“And a cigarette,” I said with a sigh of finality.
A drum solo played to my steps on the way to the side door that led outside. The more I thought about the nicotine burn, the more I craved it and wished I’d brought a pack before coming here.
A young woman came out of the bathroom as I passed by, leaving the door open just enough to let the next person slip in. Inside, stickers covered the red-tiled walls of the single bathroom.
“Do you smoke?” I asked her.
The young blonde in the hall looked me over with everything she had in her, trying to place and piece together my question as if it were a Rubik’s cube. She had mascara smudged in the corners of her eyes and a sheen of sweat across her forehead. People bumped into her in the crowded space, and she leaned to one side for balance. She was just as fucked up as I was.
The look in her eyes said she believed she’d seen me before but didn’t know where. The alcohol was only helping her stumble against a wall to prop her up.
In her defense, it had been more than three years since her favorite childhood show ended. The only time to catch reruns was at three in the morning between George Foreman grills and the ThighMaster infomercials because Nickflix declined to pick it up.
“Wait, weren’t you Audrey October’s best friend?” she snapped her finger with wide eyes. “Harlow James?”
“Never heard of her.” My fingers twitched for a hit of something, preferably another line of coke to keep the high I was coming down from. “Gotta cig?”
She laughed. “Oh, this is great. Is she here, too? I would die for a picture with her.”
Oh, is that all it would take?
Her heels lifted as she looked over a sea of heads. “My friends would never believe I saw you guys. You see, I’m from Georgia,” she continued, tapping away on her cell, but it was just a black screen. My patience was dulling, and the high morphed my brain, seeing her as a tall polar bear on its hind legs instead of a girl.They let an animal into the club, I thought.Fantastic.
I pushed past, heading through VIP to the back exit and not bothering to check for a sign indicating an alarm. None went off.
The door opened, and a fistful of fresh air whooshed across my face and shoved life down my throat. My back fell against the door, and I closed my eyes, commanding my heart to stable.
The flick of a lighter forced my eyes back open.
And then, “If it isn’t for America’s bitch.”
3
#zipposarehott
HARLOW SAINT JAMES
The voice wasnothing more than a shadow.
I straightened my back and peered down the street toward Sunset Boulevard. Cars chasing lights blew past in a blur. Green and red flashes from the traffic stops cut through exhaust and laughter.This is it, I thought. This is how I die–Sunset Strip on a Saturday night.
The paranoia had come like an unwanted visitor, but I couldn’t ignore the feeling of someone following me or watching me this entire night. In my mind, as irrational and vain as it seemed, a stalker was getting closer, and only time would tell if he was going to kill me.
Then a man stepped out, and his shadow puddled around his feet. He was wild and illuminated by a single buzzing streetlamp that sent a buttery glow across his carved jaw. A floating ember from a cigarette danced in the night beside him.
I recognized him instantly. It was the guitarist from House of Sparrows, Lincoln Hendrix.
Not a stalker, just a Rockstar out for a smoke break.
My entire body melted against the door with relief.
Linc took a step closer in a black suit, roughed up black and white Converse high-tops, and a tie hanging loose around his neck. His bare chest was scarred with ink and dotted with sweat, and his brown hair was chaos and confusion, wayward strands pointing to the midnight sky. He flicked the butt of his cigarette with his thumb and brought it to his pierced lip. A long and deep drag, and upon exhale, a chuckle surfaced in the smoke that clouded his features.
I leaned on my hip, annoyed. “What?”
“If only they knew.”
“If only they knewwhat?”
