Johnny shrugged and leaned his hip against the counter. “The club went pay for play in the eighties when Mitch took over. Bands didn’t like that, and we lost our cred. Fans followed the music elsewhere.”
“How’s business now?” Beau asked.
“It’s all right. We get acts in here some weekends, but nothing to write home about.”
Beau shrugged. “You never know. These days, it’s all about the comeback.”
“That would be great, but it’s not pulling in half of what it used to,” Johnny said, shaking his head. “Can’t afford to keep the doors open.”
Beau glanced up around the bar. “Well, considering its history, and if it’s still got some name recognition, he should have no problem selling the place.”
“That’s the plan. Sell or shut it down.”
“Johnny,” Lola warned.
“Secret’s practically out, babe.” Johnny looked at Quartz and the other guys. “It’s just those dummies down there who know nothing about anything.”
“I take it they won’t be too thrilled,” Beau said.
“Some of them have been coming here since opening day,” Johnny said. “No, they won’t like it.”
“That’s a shame.” Beau picked up his drink. “I should get back to work. If you’ll excuse me.”
He left Johnny and Lola to get a table with the other two men.
“What’re you thinking?” Johnny asked, nudging Lola’s shin with his shoe.
She looked from Beau’s table back to Johnny. “Just that it’s been a while since I heard you talk about music like that. When’s the last time you and I went to a real concert?”
Johnny closed one eye as he thought. “Years. Concerts usually happen at night. We don’t get a lot of nights off together.”
“We should ask Mitch for one soon. They can survive one night without either of us.”
Johnny kissed Lola on the forehead. “I would, but he’s got a lot on his plate right now. Let’s see how things work out these next few weeks.”
“Oh, I remember the last time we went to a show that wasn’t here,” Lola said. “Beastie Boys, Hollywood Bowl.” She smiled as the memory played out on Johnny’s face. “And then…”
“That’s right.” He paused. “The night we had that huge argument.”
Lola nodded and leaned toward him. “Which then became the night of the drunken angry sex.” Her heart kicked up a notch. “What would you say to an encore? A bottle of tequila, a show and you getting lucky?”
“An encore? We must not be thinking of the same night,” Johnny said. “We both drank way too much. I don’t even remember what we fought about, just that a table lamp paid the price.”
“Me neither, but I do remember one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had,” Lola said. Her ass throbbed. It wasn’t the only time Johnny had spanked her, but it was the first and last time he’d done it like he’d meant it. It’d been like sleeping with a stranger after having the same partner for years.
Johnny shook his head. “I don’t understand. You want us to have another blowout fight?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Not fight. I just think a night out could be good for us.”
“That’s not something I want to recreate,” he said, turning away. “But I promise, once things get sorted here, we’ll do something for ourselves.”
Lola frowned. That night had always stuck with her in a deranged, inexplicable way. There’d been something crackling in the air. She’d assumed the same was true for Johnny, but apparently he’d experienced something else—something entirely different.
Beau was heading back toward the bar, a slight swagger in his step. He didn’t look as though he’d hesitate a moment before delivering a hard slap on her rear end. Lola’s breath caught.
“We’ll take another round,” he said, leaning his elbows on the bar. “Might as well keep them coming.”
Lola grabbed a glass before Johnny could, eager for the distraction.
“You guys play?” Beau asked. He gestured to a cup of darts against the back wall.
“Yep,” Johnny said. “My girl’s queen of the bull’s eye.”
“Is she?” Beau grinned. “Up for a game, Lola?”
“Why don’t you play with one of your friends?” she asked. She handed Beau his drink and pointed at the end of the bar. “Or the locals will take anyone on. When they’re drunk enough, you can clean them out.”
Beau lifted his glass to his mouth, shaking his head. “No challenge in that. I only go up against those who play to win.”
Johnny wiped his hands on a rag and nodded over at Lola. “Then you want this one. Got a bit of a competitive streak.”
Lola was wary about spending too much time around Beau. They were already hedging on dangerous territory. “Sorry, but I’ve got customers.”
“It’s all right, go ahead,” Johnny said, taking the drink in Lola’s hand. “I’ll get these to the table.”
She hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Why not? Go. Have fun.”
She shrugged. “Okay. If the boss says so.”
“If you think I believe I’m really your boss, you’re fooling yourself,” he joked. “We both know it’s just a title.”
She laughed but stopped abruptly at the way Beau stared at her—as though he’d forgotten Johnny was even there.
“What should we play for?” she asked. She stuck a hand in her apron, pulled out a few dollars she’d made in tips and showed them to him. “It’s all I’ve got on me.”
“I’m thinking slightly more than that,” he said.
“Like what?” she asked.
“How about a hundred bucks?”
“That’s a little steep. I’m confident, but I’m not stupid.”
“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.”
“Gawkers aren’t good for business?”
“Not if they aren’t spending. I keep telling Mitch we need to become relevant again, because we’re really lacking new business. And when the tourists forget about us, we’re in trouble.” She took another turn. “So how come you don’t know all this if you grew up in Los Angeles?”
“I know some of it. I’ve just never been big on nightlife.”
“Why not?”
“I work a lot. In my twenties I was an employee by day and an entrepreneur by night.”
“Building your firm? What’s it called?”
“Bolt Ventures, but no, I’m referring to my first company,” he said. “I went through a lot during those years, but it eventually paid off.”
“Do you have hobbies?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. Before he could answer, she added, “Outside of work.”
He blew out a laugh. “Some,” he said. “Mostly it’s just work, though.”
“God, you must love what you do,” she said and smiled. “I’m all for working hard, but it’s nothing without some fun.”
“Don’t worry,” he said evenly. “Because I work hard, I get to have fun too.”
