Faster

by Deana Birch

  Casey, wearing a buttoned-up, short-sleeve shirt over his pale skin, air kissed both cheeks and said, “Hello, gorgeous. You wore pants to hide your sexy little legs. Good thinking.”

  I laughed. He was 100 percent correct. I wasn’t tall, and I didn’t think anyone would mistake me for being curvy, but I ran a few times a week and watched what I ate. Of all my body parts, my legs were my favorite. Exposing them in this meeting would be the wrong call, based on what I’d heard about director Vincent Renier. After telling the receptionist to send all calls to voicemail, Casey and I chitchatted on our way back to join the others.

  In Mario’s dark studio, we went through all the formalities of the greetings, and our clients sat on the leather couch behind Mario’s massive mixing console. Finally, Bob said, “Vincent; Louana, as you know, is our new producer, and she’ll be the point person for the rest of the project. I’ll always be around if anyone needs me, especially you.” He eyed me. “But I am spending less and less time here and more with Karen. I’m sure you understand.”

  Bob waved his way out of the studio and asked me to join him for a second. I followed him to our office, where he grabbed his phone and keys off his big wooden desk.

  “Don’t let Vincent scare you with his cleft chin and spooky stares. He likes to test the waters to read reactions. Don’t forget: he’s a dramatic director.”

  “Right. Good advice. Thanks.”

  “Take notes and e-mail me later.”

  When I came back into the studio, all eyes were on me, and a grin was plastered on Casey’s freckled face. The second Vincent spoke French, I realized I had been sold down the river. In fact, Vincent spoke so fast, it was difficult to keep up with him. What I did catch was him asking me where my family was from. Casey said my grandmother was an opera singer, and Vincent wanted to know which one. He was delighted to meet another true Frenchie.

  Leaving out the fact I was only half French, I answered him back that yes, my grandmother was a singer; but it wasn’t a big deal.

  But Vincent insisted. “Elle s’appelle comment?”

  “Stella Forlini.”

  “Non!” The big, bad, scary director erupted with excitement and turned to a laughing Mario. This must have been a side of Vincent he had not seen before. “Mario! You didn’t tell me you had the granddaughter of French music royalty working for you!”

  But Vincent exaggerated. It made sense he was familiar with my grandmother, because he was French and involved in the arts. But even in France, just a handful of people listened to opera. She wasn’t a celebrity. Not that I would ever tell her that, but if she was going to help me make my first huge project a success, I was ready to latch on to her coattails.

  “Surprise!” Mario said to Vincent. He knew my family history but had never asked much about it. Mario was more interested in whether I could do my job, not if someone in my gene pool could sing.

  After we wrapped up, Vincent hooked my arm and accompanied me down the hall. In French, he asked me more about my grandmother. His father was a fan, and he had wondered what had become of her. Mario and Casey walked silently behind us, their common interests ending with the man to my right.

  When we reached the lobby, the receptionist’s glare was plenty evil enough to understand she was not happy. A quick peek at the couch stopped me in my tracks. Jake sat there reading a magazine, a wiggling foot on top of his knee. He bent the upper edge of the pages to see me and smiled. Shit. Our meeting had gone over and I had kept him waiting. My heart pounded in my chest, but I focused on my clients. Vincent—who now knew my family was from the South of France—kissed each cheek twice, and he and Mario left to call the elevator.

  “You threw me to the wolves back there,” I scolded Casey.

  Casey darted his eyes toward Jake, then back to me. “Yeah, maybe, but it totally worked. He loves you.” He shrugged and shot Jake one more glance, then hurried to join the others as the elevator rang its arrival. He was already on his phone before the doors closed.

  With the receptionist’s energy searing at my back, I dealt with her first. She had the good sense to wait for Mario to walk back down the hall toward his studio before she said, “Jesus, Louana. You could have warned me you were expecting someone. Now I can’t see my boyfriend before he goes to work. Thanks a lot.”

  Why I was to blame for her doing her job was beyond me. The phone rang and she changed her tune, but not her stank face.

