobs usually went.
Not that Eddie had much experience with the industry.
“The past two guitarists we’ve hired haven’t been a good fit,” Nancy explains. “We’re on a tight schedule. Stevie is well aware that whoever I hire now is final. Are you in?”
“I’m in,” Eddie confirms. “Of course. Yeah. I’d love to.”
“Great. What’s your email? I’ll get the contract sent over.”
By the time Gareth woke up, Eddie found herself with a signed contract and a small amount of information about the artist she’d be working with. Stevie . No last name.
The subject line of the email informed her that she was about to be signed to the ‘Just Grrrly Things’ tour. She had found a small modicum of hope in that, a nod to an alternative subculture that Eddie had never been a part of herself, but that she had a respect for nonetheless.
That hope was swiftly dashed when she opened up Stevie’s instagram to an assault of pink and miniskirts, easy enough to find online despite the lack of surname. She supposed that pop artists these days did that sort of thing; Madonna started it, everyone followed.
It was just a shame that Stevie was more Barbie than Riot Grrrl.
Still, Eddie could play mind-numbing pop music for a paycheck. The contract Nancy had sent over had given her a number high enough that Eddie would be willing to play Hot Cross Buns on a recorder stark naked.
“Why the fuck are you awake before noon?” Gareth groans as he enters the kitchen, scrubbing at his eyes roughly.
“Got myself a job,” Eddie replies sunnily.
“No shit?”
“No shit,” Eddie confirms. “I think you owe Chrissy a date for that one.”
“I – it’s –” Gareth stammers, suddenly more awake.
Eddie rolls her eyes, “ It’s not like that, sure, whatever.”
“Are you going to tell Wayne?” Gareth asks, and Eddie allows the change of subject.
“Already called him,” she confirms. “He wants to take us out for pancakes.”
Gareth fist pumps, “Fuck yeah.”
*
It might not be her best idea yet, but Eddie doesn’t listen to Stevie’s album. She can’t bring herself to listen to the nauseating pop music she’s going to be living for the next two months any moment earlier than absolutely necessary.
Gareth, Jeff and Freak keep telling her that it’s a bad idea. Eddie keeps reminding them that she can play by ear and pop music will be a breeze. She has two weeks of rehearsals before the tour kicks off, she has no need to worry.
So they drink.
They drink and they play and they celebrate.
Eddie has an honest-to-god hangover the next morning, for the first time in a long time. It’s hard to be hungover when you can’t afford enough rounds to get you there, and the bars they played in would only give them one drink on the house.
In fact, Eddie’s pretty sure that her hangover is still there two days later when she arrives at her first rehearsal. It’s stubborn and unmoving, settling into a deep ache behind her eyes that’s only made worse by the glare of pink that attacks her senses as she enters the room.
Somehow, Nancy seems to have snagged an early rehearsal at the first venue. Judging by the schedule that had been attached to her contract, most of their rehearsals would be in a small studio space, but it seems that the pop princess still manages to get life handed to her on a silver platter. There’s an entire Barbie dreamhouse of a set built behind her, ‘Just Grrly Things’ written in cursive across the top of it. It makes Eddie want to vomit.
She curses herself for even entertaining the idea of joining this tour but, well, she’s signed the contract already. If Nancy turns out to be half as uptight as she seems from the rigid tour schedule she sent over, then there’s no way Eddie’s getting out of that contract. The schedule even has dedicated bathroom break times during rehearsals, for fucks’ sake.
She hears Stevie before she sees her, a melodic giggle ringing out around the room. Eddie’s first thought is an appreciation for the acoustics of the place, a general sense of admiration for the space she’s found herself in, a place she’s being paid to play in. It beats out the dive bars by a mile.
The mood is soured when her eyes find the source of the laughter; Stevie is dressed up in a pink tracksuit. Eddie can’t see the back, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it had ‘juicy’ written across her ass in diamantes. She’s still scowling at Stevie when a curly-haired whirlwind approaches.
“You must be Eddie,” she says. She’s shorter than Eddie, but she can already tell that she’s one hell of a spitfire. She has a clipboard clutched in her hands and an actual headset buried in her neat curls. They’re much more well looked after than Eddie’s own, frizzy and tangled. If Eddie tried to wear a headset, she’s ninety percent sure that she’d struggle to get it out of her hair again.
“That’s me,” Eddie manages to say, wiping the scowl off of her face and replacing it with something more welcoming.
