"You seem depressed tonight," said Angelina Hadley, the waitress whose pants Jake had been trying to charm off ever since his parking lot guitar stunt.
"I've been flirting with you like mad every time I come back here and haven't gotten a single return flirt," she added, planting herself beside him, close enough that her leg touched his.
Angie, as everyone called her, was twenty-two and an aspiring actress with the kind of body directors would kill for and the kind of face that kept her stuck doing body-double work and late-night commercials. Not ugly, not even close, but Hollywood brutalised women for far less than a longish nose, a stubborn mole, and some faint acne scars.
"Sorry," Jake said, sliding her dirty dishes into the industrial sink. "Got a lot on my mind lately."
"Pondering life again, huh?" she teased, her fingers already creeping to the back of his neck, giving it a gentle, practised caress.
He tilted his head back and let her. "Don't forget unfair," he said. "Life's not just hard, it's unfair."
"That too," she agreed, her other hand joining in, her warmth soothing his tension.
It wasn't until that parking lot night, when he played for a handful of coworkers with nothing but an old acoustic and a beer buzz, that she'd started to take him seriously. He'd seen it in her eyes. Music had a way of doing that to people, even here in L.A.
"You want to talk about what's eating you?" she asked.
He gave a vague shrug. "It's about our recording contract. Long story."
"You want to know something?" she said, her lips close to his ear now.
"What's that?"
"I didn't believe you really had a record deal until that night."
Jake turned to her. "Really?"
"Don't get me wrong — this city is full of phonies. Everyone here has a screenplay, or a role, or a demo. But when you sang… oh my God. You really are good. Like, really good. That night you sounded like somebody."
He smiled faintly at that.
"And now you're stuck here washing dishes with me. That's the real L.A.," she said, shaking her head.
They both laughed, though it wasn't exactly funny.
"So," she said, slapping him playfully on the butt. "What're you doing after work tonight?"
"Thought I'd drink my last beer and go to bed," he said.
"That sounds pathetic," she grinned. "Or… you could come to my place. I've got a joint. Pretty good shit too."
He raised an eyebrow at her, finally letting himself grin. "Sounds like a date."
Her apartment off Santa Monica was small, a little nicer than his dump, with feminine touches and actual furniture. The LAPD probably didn't even swing by here daily.
They sat on her couch, Saturday Night Live playing low on the TV as she lit the joint. It was potent, some kind of Humboldt Skunkbud — and by the time it was down to a roach, Jake felt like he was floating.
"When are you gonna sing for us again?" Angie asked, staring dreamily at a framed Ansel Adams photo.
"Can't," he said, his eyes on her legs now. The way her waitress skirt had ridden up when she leaned back… well, it was distracting.
"Why not?" she murmured, turning her gaze back to him.
He chuckled faintly. "Broke my contract singing in that parking lot. Apparently, National Records thinks a few drunk waiters and cooks count as an unauthorised concert."
"That's insane," she said, sliding closer, her thigh pressed against his now.
"They even have a spy at the restaurant to keep tabs on me," he added darkly.
"Tom," she said immediately. "Of course. He and Marcus practically live in the backroom together."
Jake blinked at her, then laughed. "Makes sense."
"This whole town's like that," she said. "Spies, backroom deals, fake smiles. Welcome to Hollywood."
"Where even the dishwashers get screwed," he quipped.
She laughed with him, and the sound softened something in him.
A moment later, she shifted on the couch so her leg was draped over his. Her hand slid to his cheek, caressing him. And then, without asking, she kissed him.
It started soft hesitant but grew quickly, her tongue teasing past his lips. She tasted like mint gum and skunkbud and sin.
Her hands slipped into his hair as his slid over her back, then down to her thigh.
She broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips, "First date, first base. That's the rule."
He groaned into her mouth. "No exceptions?"
"No exceptions," she murmured, her fingers scratching lightly at his neck.
So they stayed at first base for a long, hazy hour. Kissing, hands roaming just far enough but not quite as far as he wanted. When they finally broke apart, both flushed and breathless, she smirked at him.
"That was fun," she said. "If you're nice, maybe second base next time."
He laughed softly. "I'll be on my best behaviour."
They did see each other again, the next night, and then again, and again.
The second date led to second base, the third to something beyond it. By the fourth, they didn't even pretend to make rules anymore.
And yet, somehow, it wasn't just about the release anymore.
They found themselves calling just to talk. Meeting up just to escape the noise of the city together. Even when they weren't touching, she made him feel… seen.
Somewhere between the studio's bullshit and her failed auditions, they'd gone from stress relief to something real. Something that scared him just a little.
But for now, as her laughter echoed in his ear and her fingers tangled in his hair again, Jake decided he didn't care what it was.