Lost in LA

by Amy Craig

  Dede fixed her hair. “It’s going to be slow until nine o’clock.”

  Jeanie laughed and nodded. “We won’t close down until three or four.”

  Wylie swallowed and wondered how painful it would be to survive this night and host her beachside yoga class in the morning. Maybe I can time these shifts so I have a day to recover. She watched Dede reapply her lip gloss and took a deep breath. Maybe I should just buy heavier concealer.

  Rusty started yelling at someone outside the main entrance and Dede and Jeanie rolled their eyes. “Here we go again. Let’s grab a drink while he’s not looking.”

  Instead of following the women, Wylie moved toward the front door, confident that Jed and Rusty had enough muscle power to keep her safe from harm.

  “‘Overly casual’ and ‘overly revealing’ leaves room for misinterpretation and inconsistency,” said a honeyed voice with the rhythm of a poetry slam champion. “At a minimum, your phrasing could be perceived as targeting and social profiling.”

  Rusty countered the man’s argument. “I’m just trying to maintain standards and run a quality establishment.”

  A couple of people laughed and Wylie wondered at the size of the crowd outside the building.

  “Man, you realize the dress code you published is straight-out racist?”

  “No,” Rusty said. “I would never call myself a racist. I care about this community.”

  “You guys pushed out an immigrant community, gentrified a historic building and posted blatantly racist dress codes, but now you care about the community? I’m not buying that.”

  “Me neither,” a woman said. “Do you want my money or not?” Rusty hemmed and the sound of the crowd swelled. “It’s as good as yours. You gonna take it or leave it, white boy?”

  Wylie craned her neck to see the crowd, but before she could maneuver around Jed, the big man took a look at the crowd and lifted a presumptuous velvet rope. “Come on in.”

  The first person in line, a woman in a neon green bikini, sauntered into the room with the confidence of a Brazilian samba dancer. As she strode toward the bar, her glowing skin and lean thighs captured the attention of every person in the room. Wylie smiled. It might be overly revealing, but she knows she looks good.

  The men following the dancer wore an assortment of scarves and bandanas more appropriate for Burning Man. As their number swelled, Wylie wondered if the Social Club had morphed into the newest headquarters of the Pride parade or an outlet of the community theater’s costume department.

  The waitresses flocked to the colorful crowd and escorted them to booths and private tables. Within ten minutes, Jed and his staff had admitted enough patrons to fill the bar’s empty spaces and push the DJ to abandon his formal setup. He plugged in his phone and selected a playlist, filling the room with a pulsing beat that obviated conversation and made the crowd’s default activities transition to drinks and side glances.

  Dede grabbed Wylie’s hand and pulled her toward the crowd.

  “I’m coming,” she said, but she turned toward the front door, confused by Rusty’s absence and the warm voice of the lead protester. I swear he sounds familiar.

  Jed stood by, arms crossed and ready to intercede as Rusty traded barbs with a man in a new baseball cap, a torn hoodie and sagging jeans. Wylie thought the protester looked like a stand-in for an old music video.

  He continued talking to Rusty about social movements with a teasing humor designed to deescalate the confrontation.

  She gasped, recognizing the food truck vendor. “Nolan.”

  Both men turned to look at her.

  She remained focused on the newcomer. “What are you doing here?”

  The man’s green eyes softened and he pulled off his baseball cap to run his hands along his smooth fade. Wylie watched his movements and his idealistic presence captured her attention more soundly than the bouncer’s muscles and heavy intimidation. She realized Nolan had taken the time to scrape away his five o’clock shadow and she smiled at him. At least he cares enough about his cause to go all in.

  He looked at her and smiled, his disarming indifference to her appraisal giving her reason to blink.

  “Just engaging in a little social advocacy, Mini Mako,” he said.

  She shook her head at the presumptive nickname. “Just Wylie.”

  Rusty cleared his throat and gestured toward the man. “You know this jackass? He’s trying to tell me how to run my business. I need his help like I need an immigration raid.”

