by Mel Bossa
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editors: Greg Herren and Stacia Seaman
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
By the Author
Liberty Editions
Accidents Never Happen
The Jetsetters
Young Adult Fiction
Swimming to Chicago
Mesmerized
Wonderland
Acknowledgments
Many people helped bring The Jetsetters to print. To them, I offer my deepest gratitude:
To Len Barot, for her unconditional support, shared wisdom, and never-ending faith in my stories.
To Greg Herren, for being a genius editor, a patient teacher, and a brilliant writer.
To the wonderful Bold Strokes Books family, especially Cindy Cresap, Connie Ward, Kim Baldwin, Lori Anderson, Ruth Sternglantz, Sandy Lowe, Sheri, and Stacia Seaman.
To Terri Nunn and the members of Berlin, Dale Bozzio and the members of Missing Persons, Johnette Napolitano and the members of Concrete Blonde, Chantal Claret and the members of Morningwood, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, The Dollyrots, Voice of the Beehive, and Possum Dixon for providing the perfect soundtrack to this novel, without even realizing it.
For their never-ending support and words of encouragement: Albert Magaña, Amelia Paz, Andrea Patten, Bethany Hidden-Cauley, Billie Parish, Blithe Raines, Bryan Northup, Carmel Comendador, Carsen Taite, Cathy Moreno, Christian Thomas, Collin Kelley, Cyndi Lopez, Danielle Downs, Dawn Hartman Towle, Debbie Otto, Debra Garnes, Dellina Moreno, Donna Cummings, Elizabeth Warren, Frankie Hernandez, Hannah Grimes, Jacqui Kriz, Jamie Hughes, Janet Milstein, January Cummings, Jessica Lopez Murray, Jessica Moreno, Jill McMahon, Jodi Blue, Joyce Luzader, Julie Bloemeke, Karen Head, Karen Vega, Kelly Kinghorn Hurtado, Kelly Wilson Lopez, Kerry Crawford, Keshia Whitmore-Govers, Kimberly Greenberg, Lety Cruz, Linda Wread-Barnes, Linnea Lindh, Lisa Allender, Logan Hindle, Lynda Sandoval, Marcia Gonzales, Maire Gardner, Marilyn Montague, Marisa Villegas, Melita Ann Sagar, Megan Quinn, Michelle Boman Harris, Mindy Morgan, Nance Haxton, Nea Herriott, Nick A. Moreno, Nita Manley, Patricia Abbott-Dinsmore, Raquel Short, Rena Mason, Robyn Colburn, Sabra Rahel, Sal Meza, Sami McNeil, Selena Ambush, Sheryl Hoover, Stacy Scranton, Stefani Deoul, Stephanie Gomez, Susan Madden, Tara Henry, Teresa Michelle Ruiz, Therease Logan, Trish DeBaun, Todd Wylie, and Vanessa Menendez.
To my wonderful colleagues for putting up with me, particularly Alexis Jackson, Ashley Calhoun Stout, Brad Jester, Christi Ellington, Dawn Hodges, Diane Bertschin, Gail Daniel, Jean Cash, Jennifer Edwards, Kate Williams, Kathlyn Burden, Kelly Batchelder, Leila Wells Rogers, Liz Jester, Lynn Futral, Rebecca Johnson, Shellie Morgan, Sherry Brooks, Sloan Passmore, Teresa Brooks, and Trevor Alexander.
To my parents, Samuel Barnes, Jr. and Nancy Nickle, and my brothers, Jamin, Jason, Andy, and Jaren, for letting me be the writer in the family.
To my students, who teach me more on a daily basis than I could ever dream of teaching them.
To the loving memory of my grandmother, Dorothy Helen Nickle, for my childhood of soap operas and tea parties.
To Edward C. Ortiz, for the wonderful life and love we share.
To the beautiful city of Chicago. And the always-inspiring people who live there.
To God, for everything. Without You, I’m nothing.
And, finally, to Celso Chavez for being the greatest guitar player who ever lived and for always dedicating a song to me. I still can’t believe you’re gone.
For Edward C. Ortiz, for not only sharing his love of music with me, but his beautiful heart as well.
