She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 02

I didn't have to ask him twice.

She threw her shoulders back as he gathered the fabric in his hand.

"And a bra?" she asked.

"Umm. I think we threw them all out," I said.

"You'll do just fine without it," said Harvey encouragingly.

Kneeling before her, his head bent forward in concentration, it took him ten minutes to cut the bottom off her shirt. He was too conservative in his cuts. Ali kept him at it until it was up to her ribs. She chided him, saying she had done the same job that morning, on the tank top, in two minutes.

As I watched, I understood the delay. How often does a single older man get to snip, tug, and twist the ever shortening t-shirt of a statuesque braless young woman as she prattles endlessly on about what she'd do for better tips? By the time he finished, he was palming her stomach and waist to turn her around, his nose inches away from her flawless skin, his eyes peering up under her shirt.

Ali was giggling and talking, acting kooky. It was completely natural for her to hug his face against her bosom when saying thank you.

* * * * *

Ali's restaurant was just up the block from her apartment. She went in before me, as I had stopped to get a notepad at a bodega on the way.

I entered the restaurant and found a table by the window. This was habitual -- better girl-watching. At the start, at least, I was watching Ali.

She moved comfortably by the kitchen, neatening the place up. The rest of the staff sort of pivoted around her as she moved. They clearly noticed, and liked, the change in Ali's wardrobe. They were always facing her direction. Her high ass held the attention of the people sitting at the counter as she swayed past. And when she turned back, I could see how the fluorescent lights penetrated her threadbare t-shirt. The dark circles of her aureoles swayed at the tips of her breasts as she passed a bottle of ketchup across the counter.

She was complaining to Subram, the manager, about having to work on her day off. Normally brusque, he was quite conciliatory just then, following her around during her tongue-lashing. She didn't seem to notice that he wasn't exactly listening.

"Be right with you, babe," she said to me as she passed, her arms full.

"Babe! I like that!" said one of the guys at the table in front of me. She laughed as she set down the plates in front of them.

"You guys aren't babes," she said, throwing out a hip, "You're honeys."

"Wooo!" They cheered and laughed as she strode away.

"Fuck yeah," I heard one say. "Dinner and a show."

Ali came back to me to take my order. "What can I get you?" she asked.

"Mmmm," I eyed her. "It all looks so good."

She laughed again. Counting the first time just a few seconds before, that was the second time I'd heard her laugh in the restaurant. Normally, it was a form of purgatory for her.

I curled my finger at her, and she obligingly leaned over to me. I could see straight down her cleavage to her shorts. It was beyond surreal. I wanted to grab her tits right there, as they swayed below us.

I whispered, "Lean over more when you serve people. And don't forget your ass. Stick your ass out when you lean over. That's for the benefit of the people behind you."

"Right. Okay."

"And the teasing works. Guys love that. Don't worry about the women. You won't be able to please them."

"Sure," she said. She'd finally noticed the other patrons checking her out as she leaned over.

"You always work this day?" I asked, loudly.

She looked confused for a second. Then she caught on. "Um, no. Usually all the other weekdays except this one. I'm here to cover for someone."

"So Tuesday through Friday?" I clarified. Everybody around us was doubtless listening.

"That's right," she nodded. "What can I bring you?"

"Coffee, ham sandwich on rye with american cheese," I said.

"You betcha, cutie," she said.

"My name's Tyler," I said. "Can I call you Perky?"

The guys at the next table heard that. "Perky!" they cried.

Ali smiled and rolled her eyes. Then Subram called out, "Oh, Perky? Order up!"

"Jeez," she sighed. "That's gonna stick."

For the next hour and a half, I worked out a budget for promoting Ali's band. Actually, that took about 15 minutes -- we didn't have much money in the budget. Another 30 minutes were killed scrawling out ideas for things we could do. You know how it is with a new project -- the first days are all flushed with imagination and energy. It's the execution part where everything bogs down.

But most of the time, I was surreptitiously eyeing Ali as she worked. She didn't so much work in the diner, as she inhabited it. Eyes tracked her movement around the restaurant. Her every little move was documented by dozens of hungry eyes, like when she arched over to scratch the inside of her knee, or when she raised her arms and fluffed out her damp hair. When she was near, conversation stopped. Everything she said was for general consumption -- everybody heard, and many repeated things back to her. She was having, basically, an hours-long conversation with the fast rotating crowds at the tables.