  Wylie moved closer to Nolan, knowing how quickly her ex-boyfriend’s frustration could turn into broken plates and swinging fists. Hoping to insulate the food truck vendor from the consequences of playing Robin Hood, she put her arm through his and faced down her ex-boyfriend. “We’ve, uh, been friends for a while. He runs a great food truck.”

  Rusty crossed his arms like a Napoleonic version of his bouncer. “Aren’t food trucks passé?”

  She barely heard his words. Every one of her senses yearned to focus on Nolan and explore his presence and what it might mean in her life. The sensation hit her like a jolt of electricity and her mind struggled to process the spark. Nervousness and self-awareness battled for her attention as she took a deep breath and attempted to calm her reaction.

  “It’s pretty good, Rusty. Lots of local produce. Maybe you should listen to what he has to say about the dress code. He probably sees more of Los Angeles in a day than either one of us can see in a week. His perspective could help your business.”

  Her ex-boyfriend shook his head. “This isn’t 2008. People want quality experiences and I don’t see the king of Korean BBQ leading the charge for vegan wraps. Quite frankly, your boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  Nolan took a step forward. His action changed the momentum of the conversation and all eyes focused on him. “You don’t get it, dude. Quality comes in many forms. The people in your bar care about their outfits as much as your desired patrons do.”

  Wylie blinked. So the man cares more about equality than profit margins and sweet potato fries.

  “LA isn’t all glitz and old Hollywood.” Nolan gestured to the curious neighbors responding to the noise of his costume protest.

  The men and women stood in line to present their licenses to Rusty’s bouncer and join the newest party in their neighborhood. Muscle shirts revealed bodies honed on manual labor and a woman with false eyelashes wore a white Coach jacket proclaiming, ‘He’s Never Gonna Treat You Like He Should’.

  “Twenty million people can’t be hotshots in this town,” Nolan said.

  Wylie felt the crowd’s curiosity shift toward impatience as they began to vent their restless energy. “Man, what’s the holdup?”

  Nolan glanced over his shoulder and met the protestor’s stare. Both men took deep breaths and nodded before Nolan focused on Rusty’s pretentious discrimination. “I’m telling you… The sooner you figure out who controls the power and influence in this neighborhood, the better it’s going to be for your business.”

  Rusty snorted. “Like the freaks you brought to my club?”

  “Yeah. Every one of them lives within a quarter-mile of this club.”

  Rusty closed the distance to Nolan but stopped short of making contact. He looked up, glaring at the man. “I grew up in this town! Don’t pretend you know it better than me, just because you’re channeling some lame-ass hipster vibe!”

  The men at the front of the entrance line traded glances while echoes of Rusty’s shout rippled through the crowd.

  Wylie coughed, knowing Rusty’s origin story involved more than a few interstate migrations. “Yelling isn’t going to solve anything,” she said.

  Rusty shifted his stance like a nervous boxer.

  Someone in the crowd cracked a joke. The punchline died before it reached them, but the crowd’s unexplained laugher ignited the situation.

  Rusty shoved Nolan’s chest. “Go sell your veggie plates in Burbank and Century City. I’ll call the police if I ever
see you near my club again.”

  She felt Nolan’s muscles tense.

  He ignored Rusty’s assault and narrowed his gaze.

  The club owner pushed him.

  “Do it again,” Nolan dared the man.

  Rusty lifted his chin, ready for the physical altercation. He jumped in place while his bouncer stood by, paid to assure he would win.

  Considering the possible outcomes of their impending fight, she took a deep breath, dropped Nolan’s arm and glared at her ex. “Let it go, Rusty. They’re all going to pay your cover and buy your drinks.”

  When the two men continued to glare at each other and ignore her, she tugged on Nolan’s arm to create space, but the man refused to back down from Rusty’s self-righteousness. Fine, let the social justice warrior and the prick go at it. I don’t need to be the victim of their idealistic testosterone match. They’ll recover, but I won’t be part of it.

  “I’m selling an experience,” Rusty said.

