But before I can decide anything, Jacine pulls up her five foot, seven-inch frame and fire flashes through her eyes.
“All of you, get off my property now!”
I groan because this is not the way to treat three impetuous rock stars. She knows this, but I see the stress in her eyes too, and for the first time in my life I see Jacine Alexander unravel.
“But, sweetheart,” said Dys.
“Sweetheart?” protested Kane.
“Yeah, sweetheart. Want to make something of it?”
“Who the fuck cares!” snapped Jacine.
Holmes put his hands on Jacine’s shoulders, which was a mistake.
“Get your hands off me!” yelled Jacine. And though the scrub and trees of the hills usually sop up sounds, her high voice reverberated against the walls of the slopes of the Santa Monica Mountains.
I groan. There is a reason why you usually can hear a pin drop in the Hollywood Hills. It’s because the neighbors, sensitive to the star-studded antics of LA, keep things eerie quiet. You might hear traffic on the road, or the occasional barking of a dog, but otherwise you would think you were in the middle of the country, which we were not.
It was suburbia. Oh, decidedly upscale, but Mr. And Mrs. America, just the same. Stars live here on sufferance.
But do Kane, Dys, and Holmes recognize that? No. And before I know it Holmes pushes past Jacine and shoves Kane, who falls into Dys, who pushes him back into Holmes.
And that’s when the fight starts.
“Stop!” screamed Jacine, but that only made things worse. Giving lie to reports that LA police are slow, on this day within five minutes a police car pulls into the driveway flashing its lights.
It didn’t take long for our worse fears to manifest and the Terrible Trio, bruised, sweaty, and dirty were hauled off to the local lock-up.
