Starting from Zero (Starting from 1)

I squinted against the glare of the late morning sun, then pulled my Ray Bans from my shirt pocket and checked the number marked on the modern style mailbox at the curb with the one I’d been given one more time. Five four three zero. Yep. This was it. The forest of palm trees hid the actual house from view, but even I could tell we were in the high-rent district. This was a quiet, respectable neighborhood. The kind where residents avoided eye contact in an effort to discourage unnecessary conversation with neighbors whose names they couldn’t remember to save their lives before parking their zero-emission vehicle in their garages next to a gas-guzzling Cadillac Escalade. Pretentious pricks.

Not like I knew what I was talking about. I’d never lived in an actual house or a real neighborhood. Ever. I was from the other side of the tracks, where you heard more than you ever wanted to know about your neighbors through paper-thin walls in an ancient apartment building adorned with graffiti.

I hiked the palm-lined driveway toward the two-story modern home, pausing to admire the mini garden of succulents surrounded by pristine white pebbles. Everything was so damn clean. Like Disneyland or someplace where they had someone assigned to jobs like “rock caretaker,” I mused with a laugh as I raised my hand to knock. The massive glass-paned front door swung open before I had a chance.

I jolted and stepped backward to check out the golden curly-haired vision posed with one hand bracing the jamb and the other on his hip. For some reason, I had assumed Charles Robertson was much older. This guy was young, blond, and very fabulous.

“There you are! For fuck’s sake, I’ve been waiting for you!”

“Hey there. I’m Justin. Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand.

“Yes, I know. Come in. I wanted to brief you beforehand, but I’m running out of time. This way.” He clapped aggressively, then grabbed my wrist and pulled me across the threshold.

I yanked out of his hold and scowled as I removed my sunglasses. “Hang on. What do you mean, ‘brief me’?”

He huffed impatiently and set his hands back on his hips. I amended “fabulous” to “bossy” in my head and gave him a thorough once-over. He was roughly my age and kind of petite. No more than five eight, tops, with a compact physique. His floral shirt was see-through in parts and tucked into a high-waisted pair of khakis he’d rolled at the hem. I noted his bare feet in the red leather loafers and absently thought he might be the only person on the planet who could pull off that look. He reminded me of a frustrated tango dancer waiting for his partner to catch up.

He pursed his full lips and regarded me thoughtfully before shrugging. “I mean, I want to give you a little background.”

“Okay, but who are you?”

“I’m Charlie. And I’m going to change your life!”

“Charles Robertson?”

“Yes and no. The important thing is, I know all about you and what happened with Gypsy Coma and…I’m going to help you. Think of me as your fairy gaymother. Come on.” He spun away, leaving me in a cloud of expensive smelling cologne in the middle of the foyer.

I glanced up at the enormous contemporary glass chandelier hanging above a round marble-topped table, then caught my reflection in the ornate mirror leaning against the wall. I looked confused as fuck and so out of place, it hurt. My borrowed blue oxford shirt was too big across my shoulders and my “nice” jeans were worn at the crotch. Everything about this situation was off.

How did someone who looked and acted like Charlie, aka the Mad Hatter, know anything about Gypsy Coma or me? This world didn’t mesh with dark indie bands with cult followings. This house belonged to the country club set meets so-called respectable business elite. And Charlie looked like a pampered West Hollywood pretty boy. But what the fuck did I know? Nothing yet.

I moved into the adjoining great room and scanned the bookshelves flanking the wide bank of windows. I paused to admire the grand piano before fixating on the impressive views of LA in the distance. The vibrant water met the blue sky at the horizon, showcasing the city in a picture-perfect light.

“Oh, my God. Are you coming or not? It’s like I’m talking to my ex!”

Charlie tapped his foot and motioned for me to hurry up.

“Are you really sharing secrets about your sex life?” I asked impatiently.

He snickered lightly and shook his head. “I don’t have much of a sex life, and that’s fine for now. My former one was a bit too zealous…if you know what I mean. My ex popped Viagra the way a yoga mom drinks kombucha. He was one of those four-hour-erection guys.”