  “Mario Mendina Music.” She listened to the voice on the other end. “One moment, please.” After placing the caller on hold, she peered back up with her stink eye. “It’s Casey. For you. Can I go now?”

  “Sure,” I said to her. I turned to Jake. “Hi.”

  “Hey.” Lord, his voice was divine. A little raspy and just low enough. How had I missed that earlier? And that half smile? Lord-y.

  In a cloud of cheap perfume, the receptionist huffed by me and stomped out the door.

  “I need to take this call and then I’m finished. Give me five?”

  “No worries.” He unwrinkled his magazine and went back to reading it.

  I jogged down the hall to my office, where I found Mario in the doorway.

  “I think Vincent liked you.”

  “I hope so,” I said with a nervous smile.

  Mario paused, decided against whatever it was he was going to say, tapped the doorframe, and instead said, “See you tomorrow.”

  “Good night.”

  I sat down at my desk and picked up the phone. “Louana Higgins.”

  “Hey! What took you so long?” But before I could answer, Casey spat, “Anyway, I’m dying!”

  “What? Why?” I grabbed a pen in case I need to write down directions.

  “Why is the drummer of The Spades in your waiting room?”

  “What? Who?” My eyes searched the blank wall in front of me.

  “The guy sitting on the couch. Jake Riley. The drummer for The Spades.”

  “Oh.”

  “Jesus, Loulou. Do you not know a rock star when you see one?”

  “Apparently not.” I swiveled my chair and tried to look down the hall.

  “You really need to stop listening to all that old French shit and step into the present day, girl. The Spades are, like, the hottest rock band right now. You know the song ‘Faster?’ It’s all over the radio. Do you even listen to the radio? Good God, and you’re in the music business.”

  I knew of the song, but I didn’t know anything about The Spades. My musical taste varied a lot, and while I liked rock, I rarely listened to it. “Thank God I have you,” I said, wondering just how famous Jake was.

  “Truth! Now tell me what he’s doing in your lobby. I’m totally in love with the lead singer, Shane.”

  “I don’t know. I think he may know some guy who works down the hall. Anyway, I gotta run. I need to get home and walk Archie. I’ll call you later this week.”

  I could have told Casey the truth, but getting a drink with Jake didn’t seem like an important detail. And it was probably a road to nowhere.

  “K, but do some spy work on Jake Riley for me. God, I’m all tingly inside just thinking I was one degree away from Shane Murphy.”

  I giggled, then said goodbye.

  “Bye, Loulou. Great meeting.” Casey made a kissy sound and hung up.

  My hand slowly returned the receiver to its home, and the other hand met it to verify the end of the call. I had assumed Jake was a musician when I saw him with the bongo. I knew enough to recognize the skill, but it never occurred to me he was successful. Everyone in this town was trying to make it big. I would have loved to think it didn’t matter, but my usual nerves of steel transformed to vanilla pudding. I grabbed my bag, locked my office, and went to find him.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey.” Jake tossed the magazine onto the coffee table in front of him and stood. Dang, he was tall.

  “Um, I kinda need to walk my landlady’s dog. Do you want to meet somewhere?”

  “You don’t seem
like a dog walker.” One of his eyes closed. “Are you ditching me?”

  “No.” Hell no.

  Jake’s hands perched on his hips.

  “Well, I don’t have a car, so maybe I can tag along and we can go straight from your place.”

  Okay, he wasn’t that successful; the man didn’t even have a car. I reassured myself that there would be no interrupting fans, no chaos.

  “Okay. Come on, my car’s in the garage.”

  We rode the elevator to the underground parking, and I led Jake to my baby blue Fiat 500.

  “This is your car?” he asked. The click of the keys unlocked the doors and gave him his answer. “Did it come with a Barbie?”

  “Asks the man with no ride.”

  We opened our doors.

  “I’m an excellent driver but an overly creative parker,” he said. His face scrunched up and the wrinkles around his eyes hinted at something. Fatigue?

  “Your car’s impounded?” I asked.

  He shrugged and climbed in. I pulled out of the garage and turned right on Cahuenga Boulevard toward Hollywood and my apartment.