“…you are the music while the music lasts.” —from The Dry Salvages by T.S. Eliot
Chapter One
Since the morning I left Diego Delgado asleep in a hotel room in New York and disappeared from his life forever, I’d been living on the fine line between a broken heart and a nervous breakdown. It was a shitty place to exist, but it was a self-imposed exile. I walked away from love twelve years ago and only had myself to blame for the stupidest choice ever made by a human being. This pissed me off more than anything.
I wasn’t bitter, but I drank a lot.
I ordered a second pomegranate martini because the first one hadn’t done the trick. The loneliness plaguing me for most of my adult life seemed particularly potent as I sat in a low-lit airport bar at LAX. I lifted the glass, brought the edge of it to my mouth, and tilted my head back. The cool liquid swam down my throat, but the cheap gin couldn’t burn away the impending need to cry.
Don’t have a meltdown here. Everyone will know you’re insane. Suck it up, you crybaby.
I glanced over to the computer bag sitting on the empty bar stool beside me.
You’ve got work to do. Focus on your job, dumbass. It’s all you have left in this world.
For the last twelve years of my life, I’d done just that: I’d lived for my career. As a result, I was a senior copywriter at a successful advertising firm. I owned a lake-view condo in Chicago. I lived with a fat cat named King Louie, who tolerated me at best. I had a circle of sympathetic friends who filled my empty single life with a constant flow of invitations for drinks and dinners. I even knew a few guys who were good for the occasional blow job whenever the need struck—and it rarely did.
Yet I’d never felt more alone in the world.
And to make matters worse, my martini glass was empty.
“Another one?” offered the blond bartender with the body of a Swedish god.
I sighed and shrugged, shifted uncomfortably on the bar stool. I was no good at flirting. Every time I made an attempt, I felt more and more ridiculous. I was convinced I was a freak of gay nature. “Not sure if I should,” I said, knowing damn well I was having another drink. “I have a connecting flight to catch.”
The bartender leaned in. His sticky, sweet breath smelled like peppermint. He was wearing a tight-fitting white polo and black jeans. “How long is your layover?” he asked in a secretive whisper. Are we plotting a takeover of the world or working out the details of a drug deal? I wondered why my martini-serving Adonis was trying to keep our conversation so hush-hush. The bar was practically a ghost town.
Then it dawned on me.
Maybe he was incredibly horny and I was a last resort.
And maybe I was better than nothing.
I cracked a smile and tried to avoid staring at the Swede’s perfect teeth. Guys like the hot bartender never seemed to notice me. I usually attracted men twice his age and twice my weight. “Five hours,” I answered, continuing to grin. “It’s ridiculous.”
The bartender swiped the empty glass and said, “I’m off in an hour.”
I watched, almost mesmerized, as he whipped up another martini. I liked the way his thick fingers held the bottle of gin with confidence and authority. “I appreciate the offer,” I said, “and believe me, I could use the company…but…”
A third martini suddenly appeared in front of me. “But you’re seeing someone,” the bartender finished. “No big deal with me if you are.”
I reached for the glass, shook my head. “No. I’m not seeing someone.”
“Are you kidding?” The blonde’s eyebrows shot up. “A guy like you?”
I lowered my glass, licked my lips. I knew they were my best feature—or so I’d been told. “A guy like me?”
The bartender leaned in again. This time, his mouth was close enough to kiss. “This is L.A.,” he said, as if reminding me where I was. Did I look that lost? “I’m sure you must know someone you could spend an hour with.”
I held his gaze. “I don’t know anyone.”
The eyebrows moved again. “You sure about that?”
The bartender turned away but my words stopped him, brought him back. “I mean, I do.” I took a breath, a silent leap of faith. “My name’s Justin…Justin Holt.”
The perfect
teeth shone at me again when he flashed an all-too-eager smile. He thought I was a done deal, a sure thing, a slam dunk.
When in the hell did I become so easy?
“Well, Justin Holt, it might be fun to kill some time together,” he said.
I nodded and tried my best to act nonchalant. I didn’t want to appear desperate. I placed some cash on the bar to pay for my drinks. “Yeah…sure.”
