The second I heard Jonah say that, I began to regret ever going out with him in the first place. Didn’t he have any respect for the privacy of Van Rijn’s family? I sat back in my chair and said, “Well, that was kind of tacky, don’t you think?”
He didn’t look upset. Instead, he grinned at me and replied, “Van Rijn didn’t seem to think so. In fact, he gave me twenty-five grand to help fund the film.”
My eyes widened. “Just like that, huh?”
“Just like that. Guess he looked at me as another one of his charities or something. My father says he’s contributed a lot to the Simon Wiesenthal Center over the years. But obviously Van Rijn wasn’t too upset over me filing the serial numbers off his grandparents’ story and retelling it.”
“It still doesn’t seem right to me,” I protested.
“Protecting your boss’s interests?”
“No. I’d say that no matter who was involved.”
The waitress, with that unerring instinct all wait staff seems to have for showing up at exactly the wrong moment, appeared then with our food. The dim sum was ladled onto our plates from a steam cart, and then she set down our rice and split the scene. I couldn’t blame her; the atmosphere was feeling a little frosty by that point.
For a minute Jonah busied himself with getting some rice and arranging the food on his plate. Then he looked up at me. “We’ve definitely gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“Sorry,” I replied, even though I really wasn’t. “I call ’em as I see ’em.”
“And that’s why I like you. You register very low on the bullshit scale.” He lifted a forkful of rice to his mouth, paused, and then added, “Well, that and the fact that you’re unbelievably hot.”
Despite myself, I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. Good thing the restaurant wasn’t very well lit. “Uh, thanks…I guess.”
“You’re not going to pull the false modesty thing on me, are you? I hate that.”
I found myself echoing his shrug from a few minutes earlier. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m not flattered. But you haven’t seen me at six in the morning, either.”
“No…but I hope I might in the near future.”
Someone else might have come up with a witty retort to that comment. I just found myself blushing even more furiously, and then dug into my dim sum. Thank God they’d left me a knife and fork along with the more traditional table settings. I didn’t think I could handle a set of chopsticks at that point.
Jonah seemed to realize he’d scored a pretty uncomfortable point and somehow managed to maneuver the conversation into something a little safer. He talked about the job he just finished, and his prospects for getting an A.D. assignment on an honest-to-God film instead of a television show. It was pretty obvious to me that he looked on television work as not much better than frying burgers or delivering pizza. Crazy attitude, if you asked me, considering how many people in L.A. would sell their mothers for just one of the opportunities Jonah dismissed so lightly. But I supposed his snobbish attitude sprang from the way he’d been raised. After all, his father was one of L.A.’s biggest movie producers. Compared to that, I guessed being an assistant director on a sitcom was no big deal.
As he continued to talk, though, I began to realize I didn’t like him as much as I thought I did. It wasn’t the first time I’d been on a date where I’d figured out early on that I just wasn’t feeling it. On those other (thankfully rare) occasions, it had been sort of a mutual thing. We’d realized before we’d wasted too much time that we didn’t have much in common and ended things as soon as we could. But Jonah seemed to think I was the best thing since sliced bread—or at least, he’d convinced himself that I was. And since I could barely get a word in edgewise, I didn’t exactly have much of an opportunity to come up with a graceful excuse to get myself out of the situation.
Things didn’t improve after dinner, either. The valet had just shut the car door for me when Jonah started up the engine and said, “Now for the real fun.”
“Fun?” I repeated. “Dinner was great, but—”
“Just wait and see. I told you it would be a surprise.”
Now, I’m just fine with some surprises. Surprise parties, or the time I came home during my junior year of high school to find out that my parents had finally gotten rid of the floral wallpaper I hated and painted my bedroom after all. That sort of thing. But having guys I barely knew whisk me away to some unknown destination? Not so much fun. Well, at least I’d had the sense to stop at an ATM earlier in the day and upgrade my mad money from forty bucks to a hundred dollars. That would buy me cab fare home from pretty much anywhere Jonah might try to drag me.