  “How come you speak French?” Jake said, fiddling with the air vents. He must have caught a bit of my conversation with Vincent.

  “My mom is French. I hope you weren’t waiting too long. The meeting ran a bit late.”

  “No worries; that’s what friends do.”

  Oh, okay. We were friends. Got it. This was a drink to thank me for lunch. I smiled through my disappointment.

  After a bit of small talk about how Jake knew Steven Brass, we were at my building. I pulled into my parking spot and led us through the courtyard of the complex. It was small, with six units, but the pool area in the middle was spacious. My landlady, Fern, did a good job with the upkeep of the exterior common space, but the interior of the apartments themselves was dated. If she would just spend a bit of money to renovate them, she could triple her monthly income. Not that I was complaining. I got lucky with my place because Fern’s best friend, Bea, lived there before me. It had a dishwasher, its own washer and dryer, and a carpet that had been replaced two years prior. Fern also cut me a break on rent for walking her dog.

  I left Jake by the pool and said, “I’m gonna change; I’ll be right back.”

  When I got to my closet and took off my work clothes, I realized I was at a loss for what to wear. He had made it clear we were “friends.” This was not going to be a date. Maybe I was his community service for unpaid parking tickets, and I would have to sign a paper at the end of the night. But if I strolled out in something cute or sexy, he would think I was trying to make an impression. I chose a short denim skirt and a James Gang T-shirt I’d bought on Melrose. I slipped into a pair of ballerinas to relieve my feet from the heels I’d worn all day.

  Back in the courtyard, Fern sat in a deckchair by the pool. Her dog, Archie, lapped up Jake’s face in a full-on assault with his tongue. For all of Archie’s good behavior, he did have the one fault of loving to give smooches. Most of the time he knew better than to try it on me, but now and then he would sneak one in. Jake seemed to be enjoying it. Archie was on the receiving end of some serious scratches and pillow talk in a Scooby-Doo voice.

  Fern turned to me. “Hi, honey,” she said. “Your friend Jake says you’re going to dinner. I’ll ask the girls to walk Archie.”

  “Are you sure?” I wondered how a drink had turned into dinner without my knowledge.

  “Absolutely.” I could see the wheels spinning under the perfectly coiffed grey hair on Fern’s head. She thought I was on a date.

  “Nice meeting you, Fern, and you too, Archie,” Jake said, flashing her a million-dollar smile and giving him a final rub on the nose.

  “Pleasure’s all mine.” Fern’s eyes traveled the length of Jake before she reached for Archie’s collar to hold him near.

  “See you tomorrow,” I called over my shoulder as I led Jake past the pool.

  When I dug in my bag for my keys, he said, “I was thinking we could walk. There’s a great taco place not far from here.”

  “Nobody walks in Los Angeles.” I furrowed my brow.

  “Let’s be nobodies then.”

  As I opened the gate to the parking lot, Jake’s hand skimmed my lower back, and a shiver moved from the base of my spine all the way up to my neck. Knowing the heat in my face would betray me, I didn’t dare make eye contact. Instead, I hurried straight past the cars and out to the street.

  “Which way?” I asked.

  He pointed toward Sunset and we walked down the hill. I tried to find something to do with my hands besides twisting them in circles.

  Silence fell between us. The brush of his touch had put to rest any illusions I was not attracted to Jake, but after he had dropped the “friend” bomb, I had a hard time imaging a scenario where the feeling was mutual. Maybe Jake would hint his intentions at dinner. Besides, if I was dealing with a “just a friend” scenario, throwing myself at him would add insult to injury. But the shiver at his touch…

  He said something, but I wasn’t listening. His lips transfixed me. It was like they were made to be worshiped. They formed a little heart and were neither too thin nor too full. I wanted to get to know those lips a lot better.

  “Louana?”

  Dear Lord. Just thinking of the possibility of getting some action had awoken a dormant beast inside me, and now all I could think about was his body.

  “We’re here,” he said. We stood in front of Casa Carlos. “Where did you go there?” He reached for the metal handle of the restaurant door.