He stepped back a little as if he wanted to get a better look at me. Maybe the lighting had changed in the bar and my flaws were now apparent. Maybe he now saw me for the terminally single social pariah I really was. “You seem uptight,” he assessed.
I tried to care. “Do I?”
The bartender moved to the register to make change. “Tense, maybe.”
I thought about it for a moment, then decided: “No.”
“No?”
I lifted my glass again. “No. I’m not tense. I don’t have a stressful life. I think…I think I’m just really, really sad.” I sniffed to hold my tears back.
The bartender folded his arms across his chest and his biceps flexed naturally. “Anything I can do to cheer you up?”
I nearly laughed. “Probably…at least for a little while. But tomorrow…”
The word tomorrow seemed to trigger a silent alarm in his head. A high degree of panic flashed across the bartender’s face. “Tomorrow?” he repeated, maybe concerned I was anticipating a marriage proposal by midnight. “I thought you had a plane to catch.”
My smile and mood vanished. I could hear the tears in my own voice when I confessed, “Tomorrow is my birthday.”
Relief washed over the bartender and his shoulders relaxed a little. “Oh…well…then we should definitely celebrate.” He winked this time and the gesture seemed corny.
What a condescending asshole.
“They don’t call it a layover for nothing.” He smirked.
I pushed the martini glass away.
Music suddenly caught my attention. It was filtered, as if it were seeping out of a pair of ear buds. I turned to my computer bag, worried I’d left my iPod on. Then I realized where the music was coming from.
She was probably no older than twenty-one. She sat farther down the bar, near the flow of frantic and dazed passengers rushing or sauntering past the bar’s entrance, from gate to gate. She was an alluring woman, curvy and confident. Her hair was a mess of jagged strands of jet black, hot magenta, and baby blue. A few tattoos poked out of the sleeves and low neckline of the peasant blouse she wore. A rhinestone choker sparkled around her neck and caught the reflection of the low lights in the bar. Her ensemble was completed with a shiny black miniskirt, fishnet tights, and double-knotted combat boots. She looked like a rock star. She looked a lot like Halo Jet. But I knew she wasn’t Halo. That was impossible.
She bobbed her head to the drum-heavy rhythm of the song blasting in her ears. She moved her mouth to the lyrics; the words were an extension of her tortured soul. I wasn’t only enraptured with this woman, I was thankful to her. She was the sign I’d been waiting for, a reminder of my past and its incompleteness.
I recognized the song immediately. After all, it’d been written about me twelve years ago. Me, before the corporate career, before the predictable condo life, before the lame-ass twisted form of self-punishment I’d subjected myself to all these years.
I struggled with the impulse to speak to the woman, to tell her about the immediate connection I felt with her.
I once knew someone a lot like you.
She looked at me. I wondered if she sensed what I was feeling.
No, that’s not an empathetic expression on her face. She’s deeply annoyed by my presence. She wants me to leave her alone and mind my own fucking business.
Stop looking at her, you idiot. Look away, damn it!
She tugged the white ear buds away from her face and shot me a death stare. “Don’t tell me,” she said in a voice permanently drenched with tequila. “The music is too loud and it’s bothering you.”
I shifted on the bar stool to face her. “On the contrary,” I said.
She glanced me over. Clearly, I didn’t pass inspection. “What are you? A lawyer?”
I looked down at my Valentino suit and tie, my polished Italian leather shoes. I shook my head, slightly embarrassed. “No. Do I look like one?” The question was stupid. She and I already knew the answer.
“Yeah,” she sighed, still bothered. “You do.”
I nodded in agreement. “I used to know…” I started to say, but my words and thoughts trailed off. They slipped back into my past. Images flashed in my mind like mental postcards. Snapshots of him: Diego Delgado, at the first concert where I first heard him play guitar. In the alley, where we first kissed. On the futon in my old apartment, where we first had sex. In the hotel room in Las Vegas when he told me he couldn’t live without me. The far-too-few mornings waking up naked next to the only man I’d ever loved: the guitarist and eventual lead singer of the Jetsetters.
“I like the music,” I offered to the woman in the bar.
“Yeah,” she said. “That makes sense. It’s very retro.”