Once, her hands were full with an order for a table of college frat guys. She swayed up to their table, the guys all stopping and turning to her as one. She stuck out a hip -- she had tucked a pile of paper napkins into her beltline. One awestruck, lucky boy reached out and pulled them slowly off her body. Only then did she lean over and put their plates down.

Everybody wanted to know more about her. ("People call me 'Perky', I don't know why," she answered someone, plucking at the uneven (and upcurling) bottom of her shirt. The man answered, "Probably because you're so sweet." Eyeing her tits.)

She passed by every now and then to refill my coffee mug.

"Thanks for that nickname," she said, only half-amused. "Everybody loves it. And, by the way -- everybody's asking for my phone number, so I'm giving them yours. Just for your information."

And she was gone again, sassing at some old guy who observed (somehow) that she was cold. She was flushed with energy, a bounce in her step.

When Nancy finally showed up -- after two hours -- I finally stood, stretched, and walked out to wait for Ali in the street. I left her a big tip -- I felt she'd earned it.

She joined me five minutes later. She gave me a muscley hug, I had to grope for balance. She was smiling, and dewey with perspiration. When she pulled back, her breasts left two faintly damp ovals on my chest. "I might be going crazy," she said. "But that was actually fun."

"You're not crazy." I took her hand. "Why was it fun?"

"People were talking for once, not just bitching about the food. When they talked, they turned human for me. Not a usual occurrence." She shrugged. "Maybe they picked up on my cheerful vibe. Things are going right for me, for once. I just spread the joy around!"

She laughed loudly, overflowing with enthusiasm. I noticed again how men were watching her pass. She was half-dancing, half-strutting, pulling against the tether of my hand.

"And the tips?" I prompted.

"Fifty dollars. In two hours. Can you believe it? Today I learned something about getting tips: Just be talky and cheerful, and you'll rake it in. Even the old regulars -- the retired horn-dogs who live to grab your ass? -- even they were leaving respectable tips. And they're misers."

"You got it solved," I said.

"I think I do," she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. "Or maybe I was just so happy 'cause you were there."

"Don't go all mushy on me," I laughed.

"Oh, and thanks to you, Subram is getting me a new name badge." She slitted her eyes and looked at me. "'Perky'."

"Ouch! Sorry."

"I'll wear it as a badge of honor," she said. "It will always remind me that being friendly gets the big bucks."

Did she seriously believe a smile was the cause of her tips? Had the short-shorts, the holey cut-up t-shirt slipped her mind? Had my pervy advice to lean over and throw out her ass disappeared from her memory? I decided to let her believe what she wanted. If she thought the world's problems could be dismissed by cheerfulness, well, wasn't that more wholesome?

"It's a little early," said Ali, checking her watch. "But I guess we should get to practice. The guys don't know you're the new manager yet."

* * * * *

The practice room for Ali Katz & band was actually a recording studio. They were allowed to meet there, after hours, and practice, as long as they didn't fire up any of the recording equipment. The drummer, Seth, was the brother-in-law of the owner, and so the word had come down to the staff to play nice with us.

They did, to a degree. They let Ali's band practice, when there wasn't anybody using the studio. And when someone was around to let them in, and was staying late.

I didn't like this arrangement. It's hard enough getting 5 musicians to achieve consensus over a single bar of music... getting a whole band to gel when half the practice dates were summarily canceled -- that was next to impossible. A formula for destruction.

So I told Ali that we'd have to renegotiate with the studio manager. She looked uneasy at that, chewing her lip most fetchingly, but she was falling into the groove of trusting me.

The studio was tiny. One medium-sized room in a floor of rooms. Inside, the sound stage was partitioned from the control room with long panels of soundproofed glass. There was a tiny lounge area for visitors, and a smaller office for the manager. The toilets were down the hall. It was about as shabby as a recording studio could get, considering the rates they charged.

When we got there, another band was jamming in the sound area. Some grungy techno music -- when techno is involved, I don't know anything about quality. I try to avoid the stuff. The manager -- also the mixer -- was just entering the control room.

"Max," said Ali, "hey, Max!"

He turned, looking harried. When he saw Ali, his brow uncreased, and his eyes traveled shamelessly up and down her body. Her fingers were nervously entwining with my hand, behind her back on her ass. It caused her chest to raise. Her anxiety caused her to take big, gulping breaths -- her bosom was heaving!

