It was dark out. People roamed down the Strip's sidewalk. An electric-blue Subaru was parallel parked out front. The owner, who couldn't have been much older than eighteen, honked at her.
"We've got customers inside," she called over the noise. "Take it somewhere else."
He hit the gas again. Behind him sat a black Nissan with red rims and a matching spoiler. The driver turned his music up so loud the sidewalk vibrated.
Lola went to the curb. With a rag from her apron pocket, she waved away exhaust fumes. It took one well-placed, swift kick of her Converse to put a dent in the Subaru's fender. "I said-"
The driver gaped. "What the-?"
"Get the fuck lost!"
He jumped out and came around the hood toward her. Lola braced herself for an argument, but he stopped mid-step and looked up.
"You heard the lady," Johnny said from behind her. "Don't make me call your mommy."
"Look what she did to my car." The kid pointed at the dent. "That's a brand-new paint job."
"She's done worse to men twice your size," Johnny said. Some people by the door snickered.
"But-"
"Look, kid," Johnny said. "Something you should know about this little stretch of the Strip-we don't call the cops. We handle our own business."
The boy flipped them off with both hands but returned to his car.
Johnny squeezed Lola's shoulders. "Can't go around kicking people's cars, babe."
She glanced back at him. "He started it."
Even with affection in his brown, gold-flecked eyes, the look he gave her was louder than any words.
"Aw, come on," Lola said. "I'm not the one who threatened to handle him."
"Why do you say it like that?" He tucked a loose strand of his long hair behind his ear and half smiled. "Think I can't take a couple punks?"
"Oh, I know you could. I also know that you, Jonathan Pace, are all talk."
Johnny winked. "Not when it comes to my lady."
With a kiss on the back of her head, he left Lola standing at the curb. She slung the towel over her shoulder. The two cars took the pavement in a fury of screech and burn, and what followed was a rare moment of silence. Sunset Strip was always busy, but every year the crowd at Hey Joe thinned a little more.
Lola turned to go back inside. Everyone had cleared the sidewalk except one man, who was watching her. He stood by the door with a hip slightly cocked and his long arms straight at his sides, as if he'd been passing by and hadn't meant to stop. Even in the dark, she was struck by his movie-star good looks-chocolate-colored hair styled into a neat wave, a jaw so sharp it could cut metal. She might've guessed he'd accidentally wandered over from a film premiere on Hollywood Boulevard, except that he was too buttoned up and stiff.
"You lost?" she asked.
He straightened his back. "What gives you that impression?"
"If you're looking for happy hour," she said, pointing west noncommittally, "try a few blocks down."
"There's no happy hour here?" He checked the lit, orange sign on the roof. "At Hey Joe?"
"Not the kind you're looking for."
He touched the perfectly done red knot of his tie. "It's the suit, isn't it? I look out of place."
She moved closer, pulled by the deep lull of his voice. The LED beer logos in the window turned the lingering smoke multi-colored. His deep-set eyes were dark, his jaw abrupt in all its angles. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. His attractiveness sank its teeth in her, more obvious with every passing second. "Not just the suit."
"What then?" He ran his fingers through his stiff, rust-colored hair. He had so much of it that the gesture made some strands stand on end. "That better?"
It was that he was too much-his green, almond-shaped, watchful eyes, and his tall, straight back. He didn't match the carefree laughs and imperfect postures of the people inside the bar. He turned them into commoners, with their round faces, round eyes, round bellies. It was that until that moment, she'd thought she knew what it meant to get butterflies.
But she couldn't say those things. "We just don't see a lot of suits at this end."
"You work here?" he asked.
Lola stuck her hands in the pockets of her apron. "Not like I wear this thing to make a fashion statement."
His loud laugh almost startled her. When he stopped, it echoed. He looked from her neck down, everywhere and all at once, as if he might reach out and touch her. His perusal made her feel exposed, and she was glad her apron subdued the cropped T-shirt and leather pants underneath it.