I turned and looked at the blond bartender, who was already chatting with another guy at the opposite end of the bar. “What time is it?” I asked the air around me, not really expecting anyone to answer.
The woman’s throaty voice shot back. “Time for you to go.”
I nodded and reached for my bag. “You’re absolutely right.” I stood up and slid an arm through the shoulder strap. The computer bag was heavy.
Just like the regrets you have, Justin.
The cliché made me cringe. The voice inside my head wasn’t even creative enough to conjure up a more original or poetic expression to properly capture how angry I’d been with myself ever since I’d made the impulsive decision to slip out of that hotel room in New York and never look back.
I was beyond pathetic and pomegranate martinis, and a one-hour hook up with a Swedish man-whore wouldn’t change that.
“Hey,” the wild stranger said with a sudden change of tone. “You all right? I didn’t mean to piss you off—”
I took a step toward her bar stool perch. “You were exactly what I needed.”
“Yeah,” she said, her glassy expression reflecting my lethal combination of sorrow and self-hatred. “I have that effect on people sometimes.”
I glanced back to the bartender, who was too busy flirting to notice me inching toward the exit, toward the terminal.
I wanted to thank the rock-star-in-training sitting at the bar. I thought about hugging her, but I suspected she’d either punch me in the face or laugh her ass off. Instead, I said, “I don’t want to be anyone’s layover.”
She gave a look that said she understood.
I walked away.
The terminal looked like a fluorescent lit maze. I walked against the crowd, following the signs directing me out of the airport, to the world outside, to the City of Angels. I hadn’t felt this impulsive in years—if ever. But this was something I knew I had to do.
I was too close to finding out the truth.
I was in L.A. And so was Diego.
This could be your last chance. Don’t fuck this up.
The automatic glass doors slid open. I emerged from the airport. I breathed in the balmy evening air, inhaled the overwhelming mixture of car exhaust, smog, and the not-so-distant Pacific Ocean. The rush of it all—the beeping car horns, the amplified reminders of airport parking laws, the passengers stumbling over their luggage—it invigorated me, spurning me on.
I scooted into the backseat of a cab, nearly breathless from the surge of adrenaline pulsating deep in my veins.
“Where ya headed?” the elderly driver asked.
I loosened my tie and replied, “Geneva Recording Studios…on Sunset.”
Chapter Two
Had I known I was about to meet the love of my life on that Wednesday afternoon twelve years ago, I probably would’ve dressed better f
or the occasion.
I rolled out of bed—or to be more precise, the close-to-the-floor futon—pulled on a pair of torn jeans, slipped on a baggy T-shirt, and laced up a pair of coffee-stained Converse. My hair—an overgrown mixture of toast brown and fading faux punk streaks of burgundy—had needed to be cut for weeks. I skipped shaving, but managed to brush my teeth in less than thirty seconds. I grabbed my keys, wallet, and a never-returned library copy of Giovanni’s Room I planned to read later on break and bolted out of my closet-sized fifth-floor studio apartment.
Outside, fall was just arriving in Chicago. Golden and rust-colored leaves drifted down into the street like tears shedding for the demise of summer. The air was sharp and stung with a flinching reminder that winter was looming. I shivered a little and silently cursed myself for not grabbing a hoodie or a zip-up sweatshirt to wear.
The coffee shop was only about a three-block walk, which had been a selling point when I rented the shoebox of an apartment. Three years had passed since I’d made my necessary escape from the small town in Georgia by hopping on a Greyhound bus bound for the Windy City. Since arriving, I’d never looked back. I limited phone calls home to holidays and was only reminded of my former life when a random care package would arrive from my holiday-obsessed mother. Or when a customer at the coffee shop caught a hint of my fading rural Georgia dialect when it crept into my words. They would ask me if I was from the South. My reply was usually some variation on Oh, I spent some time there.
I landed a job as a barista on the third day of my new life in Chicago. Clouds was a coffee shop independently owned by a lesbian everyone called Starsky. She was petite but fiery, a former radical feminist turned hippie turned small business owner. The only thing she loved more than coffee was her Jack Russell terrier, whom she’d appropriately christened Hutch.