Since I knew I couldn’t exactly fling open the car door and hurl myself to the pavement to get away, I just nodded and transferred my attention to the streets passing by outside the car window. At least I didn’t have to worry too much about Jonah’s state of intoxication; he’d stopped after that one martini.
It looked as if we were headed toward downtown, although once we were south of the 101 Freeway, he turned right on Wilshire and kept going. Not downtown, then. The signs on the businesses began to shift from a mixture of English and Spanish to a script I didn’t recognize, except that it didn’t look like either Chinese or Japanese to me. I glanced over at Jonah and shot him a questioning look.
“Koreatown,” he supplied. “You’ll see.”
What I knew about Koreatown could probably fit on the back of a postage stamp. I’d never been in this part of L.A. before, but I guessed I had to be at least ten miles from home. Well, it could have been worse. At least we hadn’t gone all the way into Westwood or Santa Monica or something.
We pulled up in front of a building that would have looked completely nondescript if it weren’t for the cars lined up at the valet station outside and the throngs of people roaming around on the sidewalk for half a block in either direction. Once again I was helped out of the car, this time by a movie-star-gorgeous Asian guy. I flashed him a smile, and he grinned back at me. Koreatown definitely had its pluses.
The glowing sign over the front door didn’t tell me much: Orchid Restaurant/Café. Considering we’d just eaten, I guessed the place was more a bar or a club than an actual restaurant. But after we pushed through the crowds on the ground floor and made our way upstairs, I realized exactly what kind of venue Jonah had brought me to.
A karaoke bar.
Was he kidding? I mentally reran our conversation from the evening before, just to make sure I hadn’t let something slip about going to karaoke bars with my friend Leslie, but nope—I couldn’t recall saying anything on the subject. This was going to be interesting.
The place was pretty spectacular, I had to admit. I saw waterfalls and light bars, and lots of gorgeous people of all ages and ethnicities. I felt like I was in Vegas, not Koreatown. Apparently there were a bunch of private rooms in addition to the main area where the bar was located. I hoped that was what Jonah had planned. If he wanted to try to impress me by serenading me with a thoughtfully chosen Josh Groban or Jason Mraz song, great. Somehow I’d manage to survive the experience.
But of course it couldn’t be that easy. No, we waded through the crowd to the bar, and Jonah said, “So what would you like to sing? We need to get on the list so we’ll get a turn.”
I replied, my tone flat, “I never said I would sing anything.”
His eyes crinkled in amusement. “Oh, be a sport. I doubt you could be any worse than the girl up there right now.”
He had a point. The person in question had obviously had a few too many drinks, although I somehow doubted she’d be much better at carrying a tune when sober. She sounded like Christina Aguilera being run over by a backhoe.
“You go first,” I said.
“No prob. But I’ll put you on right after me, okay? They need to know what you want to sing, though.”
Now, when I was out with Leslie I’d done everything from Broadway tunes to Guns N Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” Bu
t part of me wanted to put Jonah in his place and show him if he thought he was putting me on the spot, he was sadly mistaken. Pat Benatar had always been a good match for my range. “‘Promises in the Dark,’” I said.
A look of surprise crossed his features. “Classic rock girl, huh?”
I shrugged. “That’s how I roll.”
With a shake of his head, he turned to the bar and scribbled down our song choices on a slip one of the bartenders had given him. Then he glanced back over his shoulder and asked, “Want a drink?”
Frankly, at that point I could have cheerfully drunk a whole pitcher of margaritas. I cleared my throat. “Long Island iced tea.” The stronger, the better, I added mentally.
Despite the crush in the room, the bartender was pretty quick with the drinks. Jonah handed me mine, then gestured with his martini toward the far corner of the space. “I think I saw a table back there.”
