I learned a thing or two from my dad about how to drive fast cars. I can tell immediately that Julian is an accomplished driver. He handles the corners expertly, breaking before he enters the turn, feathering the gas lightly through each curve to keep the car level and compensate for any unevenness in the pavement, and accelerating out into the straightaways. Not that there are many straights up in the Hills.
I’m whipped from side to side in my seat as Julian takes turn after turn with total confidence. It’s like being on a roller coaster at Magic Mountain. It feels more dangerous than it actually is because Julian knows the road and the limits of his car. If he didn’t, I’d tell him to slow the fuck down or let me drive. But there’s no need.
I enjoy the hard acceleration of the Ferrari’s deceptively smooth power, and the g-forces of the turns.
I love every second of it.
I’m kind of surprised, actually. I expected Julian to be a more sedate driver. But I think his generally restrained mannerisms camouflage the beast beneath. I guess he’s kind of like the Ferrari that he drives. Very expensive looking with clean seductive lines and everything perfectly maintained. There’s nothing rough around the edges or brutish about an expensive Ferrari, but it’s undeniably a high performance race car.
Julian is the same way.
He wears an expensive polo shirt and cargo shorts with leather boat shoes that reveal his tan muscled legs. His defined legs flex as his feet work the gas and brake. I’m somewhat surprised to see him in shorts. Maybe he’s not conservative at all, just upscale, like everything he owns.
His fingernails are neatly manicured and have the sheen of clear matte polish. His golden blond hair is perfect, as always. Just a hint of disarray, but too styled to be called messy.
His face is hard and focused as he drives, eyes narrowed, a slight tension and menace around his mouth as he handles the corners of the road. His profile looks hand carved by angels or the god of beauty or something. If Aphrodite had a brother, he’d look like Julian.
Yeah, Julian is a total Ferrari.
Which is why I’m having a difficult time not thinking about orgasms sitting inside his Ferrari. All the acceleration and high intensity turns are mixing around my tummy and all the muscles in my pelvis pleasantly. Having a hot guy like Julian sitting next to me is the icing on the cake. I’ll keep that information to myself for now.
Ms. Sensible reminds me that as hot as Julian is, I’d rather explore a business relationship with him. If he can get me more session work as a guitarist for a thousand bucks an hour, my money problems will be solved. I need to keep things between us strictly professional.
The fingered muscles of Julian’s forearms dance as he works the steering wheel around a particularly tight corner.
I feel the rear end of the Ferrari slip loose at the apex of the turn. Julian power-slides the car out to the edge of the pavement. We pass within inches of rolling over the side of a steep drop off into someone’s immense backyard garden. Despite the loss of traction, Julian steers confidently into the skid and maintains control throughout the turn, narrowly avoiding disaster. We whip out the end of the curve and accelerate down the road.
The thrill of it tightens all the muscles in my pelvis with electrified excitement.
Business.
It’s all about business.
I will act totally professional with Julian at all times.
But I can think all the dirty thoughts I want.
At the bottom of the road, the Ferrari levels out and we turn onto Sunset Boulevard. Julian’s driving relaxes. There’s too much traffic and too many stoplights for a car like a Ferrari. Once again, the car and Julian are caged animals biding their time before the next chase.
I ask, “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise,” he says mischievously.
“Let me guess. There’s going to be waiters with thin mustaches wearing penguin suits and the maitre’d is snooty and French and you’re going to slip him a Benjamin so we get a good seat.”
“Something like that,” Julian chuckles.
We drive for awhile down Highland, until we’re in the Melrose area. Julian stops and signals left. We’re about to turn into a parking lot for either a Yum Yum Donuts in a strip mall or the 76 gas station across from it.
We can’t be having doughnuts for dinner. I ask, “Do you need to get gas?”
“No,” he says.
I ask skeptically, “Are we having doughnuts for dinner?”
Julian arches an eyebrow at me. “Is that a problem?”
“No! I just didn’t peg you as the doughnuts for dinner type.”
Julian laughs. When there’s an opening in traffic he turns into the strip mall parking lot. We drive slowly past Yum Yum.
“No doughnuts?” I whine comically. “I was all set to have a maple bar for dinner!”