Her smile wavered wondering how a guy like Beau had fun. Johnny played guitar, but only for himself. A rock band in high school was the last time he’d performed publicly. Otherwise it was video games or tinkering with cars and bikes at the auto shop where his best friend was a mechanic.
Beau, on the other hand, wouldn’t play an instrument. Not the guitar, anyway. She couldn’t picture him with a gaming controller or a wrench in his hand either. He was tightly wound. If a man like him didn’t loosen up once in a while, he’d snap.
Johnny didn’t stress out often, but even he needed to unwind. A couple years back, Hey Joe’s alcohol order had gotten mixed up right before the only bartender on duty called and quit. “At least he called,” Lola had said, but Johnny wouldn’t hear it. His parents had moved to Florida days before, and Lola’s car—long gone, now—wouldn’t start. Johnny’s eyebrows had been so low on his forehead, she’d worried he’d scare off customers. With five minutes to open, Lola had taken him in the back and given him the blowjob of his life. He’d been fine after that.
Lola squinted at Beau. It’d been years since she’d thought of that. She definitely had sex on her mind tonight. Had Beau ever been blown in a seedy bar like this? Would it relax him? Turn him on? Would he find that…fun?
“I’m boring you,” Beau said. “I never go on about myself this much. Either the Macallan’s kicking in or you’re too easy to talk to.”
Lola was about to tell him to keep talking—she liked having a new voice in the bar. It didn’t hurt that that voice was bottomless, as if it came from some untouched depths inside him. And steady, in a comforting way. She could listen to him all night. She shook the feeling off.
“So what’ll you do if this place gets bought out?” he asked.
“I try not to think about it,” Lola said. “It’d be hard on us. Johnny loves this place as if it were his own.”
“And what about you?”
Over Beau’s head were some photographs of the owner’s dad with bands and customers who were long gone. “There’s a lot of history here,” she said, her eyes wandering over the pictures. “I’m closer to the people here than I am my own family.”
“But you could see yourself doing something different,” he guessed.
“Different?” It hadn’t occurred to her. Johnny had been bartending for twelve years, and she’d been by his side for eight of them. They were a team. “The late-night scene can get old,” she admitted. “I suppose if it were between moving to a different bar or trying something else, I’d maybe think about something else.” Lola hadn’t even known she’d be open to a change until she’d said it aloud. She’d assumed she and Johnny would always work together, but Johnny’d never do anything outside the nightlife industry.
“Something like…?” Beau asked.
She considered it a moment. “A restaurant would make sense, or a coffee shop. At least the hours would be better.”
“So then serving food and drinks is your passion,” Beau said.
She simultaneously laughed and scoffed. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just being realistic about my options. They’re limited without a college degree.”
“You didn’t go to school?”
“Dropped out my first semester.” Lola mock-gasped with her fingers over her mouth. “Unheard of in your world, isn’t it?”
“No.” He frowned. “I didn’t go to college either.”
She cleared her throat. She hadn’t expected that. Yet, he only said he’d started a business—not that it was successful. Maybe it wasn’t. But there was his suit, the cut of it, the way it moved with him instead of against him. It turned his shoulders into two strong right angles with a large expanse in between.
If she pretended there were a bug, she could reach out and brush it away just to see if the fabric was smooth, scratchy or something else. And she could get an idea of what was underneath it.
“What’d you do before this?” Beau asked, oblivious to her wandering imagination.
“Before this? Nothing really. I’ve worked here since I was…” She almost couldn’t finish the sentence. It was a lifetime ago now. In the eight years she’d been doing it, she couldn’t pinpoint when she’d decided waiting tables would be her career. “Twenty-one,” she finished. “That’s how old I was when I started.”
“So that would be, what?” Beau pretend
ed to count to himself. “Two years ago? Three?”
“Nice try,” she said as she laughed.
“I can’t be that far off. You could pass for early twenties.”
“Maybe compared to tonight’s crowd. You and I might be the only ones under forty.” She guessed at his age to see if he’d correct her, because he could very possibly be forty.
“Except for Johnny,” Beau said.
“Obviously except for Johnny,” Lola said quickly. He’d flustered her with the insinuation she’d forgotten about Johnny—because she had.
“You’re a bit younger than me, though,” Beau said, his voice light, teasing. “And I’m a bit older than you.”
She wanted to ask by how much, but she just glanced at the floor. “Not a lot older, I don’t think.”
“The way you’re smiling a little makes me think maybe you wouldn’t mind an older man.”
“Actually,” Lola said, lifting her head, “I wouldn’t know anything about that. Johnny’s the oldest guy I’ve been with, and he’s a few years older than me. And my guess is you’re a few years older than him. And my other guess is, whether or not I’d mind an older man isn’t really your business.”
His eyes twinkled. “You’re right. It was inappropriate to suggest you might. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think you are.” She turned away from the probing look on his face, more intimate now than it’d just been.
“I don’t think you are, either,” he said.
She paused, and against her better judgment, looked back. His cheeks were high and round, as though losing the fight against his smile. “Don’t tell me you’re forfeiting the game,” he said.
“And give you the satisfaction? Never. I’m in it ’til the end.”
“Then why are you walking away?”
“If I’m going to hang around you any longer, I’m going to need a drink for myself.”
He put his hand in his pocket and stalked slowly toward her. No longer on the verge of smiling, he looked at her as though she were on display in a museum, some rare and amusing find.
She stood her ground, even when he came close enough that the tips of their feet almost touched. His eyes, their unusual oval shape and striking color—he narrowed them and frowned as if he were trying to read her but couldn’t. He leaned in. He was going to kiss her right there in front of everyone. She had to move, push him—something. She looked at his mouth, his bottom lip slightly fuller, slightly pinker than the upper one.
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