“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Lola.”
“Oh, that’s hot,” he says, intending me to hear it this time. I roll my eyes, hoping he’ll stop talking. It’s harder to imagine he’s Adrian when he keeps saying stupid crap like that. A few car-lengths away from where my bike is parked there are a whole bunch more that say ‘Hells Angels’ on them. I grab one of the Hells Angels helmets and give it to Stan.
“Put this on,” I say. He holds it in front of him like it’s made of poison.
“You’re stealing this? From Hells Angels? You can’t steal from Hells Angels man…they’ll like hunt us down and kill us…literally.” I sigh, grab him again, and kiss him, pushing my tongue down his throat, letting my fingers linger across the front of his jeans. It feels unnatural to do it. I have to force it. I don’t really want to do anything with him. In fact, I feel, with every fiber of my being, like flinging him away from me. But I’ve gotten it into my head now that being with someone else may be the only way to get over Adrian, the only way to make Adrian my past instead of my everything. I don’t know why he still has that power over me, but he does, and I need to kill it and move on.
“Put. It. On.” I say. This time he does. I’m not worried about Stan’s safety, of course, but I am worried about getting stopped by cops. I have plans of getting over Adrian, not a bloodbath in the streets of Hollywood. Although both sound tempting, truth be told. Stealing a helmet so that I don’t get pulled over makes perfect sense to me.
“Where do you live?” I ask.
“Can’t we go to your place?” he says, eyeing the Hells Angels bikes and clearly uncomfortable in the helmet.
“No. My place is no good,” I say. I don’t add, ‘because I don’t want to have to clean up after myself if things go south’. Stan’s nervousness about the proximity of the Hells Angels bikes makes him cave and he gives me his address. I put my own helmet on and we head off. Stan keeps trying to grope me as we ride, and I think about breaking one of his fingers to get him to cut it out, but I figure, no matter how many times I shove my tongue down his throat, that will probably send him running. I smack his hand away when we get off the bike and he nurses it like an injured puppy, but leaves me alone until we get inside. He lives in a lame studio apartment, and probably drives a BMW. Everybody in L.A. has a great car – it’s like a rule or something. There’s an old, dingy futon on the far wall and a bathroom in the back. The place barely has furniture, mostly things substituting for other things; a milk crate operating as a stool to sit on, a concrete block as a side table. I wrinkle up my nose and look at Stan.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an actor,” he starts. “Starbucks,” he finishes. I nod, the picture becoming clear.
“What kind of car do you have?”
“A Lexus.”
“Of course you do,” I look away so he can’t see me roll my eyes.
“You want a drink?” he asks, hovering by the fridge insecurely.
“No. Come here,” I say. He obeys. “Turn off the light,” I say when he gets to me. He looks more like Adrian in the dark. If I can pretend he’s Adrian maybe I can just get through this. Quick and painless and onto the next. He reaches for the wall and hits the light switch, while I pull the futon into a flat position.
“You just get right to it, huh?” he says, watching me with the futon.
“Pretty much,” I say, pushing him down onto the mattress. He falls roughly. I straddle him and tear his shirt off. Stan looks at the fabric a little strangely, laying in my hands in shreds.
“Hey-”
“Shhh,” I say and begin kissing him again. He shuts up pretty easily. I close my eyes and get both of our pants off with a little help from him. Underneath me he no longer feels like Adrian, even with my eyes clenched shut. His hips are too wide, his shoulders too narrow, his skin not as smooth, and when I peek, he’s far too pale in the streetlight glow from outside. I suddenly feel nauseous. It overtakes me and the room spins. Stan fusses below me.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
I swing my leg over him and slide off his body, perching myself on the edge of the futon, my head between my legs. Stan reaches out, part-comfort, part-impatience, pulling some hair back from my face. I smack him away.
“Hey!” he says, massaging his hand. “You’re the one who’s been driving this ship, babe.” His words cut hard. They’re a reminder that I was in charge and am now also the one chickening out. I think about trying again with Innuendo Idiot Stan but the room rolls and I nearly lose my last meal at the thought of it. The scent of him in the room, the remaining taste of him in my mouth suddenly seem abhorrent. “So, is this gonna happen or not?” he sighs. My fists clench at the thick mattress and something snaps in me. I look at him sideways, my eyes narrow slits.