He definitely had eagle eyes, or at least a hell of a lot more experience dealing with places like this than I did. The spot in question was in fact available, although he had to scrounge a chair from a nearby table after asking if the people sitting there were using it. Luckily, they weren’t.
I sat down and hoped my luck would continue and that the bartender would somehow lose the slip of paper that had Jonah’s and my song requests on it.
“Great place, huh?” he said.
The Long Island iced tea was blessedly strong. I took a second sip before replying, “It’s pretty cool. How did you find out about it?”
“Ex-girlfriend. She was a music major. We used to come here in big groups—you know, just for shits and grins.”
That was how I’d first been introduced to karaoke here in L.A. Back in Billings my friend Jess had one of those little all-in-one units that we’d messed around with at slumber parties and so on. However, I’d never been out to an actual club until Leslie dragged me to one with Joe, her brothers, her brothers’ girlfriends, and a few other people from the regular crowd that went to the NoHo parties. No one took it very seriously. Leslie had to get about three beers down my throat before I’d agree to take the mike. Everyone thought I was embarrassed because I couldn’t sing. I hadn’t been able to tell them it was just the opposite, that I felt self-conscious because I knew I could blow everyone in the room off the map.
“Sounds like fun,” I said, although I sounded less than enthusiastic even to myself.
“Have some more of that drink,” he suggested, and I couldn’t help but chuckle a little.
“I’ll do that.”
Because of the crowds, we had time for another round of drinks before Jonah’s name got called. “Morituri te salutamus,” he said, then walked off, leaving me to stare after him in mystification. Latin wasn’t exactly my strong suit.
At least he hadn’t suggested a duet. I took a too-large gulp of my Long Island iced tea and stared up at the stage in trepidation as Jonah took his place. The club was definitely state-of-the-art; as soon as he picked up the microphone, his image was plastered on flat-panel monitors mounted at strategic places around the room. I heard good-natured cheers and catcalls, and a few appreciative howls from a table full of women about my age seated near the stage. I couldn’t deny that he was cute. Too bad the unconscious arrogance that had led him to think I’d enjoy an evening like this had already overcome whatever attraction I might have felt for him in the beginning.
His selection came on, and I immediately thought, So he’s giving me crap for going old school?
Because what did he pick? Queen’s “Somebody to Love.” Now, maybe he was just a big fan of the movie Ella Enchanted, although I somehow doubted that. Maybe he’d chosen the song because he thought it would be a cute way to show he was serious about finding a new girlfriend. I had no idea. But it was more than a little excruciating to sit there and listen to Jonah sing that song as he threw what he thought were melting glances in my direction. Not that his voice was bad. Actually, he had a pretty decent tenor, much better than any of the drunken mob I’d gone with to karaoke bars in the past. It was just the realization that he thought this date was going swimmingly, while all I could think about was how long I’d have to endure this place before I could get Jonah to take me home.
At last the song ended. I clapped enthusiastically along with everyone else—until my stomach lodged itself in my throat as I realized I was up next. The D.J. called my name, and I got up and moved slowly toward the stage, where Jonah was waiting for me.
“I figured I’d stay up here so I could cheer you on,” he said.
“Won’t somebody steal our table?” I asked.
His grin slipped a little, but he replied, “No—that’s bad etiquette. People will see our drinks there and know we’re still using it.”
“Oh, okay.” I added, “You sounded really great.”
He brightened immediately. “Thanks—now get on up there.”
Dead girl walking, I thought, but I climbed the steps to the stage anyhow. What else was I supposed to do? Besides, I’d done karaoke before. This wouldn’t kill me. True, the Orchid was a hell of a lot more posh than the divey places out in the San Fernando Valley where Leslie had taken me, but the concept was the same, right?
The lights almost blinded me. I blinked, and heard some wolf whistles and catcalls from the audience. Then I saw the screen where they’d project the words to the song. Not that I needed it. I knew it by heart anyway.