Julian grins, “If you’re still hungry after, we’ll get maple bars.”
“Yay!” I clap like a little girl.
We drive past a dry cleaners, then Tasty Thai. I can do Thai. I bet I could even buy dinner. Tasty Thai looks like the kind of place where we can both eat for less then twelve bucks including tip.
Instead, we park in front of Raffallo’s Pizza.
The sign for Raffallo’s is red letters on a yellow field, surrounded by light bulbs. The sign has a cheesy 1970s Vegas quality I like and also says, “ITALIAN FOODS. EAT HERE OR TO GO. BEER & WINE.” There’s a big yellow arrow shaped sign hanging from the overhang that says OPEN and it points at the front door. This is totally my kind of place.
I hop out of the car before Julian can get the door for me.
He stands beside me, already around the car, and says, “I was going to get your door for you.” He looks disappointed, almost like a junior high school kid on his first date ever.
“Oh! Sorry. Do you want me to get back in the car?”
He smiles warmly. “No, but promise me you’ll let me get the door to the restaurant.”
“Promise,” I grin.
We walk to the front door and I stop so he can open it for me.
“After you,” he opens the door and motions inside.
“Thank you, sir.” I walk into the pizza joint and it’s nothing like what I was expecting. No red and white checked table cloths or neon beer signs or old arcade games in the corner. In fact, it’s not even a pizza joint. It’s a trendy restaurant. Marble floors, designer decor, strangely shaped squarish barstools, all manner of pots and pans hanging over the bar and the open kitchen area behind it. A bunch of chefs busily prepare food.
When they see us, the cooks in the kitchen all yell out, “Bonsoir!”
I’m not quite sure what to do, so I wave bashfully at them.
Julian smiles, “Welcome to Trois Mec. I had to call in a favor to get tickets only two days in advance.”
“Tickets?” I blurt. “What kind of restaurant sells tickets?”
“This one,” he grins.
The atmosphere is raucous and casual. The sound system pumps out French hip hop. I can’t understand the lyrics, but I like the strange style of the music. None of the customers are dressed up.
A handsome guy behind the bar with a thick French accent and lots of tattoos chats with one of the customers sitting on a barstool.
Julian says, “That’s Ludo Lefebvre behind the counter. He owns the place. If you watch any cooking shows, you’ve probably seen him on TV.”
I don’t, but I nod, then realize that Ludo is chatting with Jake Gyllenhaal. I almost say something, but I learned awhile ago that it’s not cool to gawk at celebrities if you live in L.A. It’s not like I see celebrities every day, so it’s kind of a big deal, but I play it down with a shrug. But it’s Jake frickin’ Gyllenhaal! I say nothing.
Ludo notices us and waves at Julian. In a thick French accent, he hollers, “Julian! Good to see you!”
Julian cocks a smile at Ludo and salutes him with two fingers.
One of the waiters seats us at a
corner table. My menu has no prices on it. I ask Julian, “Does yours have prices?”
“No. It’s a set menu for everyone.”
“I don’t get to pick?”
“Nope. But we get everything listed on the menu.”
“Everything? I’m gonna be stuffed! You’re going to have to rent a truck to drive me home!”
“Don’t worry,” he grins, “the portions are reasonably sized. This isn’t a pig trough.”
I read over the menu. The starter snacks include tangy buckwheat popcorn, sushi rice with salt cod cream (whatever that is, but I know I like cream) and fennel fronds, and cubed garlic bread. For appetizers, it looks like we get raw beef with grilled yogurt, fermented black walnut, and caramelized eggplant. I look up from my menu and grin, “I haven’t eaten anything and already my mouth is watering! I’ve never heard of half the stuff on here. It all sounds delicious.”
“It is,” Julian smiles.
We’ll also be served a second appetizer of grilled cabbage with creamy miso flan and fennel pollen. Pollen? Isn’t that for bees? Well, I guess if bees like it, it must be good, because they make honey with it. For the first main course, we get potato pulp, brown butter, bonito flakes, onion soubise, and salers.
“Hey, Julian,” I say, “what’s potato pulp? It’s not like what you get in O.J., is it?”