  “Long day,” I lied. “This place looks great. I’ve been meaning to try it.” The last bit was true. This restaurant was on my radar, but dining alone in public took courage, and I hadn’t gotten around to it. “Do you come here a lot?”

  My question was answered by the bartender, who shouted out, “Riley!” as we walked through the door. We bellied up to the bar and Jake introduced me to Adam, who had been the bass player in one of Jake’s previous bands.

  “This is my friend Louana,” he said.

  There was that word again.

  Adam raised an eyebrow and stared Jake down. “Jake Riley is not friends with the finer sex.” He air quoted the word “friends” to make a point, then turned to me and said, “Nice to meet you, Louana.”

  He shifted back to Jake. “You guys wanna sit at the bar?”

  “I think we’ll take a table,” Jake said. Adam seemed confused, but before he could question the request, Jake spoke up first.

  “Adam makes the best blood orange Margarita in the world,” he said. “How about two to start?”

  “Sure,” said Adam. “Sit anywhere you want. I’ll bring them over.”

  The restaurant was long and narrow, with about ten tables from end to end and six stools at the bar. We found a place between the entrance and the kitchen—out of Adam’s line of vision, I noted—and sat down.

  “About that…” Jake winced and gestured to his friend.

  I put my hands up in surrender stance and said, “No worries; we’re friends.” No need to dwell on the fact I was having dinner with, and very much attracted to, someone who now seemed to be a rock star man whore. To bury my twinge of disappointment and change the subject, I grabbed the menu out of its holder on the table and asked, “What do you recommend?”

  Adam brought over our drinks and took our order. Tacos were not a food I would choose for a first date, but this was not a date, I reminded myself.

  Jake’s fingers tapped on the table, keeping time with the Latin music playing overhead.

  “So, you play drums?” I asked, toeing the line that I didn’t know he was famous.

  “I actually started on the piano. My mom taught me how to play, but she said I kept hitting it too hard. She thought I had a natural sense of rhythm, and for my tenth birthday, my friends and family chipped in and bought me a drum kit. It’s still in their basement.”

  “What does your dad do?”

  �
��He’s a carpenter. I used to drive him insane when I helped him every summer. My hammering always had a rhythm. I could never just tap tap tap the nail.”

  Adam brought us our order, and we dug into our tacos. Between bites, Jake asked me a bit about my job and background. I did my best to balance the conversation with the sloppy mess of food in front of me.

  “Your landlady doesn’t seem like the type to have a pit bull,” he said.

  “Maybe not. But behind her manicured nails and long eyelashes, she’s pretty down-to-earth.”

  “You two seem like a good match.”

  “If she wasn’t eighty-two.”

  “Eighty-two? Damn.” Jake’s thumb caught a drip of hot sauce from his bottom lip, and he sucked it off.

  “She’s a lot of fun, but not the strongest wingman.” I sipped my tangy drink, sure it wasn’t just the tequila making me foggy.

  “I don’t think you need a wingman.”

  Please let him be flirting.

  “I’m not complaining. Fern and Archie have become almost like family. But I could stand one or two friends my own age.”

  “Didn’t you know anybody before you moved out here?” Jake finished his taco and wiped his stubble and hands with paper napkins, before crumpling them up and tossing them onto the random pieces of lettuce and cheese that remained in his red, plastic basket.

  “I had an acquaintance—the sister of one of my college friends. I slept on her couch for a few weeks. But she smokes pot for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Not really my thing.”

  “So why did you move out here?” He leaned into his chair, pushing his broad shoulders into the vinyl back.

  It was a fair question. One I had pondered many times in bed while staring at my ceiling over the last few months. The truth was, I had always wanted to live in a city. Chicago was too cold. And Paris, while an option due to my dual citizenship, was too close to my ex-boyfriend. New York had been at the top of my list until I realized it was in between my mother in the Midwest and my grandmother in France, and between them was a space I had already emotionally occupied my entire life. That left me with Los Angeles. But Jake had heard enough of my sob story. So instead of explaining my true motives re building my own life, I said, “The weather.”