She paused while he took her in. "Max, I want you to meet Tyler. He's my new manager."

He flicked his eyes to me, and then back to Ali. Since I clearly was unimportant, I made sure to bring her with me as I crossed the lounge and shook his hand. I gently positioned her in front of me, a little to the side, about twelve inches away from him. It was that no-personal-space thing I'd mentioned to Ali earlier.

"What's this about?" Max asked Ali's cleavage. "I'm busy."

"Um--" she bit her lip and looked back at me.

"We just need to talk about Ali's rehearsal arrangements. We're looking at a few changes, and we wanted to know what would work for you."

"Oh. Hmmf." He thought for a moment, clearly looking for some flaw in the request. I'd phrased it to be neutral. "I'm busy. These guys need to lay down a track."

"No problem. We can talk in the control room."

"It's hot in there," he hedged. "And small. You'll have to stand."

"Sounds like heaven," I said drily. I was getting bored with the guy already. I squeezed Ali's shoulder and gave her a little shake. His eyes dropped magnetically to her tits again. "Ali wanted to know what life is like on the other side of the glass wall. See what sound engineers have to go through. You know."

He seemed to like being called an engineer. "Sure, then."

He backed away, still scanning Ali. As he took his seat in the control room, I whispered to her, "Ask a few dumb questions."

"No problem," she said. With an assignment, she stopped fidgeting as much.

The band has stopped playing when Max turned to the console. They were now scoping Ali through the glass, six young twenty-something guys, heavily pierced and tattooed. A fine female form crosses all boundaries of fashion and music.

I pushed Ali into the room ahead of me, so she could be next to Max, and then closed the door. He was right -- it was hot in there. I began sweating immediately.

"You weren't kidding," I said. "You suffer for your art."

"Sure do," grunted Max. Into the mic, he said, "Belly Twister, from the top. We'll do a general grab and start tweaking it later. Count from four."

The band nodded. They gave the count and broke into song. Max made a few adjustments on the console, and leaned back. Forty dollars an hour.

Ali leaned over next to him. She whispered, "What do those blinky things do?"

"Those are lights," said Max.

"Cool!" She grinned, having learned something, and started to stand.

Max spoke quickly drawing her back down to him: "They show the levels of the sound coming in from various mikes. Green is good, yellow is nice, but too much red, and you have to adjust it."

"Why is red bad?" she prompted.

They chatted on, while I listened to the band. Was it just me, or were they not very good at all? Maybe they would fix all the problems in post-production.

When I glanced over at Ali and Max, I discovered why he'd turned so verbose. She was pressed hard against him -- not much room to maneuver -- and leaning over. He had a commanding view down her shirt. The more Max raised the volume in the control room, the closer she leaned to whisper in his ear. Their foreheads were pressed together, her sweat-damp hair brushing his face.

"Can the band hear us in here?" I asked suddenly.

Max looked at me strangely for a moment, as if trying to remember who I was. "Um, no. Not unless you click the microphone."

"I don't think they're very good," I said.

He gave me the first friendly smile of the night. "No. Want to know a secret? There is a lot of energy and excitement, and young folks, in the music biz. But nobody, nobody makes big money at it. Except a few. Most of the problems are related to quality. Bottom-feeders like us eat bottom-feeders like them."

"They should be practicing, not recording."

"That's what I told them," he sighed. "But what do I know?"

"I think you know a lot!" said Ali obligingly. "You told me what the blinky things are. Lights."

I sighed longsufferingly. "Ali, squish over to the other side."

Still hunched over (bless her), she pivoted around Max's chair, cheek to cheek with him. She settled her ass on the arm of his chair, her leg pressed against his arm. With her arm over the back of his chair, another gross familiarity, her chest was about eye-level to poor ole Max. As I talked to him, he mostly kept his eyes forward on the console, and his cheek was intermittently daubed by the sweaty extremities of her breasts.

"Let me be frank," I told Max.

"But your name is Tyler," he said absently.

I knew I could handle this guy. "As Tyler, let me be frank with you. Speak frankly?"

"Mmmm," he grunted.

"Ali has a long way to go, as a performer," I said.

He glanced up at her, his face resting against her chest. She smiled down at him, nodding.