“No,” he smiles. “It’s puréed. Like a blended mashed potato, but creamy and quite delicious.”
“And salers?”
“A kind of French cheese. You’ll like it.”
I nod. Cheese is good. The other course is duck with endive, pear, wild juniper berries, and candied oranges. Mmmm, fruit with meat. And for dessert, two courses. You can never have too much dessert. The first is apple butter, creme de brie, and toasted barley. The second is roasted sunchoke ice cream choux and fermented black garlic caramels.
I ask, “What’s sunchoke ice cream choux?” I pronounce it “chooks.”
Julian arches an eyebrow.
I frown, “Sorry, I don’t know how to say shit in French. Well, I’ve heard it’s merde, but that’s as far as my French goes.” I wink and stick my tongue out at him.
He smiles and says, “A sunchoke is a variety of artichoke. They’re quite good. Choux—” he says it like the word chew, “—is a dessert pastry. Have you ever had profiteroles or croquembouches?” His French accent is way better than mine.
“No,” I shake my head.
“How about an éclair?”
“Nope.” I’m feeling a bit too white trash at the moment. Not that I am white trash. My neighbors growing up were white trash, but they were just my neighbors. I don’t think that makes me white trash. Besides, now I live in L.A., which means I’m a starving musician, but not a white trash starving musician. There’s a difference. Anyway, I don’t think L.A. has white trash. They can’t afford to live here.
Julian asks, “Have you ever had a cruller?”
“Oh yeah. Totally. I was thinking about getting one at Yum Yum. The chocolate ones are my favorite. I don’t know French, but I know doughnuts,” I wink.
“Touché,” he grins. “That’s French for touch, by the way.” He reaches across the little table and picks up my hand in both of his. He strokes the backs of my fingers gently with his thumbs.
I’m thinking about stiff golden barreled pens all over again!
Woo! Heat! Where’s my glass of ice water? I so need one right now. I think my face is broiling and my toes are definitely tingling.
Julian aims his blazing green eyes at me, “Ice cream choux is a full scoop of creamy… delicious… sunchoke ice cream,” he draws out the words creamy and delicious seductively, “squeezed… between… two layers of plump pastry…”
Gosh, I don’t know why, but the way he talks about ice cream sounds a lot like sex talk to me. He makes plump pastry sound like either my legs or my boobs, and we all know what the creamy part refers to. I need to fan my face, but won’t because it’ll probably encourage Julian to continue with his sexy food talk. It sounds corny, I know, but Julian is so handsome and so sincere and his eyes so damn sparkling, I’m totally falling for his hot buttered corn cob. I mean bull shit.
Julian did say when he first asked me out that this was a date, so I can’t blame him for trying. But I was hoping to keep things more on a friends level, despite my flirting earlier when he waved his stiff golden fountain pen in my face.
I shouldn’t have opened that door, I guess.
Ms. Sensible reminds me to be careful I don’t open too many doors too quickly. Johnny should’ve warned me that opening doors can be dangerous.
Luckily for me, the waiter arrives with the first course, “Monsieur?” the waiter prompts. There’s no place for the food with Julian holding my hands across the table.
Julian casually releases my fingers from his warm hands. I withdraw reluctantly, making room for the food. The waiter sets our appetizers down.
Everything looks and smells delicious. My mouth waters, wet with anticipation. I’m already having a foodgasm.
By the way, only my mouth is wet, because it’s only anticipating food, and my gasm is strictly related to eating. But I can’t wait to taste everything. And I’m totally not talking about eating or tasting anything stiff and golden.
Just the food.
Me and Julian dig in to the tangy buckwheat popcorn, popping morsels into our mouths.
Needless to say, the food is every bit as delicious as it sounded on the menu. So many plates come to the table, my entire dinner conversation with Julian seems to revolve around what we’re eating and how yummy everything tastes. Julian says something interesting about all of it. He really knows his food. The portions are just the right size so I don’t feel bloated by the time I pop my fermented black garlic caramel into my mouth at the end of the meal.
“Wow!” I beam while chewing, “that was all incredible.” I giggle and hold my fingers in front of my mouth, realizing I was chewing while talking. Manners aren’t usually my thing, but I’m doing my best.