The song started out slowly, piano and a plaintive solo guitar. I lifted the mike and took a breath. “Never again, isn’t that what you said?”
From the corner of my eye I could see Jonah straighten, and his mouth dropped open a little. I couldn’t let him distract me, though. I had to just listen to the music and let it take me along for the ride.
It was actually easier than I thought it would be. The bright lights effectively obscured my view of the audience, and the sound system was loud enough that all I heard was the backing tracks and my own voice. The two drinks I’d downed probably helped, too. All I knew was that I sailed through the song, nailing the cues, hitting the high note on the bridge as if I’d were a trained opera singer just like the real Pat Benatar. And when the song ended, there was dead silence for about a second, followed by cheering, screams, more whistles. Somehow I got the mike back into its stand and descended the steps from the stage, down to where Jonah waited for me.
“I thought you said you didn’t come out here to be a singer,” he said.
“I didn’t,” I replied. “Singing’s just a shower hobby for me.”
We wended our way through the crowd back to our table. All along the way people gave me the thumb’s up or clapped. I felt something pushed into my hand; when I got back to the table and looked down, I saw that some guy had slipped me his phone number. With a shaky laugh, I shoved the wadded-up piece of paper in my purse. Not that I would ever call him, of course, but I thought it would be rude to just drop the paper on the floor. I could get rid of it when I got home.
“‘Shower hobby’?” Jonah repeated, and swallowed the remains of his martini. “Do you know how many girls I’ve met who said they wanted to get into the music business?”
I shook my head.
“Tons. And none of them have a voice even close to yours. What the hell are you doing working as a secretary, of all things?”
“Paying the rent.”
“You’re nuts.” He leaned over the table toward me. “You need an agent. You need to get yourself out of there. I bet my father could give me some names—”
I felt like someone whose brakes had just gone out on a downhill road. “Uh, Jonah, that’s really generous, but I don’t think it’s necessary—”
“Of course it is. Seriously, Katherine, let me help you.”
What if I don’t want your help? I thought, but I managed to say—quite politely, too, “Maybe we can discuss this later. I’m not sure I want to make any major decisions on a Saturday night in a karaoke bar.”
To my relief, Jonah g
rinned. “Well, I guess I can see that.” His expression turned sly. “So are you going to put your name in for another song?”
“I don’t want to hog the spotlight,” I replied, then added, “Actually, I’m feeling a little tired. It’s been a long day. Do you mind if we head home after we finish these drinks?”
He looked a little disappointed, but at least he said, “Sure. Guess it would be kind of hard to top that, right?”
“Right,” I agreed, more than a little relieved. It wasn’t even that late, but all I wanted to do was go home.
And, to his credit, Jonah didn’t try to make me stay any longer. After we were done with our drinks, we retrieved the roller skate and headed back to Glendale. It was probably around eleven when we pulled up in front of my apartment complex.
I actually didn’t have a policy about kissing on the first date. Leslie had teased me once and said these days more people had a policy about having sex on the first date, but no matter how much I liked someone, I wasn’t going to jump in the sack with them after spending just an evening together. Kissing was enough of a commitment.
Considering I had spent most of the drive home trying to figure out the best way to let Jonah know (in the most diplomatic way possible, of course) that I didn’t really see much of a future for us, a goodnight kiss was the last thing on my mind.
Jonah obviously had a different interpretation of how the evening had gone. As soon as I stopped at the door to fish my keys out of my purse, he pulled me toward him and planted his mouth right on mine.
As kisses went, I’d had worse. At least he didn’t try to perform a tonsillectomy on me with his tongue, but he did catch me off-guard. For a second I just sort of froze, and then gave a sort of half-hearted pressure on his lips in return. At that point I just wanted to get inside my apartment and shut the door. If a half-assed kiss would fob Jonah off for the time being, fine. I’d deal with the repercussions later.
Fringe Benefits Page 10
