"The higher the stakes, the better the game," Beau said. "Not worth playing if you don't have something to lose."
"It's fine, Lo," Johnny interjected. "I got you covered."
A hundred dollars wasn't chump change for Lola and Johnny, but she had a feeling it was for the man standing in front of her, waiting to play. His tie was silk, and his suit custom-nothing from the rack. Lola knew enough to tell the difference.
She came out from behind the bar, and Johnny passed her the darts. When she went to take them, though, he wouldn't let go. Their eyes met. He told her with a look that, just like Lola, he smelled the money on this man.
The dartboard was on the opposite side of the bar, against one of the dark, wood-paneled walls. She and Beau walked by the regulars, under the dated, medieval-style chandelier and by some yellowed Polaroids of rowdy patrons.
At the toe line, a strip of curling duct tape, Beau held one hand out. "Ladies first," he invited.
He didn't know much about her if he thought she was a lady-and didn't know much about darts if he thought that was how you decided who threw first-but Lola kept her mouth shut and took her place. Her dart just missed the triple twenty. She aimed the second one a little higher and landed it.
"Impressive," Beau said. "Where'd you learn to play?"
"Johnny taught me when we first started dating. Before long I was better than him." She threw the last one. "Some people just pick it up easier."
"Or maybe you're like me. I never take my eye off the target." His dart bounced off the wire. "Sometimes I miss, but I never miss twice." He threw again, this time hitting the center.
He got quiet for his last throw. She watched him, the constriction of his neck when he swallowed, the tautness of his jaw while he concentrated. If he was this self-possessed and powerful looking during a light-hearted game, she guessed he'd be a force everywhere else.
"Where'd you say you work?" she asked him.
"I didn't."
"What do you do?"
He threw his dart, but neither of them watched where it landed. "I'm a founding partner of a venture capital firm downtown."
"Those guys you're with don't look like colleagues."
"They own a tech startup I'm thinking of investing in. I like to take my time getting to know the people behind the project before I make any decisions."
"Isn't that kind of thing normally done in a conference room or over a golf game?"
He smiled. "Sometimes it's a golf game. Sometimes it's a trip to Vegas. For these guys, a local watering hole's where they're most comfortable."
"What about you, though?" she asked. "Are you comfortable here?"
"It's not my first choice." He looked at her closely. "But I don't mind a change in scenery now and then. And this is definitely a departure from my usual thing."
Lola took her spot at the duct tape and threw. "I can't tell if that's a compliment or not."
"It is. Take the women who work for me, for instance. They're all blonde. Even the ones with dark hair look blonde. I don't know how they do that."
"Well, this is L.A.," Lola said. She retrieved her darts from the board and passed them to him.
He didn't move right away, except to turn a dart over in his hand. "You don't see any with hair like yours."
"Mine?" Hers was more of a mane, black and thick as the day was long. Straight too-she got that from her dad. One of her few memories from before he'd left was a woman stopping them on the street to say Lola was her dad's spitting image. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"That color-pitch black. It reminds me of the night. Unpredictable. Smooth, but a little wild. No end, no beginning, like midnight. But then your skin," he continued, shaking his head as if in wonder, "white like the moon." He laughed abruptly and took his Scotch from the nearby high-top table where he'd set it. "Well. I've been known to get a little romantic when I drink, but this has to be a new level."
"It's nice," she said without thinking. Her palms were sweating. Come to think of it, the bar seemed warmer than usual. "This place isn't exactly known for romance."
"What's it known for, Lola?"
She blinked several times as she thought. "It used to be … electric. Regulars insist you could see this block from space, all lit up in neon lights. Hear it too."
"Still a lot of neon here," he said.
"True. It takes more than some neon signs to make a place electric, though. Lately people gawk like we're some kind of relic. Problem is, we're still here."