  Nolan rolled his shoulders and narrowed his gaze. “Aren’t those Burbank office workers the same people who are going to buy your overpriced beer? What do you have? Three VIP booths? Dude, Bernie Madoff’s off the rotation. You try to sell as many bottles as you want, but real business owners know profits come from the masses.” He pointed a finger at the club owner. “You’re alienating the masses.”

  Wylie caught Jed’s eye and mouthed a command. “Candy.”

  The bouncer nodded and disappeared into the club as the abandoned crowd began to object and complain.

  Wylie eyed the assembly and realized their socially charged argument held center stage and served as the main attraction in lieu of entrance to the club. She had no doubt the two men could handle themselves, but the threat of a fight and two ruined businesses gave her the courage to slide her shoulders under Nolan’s arm. She beamed her biggest smile toward Rusty and tried to play peacemaker. “It’s not too late to tweak the dress code.”

  Nolan looked at her. If he found himself surprised by her presence, he accepted it and left his arm in place.

  The weight encouraged her to keep going, confident that the man could handle himself if her tactics failed to end the argument.

  Rusty frowned at their display of solidarity. “Tweak it to say what?”

  She scrambled to reword Nolan’s objections without sacrificing her ex-boyfriend’s pride. “Why don’t you focus on safety? No flip-flops etc. Make it about customer experience. You can still encourage people to dress up without alienating your neighbors in the process.”

  “Safety?” Rusty narrowed his eyes, his wrinkled forehead a visible objection to her argument.

  “Maybe your insurance agent can get you a policy discount?”

  Candy came bouncing out of the club, her heels clicking on the asphalt as she pulled at the hem of her red dress. She waved at the crowd and hooked her arm with Rusty’s. Yellow exterior lights caught the flash of her garish earrings. “Baby, the club is almost full.”

  He peered into the interior. “Yeah?”

  Rusty’s focus shifted and relief swept through Wylie. She sagged against Nolan’s side and registered the heat where his arm rested along her shoulders.

  Then the man opened his mouth and starting talking to Rusty again. “One night of success doesn’t guarantee another one. Build up your base before you get uppity enough for a velvet rope.”

  “Uppity?” Rusty planted his foot and shook off Candy.

  Oh my God. Can’t the two of you let it go? She turned to Nolan and cupped his face, hoping her expression said as much as her words. “You made your point.”

  The man looked at her, his eyes widening.

  Unable to ignore the heat building between their bodies, she took a deep breath. Is this why we met? Are you the one who needs to be saved?

  He opened his mouth.

  Rusty spat on the ground.

  The sound of the discharge might as well have been a gunshot.

  Gauntlet thrown, Nolan looked at Rusty without a pretense of civility.

  She lost it, grabbing the vendor’s sweatshirt until he had no choice but to turn and face her.

  Surprise flashed in his green eyes.

  Claiming his lips with a kiss, she erased all other options and felt his mouth open in surprise. She slipped her tongue between his lips, lost in his rich and exotic taste. How can he taste like citrus, mint and spice all at the same time?

  Pulling her close, he grasped the straps knotted at the small of her back.

  She pressed her hips against his, and leaned into his touch, trusting his strength to hold her.

  The crowd started to cheer.

  She broke the kiss and blinked, her senses lingering on the taste and feel of Nolan, but the threat of impending violence pulled her attention to Rusty.

  “I have this,” Candy said. She pulled Rusty toward the front door of the club.

  Wylie wondered how her sky-high heels gave her any traction.

  Her ex-boyfriend looked over his shoulder and shook his head in disgust. “Get a room,” he said. “If you can afford it.”

  Nolan moved to set her aside and go after the man.

  She pulled him back and locked her arm around his neck, anchoring him to the spot. Her attraction to him surprised her, the interest as deep and primal as gnawing hunger. Could she afford an indulgence like lust? She pulled back, comingling their breaths in the foggy evening air.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  She captured his lips again, eager to check out her body’s reaction and the taste of his kiss again. This kiss is just for me. Angling her head, she tested his resistance to see where the pleasure might end. It didn’t. When his taste threatened to steal her awareness, she pulled away and scanned the volatile surroundings.