“Nancy,” the woman says and, yeah, that makes sense. Only Nancy Wheeler, the person who had planned this tour down to the second, could own a headset in 2024. “We’re about to block out some choreo for Stevie, a bit of a warm-up. We’ll jump into the set list after that.”
Eddie nods, feeling out of her depth already. She tries her best, kicking at the water around her to keep afloat. She needs this job and she’ll do anything she can to make sure she doesn’t lose it on the first day.
“You can play by ear, right?” Nancy continues, either unaware of Eddie’s pending anxiety attack or simply uninterested in it. “Have you listened to the list of songs I sent across?”
“I, uh –” Eddie’s hesitation must be enough of a response, because Nancy smirks. Still, she’s not about to say she didn’t even see the list because she was partying instead. She makes a note to check her phone soon, to look for the email she definitely hasn’t opened yet.
Nancy doesn’t seem put off by his answer, breezing past her incompetence to the next subject. “Do you read music?”
Eddie nods again.
“Perfect. Here,” Nancy hands over a small binder. “They’re in sheet protectors and organised by the order in the setlist. Take a look at the first song while Stevie warms up.”
“Yeah,” Eddie manages to say, pushing past her instinct to nod again. She’s pretty sure she’d let Nancy cut all of her hair off at this point, she’ll agree to anything she says if it means a steady paycheck. “Can do.”
“I hope you’re as good as you say,” Nancy says with a small smile, something kinder than a smirk, but with the same amount of challenge, before she breezes away again, speaking to someone through her headset.
Eddie’s once again hit with the feeling of being so completely out of her depth that she has to actively stop herself from hyperventilating. She’s not an anxious person; this doesn’t happen to Eddie. She’s calm, cool and collected, especially where music is concerned. It’s the one thing she knows how to do, the one thing that comes to her as easily as breathing.
So why does this feel so different?
Eddie lets her eyes drift up to the stage again as she forces herself to inhale deeply, holding it for a few seconds before she exhales. She coughs through the exhale when she realises who Stevie’s been talking to this entire time.
Eddie’s never played with Robin Buckley, but she’s well known enough in the local music scene that she’s confident that it’s her. Robin Buckley, frontwoman and bassist of Molotov Cocktail, a feminist punk band sweeping LA. Eddie likes her music, actually. She’s heard that she writes it herself, and that can be rare in LA, so she’s impressed.
What doesn’t make any sense is Robin wrapping her arm around Stevie and pulling her against her side like they’re old friends. Their laughs ring out, echoing between the walls while Nancy waves at Stevie to get her attention.
Stevie looks at Nancy with a smile just as bright as the one she had for Robin, nodding to whatever she’s saying before extracting herself from Robin’s arms, giving her a final squeeze.
Eddie shakes her head, then pinches her arm. She feels like she’s dove headfirst into wonderland. Why would someone as veritably cool as Robin Buckley be here? Why would someone who calls for an end to sexism lower herself to the depths of this stereotypically feminine monstrosity? Eddie’s fairly certain that the set design alone has set feminism back a few decades.
Then the music starts. And Eddie –
Well, she’s glad that she didn’t take one of the water bottles that are sitting on the bar, presumably for the band and crew. If she did, it would’ve been the most embarrassing and impressive spit take of her life.
It’s –
Eddie wants to kick herself, because fuck, this is metal.
Well, metalcore, or some variation of it. Right off the bat, she’s met with an impressive guitar riff and a formidable drumbeat. Shit, she actually likes it.
It’s such a juxtaposition of the set surrounding her that she can’t make sense of it; she pinches herself again for good measure, harder this time, in an attempt to wake herself up. Surely this can’t be real.
Eddie’s been around the metal scene. She’s dipped her toes into metalcore and glam metal and thrash metal. She’s listened to it all and can play a good amount of it. But it doesn’t make sense, because the metal scene and the colour pink just don’t go hand in hand.
She’s not against people expressing themselves, of course not, but the metal scene is home to black and red, to tattoos and piercings and dyed hair. There’s no space in the scene for this Barbie aesthetic that surrounds her currently. There’s a whole tradition around metal and the alternative fashion that surrounds it. There isn’t room for some wannabe who doesn’t even respect the culture she’s placed herself into, especially if she’s going to try to change it.
It’s just not how things work.
Any excitement that Eddie had when she heard that first guitar riff is well and truly soured. She’d worked hard enough to just be a woman in the metal scene without girls like Stevie ruining that for her.
She’s everything that’s wrong with the music industry, and Eddie hates herself for getting involved.