I continued, "I think we agree she has a lot of promise. But she needs practice. A lot of it. I want her to be good."

"So do I," he said grudgingly. "But I've heard her. Unless she takes her clothes off on stage, she's not getting a fan base."

"I have a whole new wardrobe," said Ali. "And Tyler has me doing this thing with a window..."

"For this to work," I persisted, "we need to take her clothes off on stage, and practice. How much practice do you need, Ali?"

"A lot," she said, on cue.

"I'm talking four nights a week."

Max shook his head. "That'll be tough. You should work on the clothing angle." Just because his cheek was against Ali's left nipple, he shook his head again.

"As you can see, we're working that angle," I said patiently. Maybe he would be a tougher nut to crack than I thought. "We can start a few hours later, after your clients stop coming. You can give us a copy of the keys so you don't have to stick around. I'll be here -- if anything goes wrong, you can blame me."

"And what else?"

I hadn't wanted to do this, but I sighed and pressed on. "After her shift at the diner, on practice nights, Ali will work for you. Two, three hours. For free."

"I will?" Ali asked.

"You will," I told her, sounding stern. "You're going to learn this business inside and out. You're going to make contacts. Both of you will benefit."

"That makes sense," she said.

"Four days a week, you'll be going hard from 9am to midnight, but you can do that, you're young."

"And what do I get out of it?" Max wanted to know.

"She'll greet your clients. She'll run errands. She'll keep the place clean. She'll follow your instructions. Or whoever is running the booth. She'll be a back-up singer, when you need one. You need a nice girl, to pretty up the place."

He nodded like I'd made some good points. Or maybe he was just rubbing her chest on his cheek. He looked up at her; she was staring down hopefully.

"All we need," I said, "is a better practice environment."

"Regular times," he said, "and keys so you can close the place down." He paused to think about it. The grunge-techno song on the other side of the partition fizzled out. The musicians were all slapping high fives.

"All that," he said finally, "plus, if she ever records, it's my name on the CD jacket."

"Good enough," I said. I knew that everything was negotiable. We'd probably split ways with Max before she was recording anything.

"How was it?" the band wanted to know.

"I got it all," said Max placidly. He queued the recording and began playing it back. He turned to Ali. "You have a deal."

"Oh!" she squealed. "Awesome!" She gave him an awkward hug, her hands around his head, his face in her chest. "Tyler, you're the best! You're the best manager alive!"

I doubt that Max heard that last part, or if he did, it was muffled by Ali herself.

The lead singer said, "Hey, Max! Who's the pair of tits?"

Max extricated himself, blushing fiercely. "This is Ali. She's a singer. She works for me."

Ali waved at them.

"Tell her for us that she has great hooters."

"She can hear you herself," said Max.

Ali leaned into the microphone. "Hi! You guys sound great."

"When do we get to meet her?" the singer asked.

"You want her to sit in?" Max asked.

"Sure!" said the drummer. "We... uh... we need a tambourine, uh, element, to the song."

"I'll send her in," said Max. He turned to her. "Babe, your life as a music professional starts now."

"Me!?" Ali was glowing. She was all excitement as she glanced from me to Max and back again. "I'm a nobody!"

"Don't worry about all that tits 'n hooters stuff they said," added Max.

"What stuff?" She asked. She was already squeezing past me to get out of the booth.

Max and I watched as she bounced in to greet the band. Regardless of the quality of their music, she apparently saw them as higher on the food chain, since they were recording. For her, it was an honor to play tambourine on their techno track. The band encircled her from every side. She had a huge, stupid smile on her face as she shook hands, she was rocking back and forth on her legs, muscles rippling, causing her ass to jog.

Max shook his head as the singer hooked his fingers into the waistline of her shorts. He dragged her over next to the drumset mics. They positioned her with a maximum of hands on her waist and stomach. Max said, "They're thinking 'groupie.' Gang fuck. That's how these kids are. Totally disconnected from reality. And they won't be the last."

"So?"

"I mean, a pretty girl, working here, with all these over-sexed idiots. She better be a people person. Ach! Look at that."

The singer was pressed up against her, explaining the inner workings of the tambourine. His arms were around her, holding her hands as they held the instrument to the microphone. Meanwhile, his pelvis was digging into her ass, his forearms were under her chest raising her breasts, his lips were brushing her ear as he talked. Ali was receiving the instructions seriously, intent on the task.