Julian smiles, “I thought you’d like it.”
Still chewing on my caramel, I grin, “Totally.”
“If you still want,” he grins, “we can always get crullers and maple bars from Yum Yum.”
I shake my head, giggling, “I’m way too stuffed! But thank you, Julian. You totally know how to treat a lady.”
“Dinner and doughnuts,” he chuckles and winks, “works every time.”
Chapter 54
KELLAN
“Anybody else waiting outside?” I ask Dubs.
Dubs sits on a chair in the corner of his hot garage, which doubles as a rehearsal space for his Reggae band, The Revelers.
We’ve been auditioning guitar and bass players all day. They’ve all sucked for one reason or another.
“Hold up,” Dubs stands, “I’ll check the front.” He wears a skin tight light blue t-shirt with a peace symbol on it and a floppy knit reggae cap with a brim. The cap is black and trimmed with green, gold, and red.
“Dude,” I chuckle, “aren’t you hot in that fucking cap? Your garage is an oven.”
“Ain’t you heard, K-dawg? No amount of heat gonna make me lose my cool.”
I roll my eyes.
He smirks and struts past me, pimp style, “That’s right.”
“That’s wrong, bro,” I holler as he climbs the two steps into the house.
My buddy Joaquin Delacruz is filling in on drums. He sits behind the drum kit normally used by Dubs’ Reggae drummer. It’s only a five piece kit, but Joaquin plays it like it’s eleven. The kit doesn’t even have a double bass pedal, but Joaquin has been machine gunning the kick drum with one foot all afternoon.
Soft light from the fading day drifts through a single window. The garage is dim and hot from baking under the L.A. sun all afternoon. The walls are covered with hanging oriental rugs for sound baffling, Bob Marley posters, a pot poster featuring a big black marijuana leaf superimposed over green, gold, and red
stripes, and a six-foot cloth Jamaican flag. The grill of Dubs’ gigantic vintage 2x15 bass speaker cabinet in the corner is painted green, gold and red. Several bongs of various sizes sit atop the amplifiers. Two lava lamps undulate and glow in opposing corners.
I turn to Joaquin, who is shirtless, brown skinned, wears ratty skater shorts, and glistens with sweat. He’s covered in tattoos that go all the way up his neck. He also has zero percent body fat because even when he’s not playing drums, he’s constantly fidgeting.
Joaquin grew up in East L.A, which he calls East Los. He’s easily the most amazing drummer I’ve ever played with. He’s the 25 year-old Mexican skate punk version of Neal Peart from RUSH. He pays his rent doing session work for studios all over L.A. It keeps him super busy. But we’re always talking about forming our own band. If we can find the right mix of people. In all the time I’ve known him, we never have. Good band chemistry is hard to find.
I ask, “Joa, what’d you think of the last guy?”
Joaquin smears a white towel across his face then drapes it over the drum rack pipe. He says in his thick East Los accent, “You mean that chingada Dave Mustaine wannabe with the Dimebag purple beard, homes?”
“Yeah."
“I think he wannabe hittin’ the woodshed and practicing more before he goes on any more auditions. You shoulda offered him guitar lessons, ése.”
Sarcastically, I say, “Did he look like he could afford guitar lessons?”
“Vato couldn’t afford new strings. He was missing the high E on his V.” Joaquin is referring to the Jackson Flying V the guy was playing.
I huff a big sigh, “How many people have auditioned so far?”
“Six.”
“Shit, is that all? It feels like sixty, they’ve all been so bad. I can’t believe the people I found online are the same ones who played today. None of them are nearly as good as their demos.”
“Probably stole them from other musicians, homes,” Joaquin offers.
“No doubt.”
Dubs walks into the garage followed by a beautiful punk rocker girl with long neon pink hair. She carries a beat up ESP guitar case in one hand and a small Crate practice amp in the other. She can’t be more than nineteen. She has a nose ring, an eyebrow ring, and a stud poking out below her lower lip. Her ripped up Wild Child T-shirt strains over an amazing rack. The shirt is only a half shirt and it reveals a flat stomach. Her belt is made of bullets, she wears skin tight red plaid pants, and her boots are Doc Martens. She’s pretty damn hot.
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