  Nolan captured her hips, reclaiming her undivided attention. He pulled back. “I’m thinking about that room.”

  She blinked and sorted through her emotions. Which need can wait? The job or the kiss?

  He raised his eyebrows and kneaded the muscles of her lower back, his touch both a reminder and an invitation. “I’m all for taking this somewhere else,” he said. “Somewhere where we won’t have an audience.”

  Her brain registered catcalls and whistles from the crowd. She shook her head and took a deep breath, breaking the connection she craved. “You were ten seconds from feeling Rusty’s fist instead of my lips.”

  Nolan eyed the club’s front door and let go of her. “I think I got the better deal.”

  But did I lose it? She shook off the tingling sensation of his lips and headed toward the pulsing beat of the club. His cardamom taste lingered on her lips and she smiled, hoping for a third encounter.

  “Wylie, wait. Where are you going?” He reached for her hand and stalled her retreat.

  The simple gesture felt more intimate than his lips, but she took another step toward the packed house. “I’m going inside to do my job. Earn some tips. Pay the rent.”

  He dropped her hand and looked at the strappy top she wore. “What happened to the carefree blonde yogi?”

  I don’t know. Self-consciousness let her turn the question back to him. “What happened to your hip street aesthetic?”

  He looked at his shoes and frowned. “This isn’t hip?”

  She looked at him, a self-proclaimed champion of the underclass, standing alone in a parking lot while his supporters chose partying over indulging his righteous cause. Did he pay them? I bet he gave them more than sweet potato fries. Shaking her head, she decided to soften her insult with a smile. “You look more ridiculous than the crowd you brought with you.”

  He scanned her from head to toe.

  She ignored the memory of their kiss and the unexpected heat lingering on her lips.

  “This isn’t you,” he said.

  Laughing at his unprecedented conclusion, she shook her head and thought of Penny Lane and the waitresses who had taken her under their wing to improve her outfit. What can you know of me after twenty-four hours? She r
eplayed the tension of the agreement between Rusty and Nolan, her empathy stretching to cover Candy Cane. What would it be like to live so far from home? We’re all just trying to survive, aren’t we?

  Nolan knew so little about her circumstances. She shook her head and looked at the man’s ragged hoodie and sagging pants. “I’m not the one wearing a costume.”

  Chapter Four

  Wylie woke up at nine, checked the charge on her cell phone and gave thanks that the phone’s USB connection had not drained her car’s battery. She smiled through the exhaustion of her late-night shift as the vehicle’s engine rumbled to life. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.

  Her muscles ached as she climbed out of the vehicle and took a deep breath of the crisp morning air wafting through Hotchkiss Park. Signs surrounding the neighborhood park had advertised a requirement for residential parking permits, but Wylie had seen several spots as she cruised the early morning streets to avoid a paid lot.

  By the light of day, dogs played on the park’s lawn as their owners ignored the leash laws and kept an eye out for the park ranger. So, we can all bend the rules. She considered the million-dollar houses surrounding the tree-lined lawn.

  She headed toward the park’s green restroom building and slowed to consider an avant-garde statue that looked like a papier-mâché depiction of family life. A weathered plaque attributed the public art to Eino Romppanen and listed the work’s title as ‘Oneness’.

  A musician spread his tattered blanket on the lawn near the statue. “You like it?”

  Did the local kids use it for spitball practice? She shrugged her indifference, choosing politeness over honesty.

  The man laughed and opened his guitar case. “The groundkeeper told me this park used to be the site of the Mooney Mansion. Strange things happened to the people who lived in that old house. Rat poison took out an old widow. Another man’s pocket pistol went off and shot a hole in his back. That’s plenty enough to haunt this place, but a murder in the 1880s sealed the building’s fate.”

  Wylie looked for the remnants of an old structure and imagined a grand house built to take in the ocean views. She thought of Chesterfield Square and the legacy of violence marking the site. Would its legacy be the same if it had ocean views? She turned to the musician. “What happened to the old house?”