“Dude, do you have any sunglasses I could borrow?” I asked, stuffing the personal items the jail had returned to me back into their usual pockets—phone, wallet, keys. I’d left my handful of coins in the bin they’d kept everything in. County could have it as a little token of my appreciation.
Bryan reached into his glove box as he navigated the car onto the busy LA freeway. “Here, take these. They’re scratched but they’ll do. Where are your sunglasses?”
I shrugged. “One of the guards probably stole them. Wanted a little souvenir of Dirty Bandit. Those fuckers were all over me, wanting autographs and photos. I didn’t get a wink of sleep.”
But at least they’d given me my own jail cell.
For better or for worse, the guys at County knew me. And they’d never forget me, because after every ‘visit,’ I sent those bastards a case of whiskey.
Were they allowed to accept gifts like that? Hell no.
But the guards did whatever the fuck they wanted. Don’t kid yourself. Those places were as lawless as the streets.
I looked out the car window and laughed. What a fucking contrast. From dirty cinder block walls, piss and blood-stained mattresses, and open-air shitters, to one of the most expensive Mercedes you could buy, flying down the road in quiet luxury, leaving slower cars in our dust.
It was like home after a shitty vacation. That was why I loved these cars, these pods of escapism. I had two of them myself.
I hadn’t set out to get two cars. I had no interest in being one of those douchebags who owns cars just to own them. Most of the time I was transported around by a driver anyway.
But when my Benz was in the shop for a couple days and I wanted to take a drive up the coast, I bought another one. Just like the first.
Different color, though.
That was about as douchebaggy as I got. Well, except for the fighting. I fought a lot. I didn’t try to. It was like it sought me out. But being famous was not an invitation for every creep in town to touch me, talk to me, or photograph me.
And it didn’t help that I had a big goddamn mouth.
I just wanted to be left alone. I had people coming at me all day, wanting something—a new and better song, a public appearance, an endorsement. Face time to make them feel important. But when the paparazzi stepped over the line, well, all bets were off. Unfortunately, my demands for privacy had bought me free overnights in jail twice this year.
Twice, so far.
Would there be more? Probably.
“I’m beginning to think you like jail food,” Bryan said.
“Fuck off. You know I don’t eat when I’m in County. Speaking of which, I’m starving. Will you swing by Nobu so I can get some sushi?”
Bryan steered the car toward the exit for West Hollywood. “All right. They’re not open yet, though.”
“Just go. They’ll open.”
We arrived to locked doors. As expected.
Yeah, no one served lunch at ten a.m. But I’d get in.
I always did.
Peering through the window into the dark restaurant, I knocked. There was movement in the kitchen, probably staff getting the place ready for the day. But as expected, no one came to the door. I knocked one more time, and when no one answered, I looked their number up on my phone.
“Nobu,” an efficient voice said.
“Um, hey, this is Stone from Dirty Bandit. I’m out front. Can you let me in for a little lunch?”
The phone answerer hesitated. I knew she wanted to blow me off. They weren’t ready for customers yet, and waiting on Bryan and me would throw off their morning prep.
If I’d heard it once, I’d heard it a hundred times.
But damn. I was really jonesing for Nobu. “Look, I’ll pay twice the price. I’m just really craving Japanese. I had a rough night.”
I checked my wallet, which was empty. It was always empty. That was what Bryan was for.
There was a sigh, and footsteps from inside grew nearer. Then the front door flew open. A small woman looked up and down the sidewalk and shooed us in before anyone else made the mistake of asking them to serve lunch two hours early. She was showing us to a table in a private-ish corner when the manager came flying out.
“Yo. Stone. Good to see you.”
We did that guy half-shake, half-hug thing. He ignored Bryan.
People who worked for celebrities were used to being treated as if they were invisible. But if they were smart, they didn’t let it bother them. They got paid a shit-ton of money to make up for the petty humiliation of living in somebody’s shadow.
“Hey, thanks for letting us in. I just spent the night in County, and now I’m dying for something good to eat.”
The manager smiled like he heard this story every day. “Dude. You want the usual?”
I nodded and gestured toward Bryan. “You know it. Bryan?”
“Same,” he said, not looking up from his phone.
“Oh, and an Asahi Super Dry. Actually, two,” I called after him.
Bryan rolled his eyes. “Really? Beer at ten a.m.?”
I started chowing on a bowl of edamame. “Whatever. Get a fucking Shirley Temple, if you prefer.”
Bryan, bless his goddamn heart, had been with us since the beginning. And I mean the real beginning, back when we had to lug our own shit around and play in empty dive bars.
Thank god that period of our lives had been short-lived. It fucking sucked.
And now, truth be told, I couldn’t imagine life without the man, as much as he was a major pain in my ass. But that’s what we paid him for.
Like bailing me out of jail.
“So what happened?” he asked.
Here it comes.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, popping uni in my mouth. Fun fact. Uni were sea urchin testicles.
I didn’t care. They were delicious.
He set his chopsticks down. “You know what I mean.”
He was right. I did.
“To tell the truth, I don’t really remember. I know there was a fight. It said so right on my release paperwork from County, and my hitting hand hurts like a bitch. Other than that, I’m not entirely sure.”
“Fine,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Let me refresh your shitty memory. You started a bar brawl with someone who bumped into you when you were likely already three sheets to the wind. Problem is, that somebody works for your record label.”
I waved my hand at the waiter, who was delivering more food. I was full. And I wanted to get the hell away from Bryan. I hated when he got on his bitch soapbox.
“You know what? People are goddamn crybabies. All of them.”
I stood, signaling that lunch was over and that Bryan could pay.
Well, he wasn’t really paying. He was using one of the band’s credit cards.
Dude had just gotten a free lunch on me.
Chapter 5
STONE
Don’t you know, the second we walked out of Nobu, some punk paparazzi jumped in front of me and snapped a pic. I fucking hated that. But because I’d just gotten out of the slammer and Bryan was with me, I kept my mouth shut and my head down. I stuffed my hands in my pockets to control my swinging fists.
“Where to?” Bryan asked when we were back in the quiet calm of his car.
I looked out the window. “Ennis’s.”