Starting from Scratch (Starting from 2)
See? It was impossible to stay mad at him. He was like a goofy retriever who kept traipsing through the mud and waltzing into a newly cleaned kitchen. Even when he made ridiculous suggestions like inviting Ky over for a family dinner ’cause he was nice to his son. If he knew what he did to his other son, he might not be so quick to offer him a hot dog.
And just like that, I was back in the pool with Ky. His tongue was in my mouth and his hands were everywhere. If I wasn’t wearing an ancient pair of undies and a pair of shorts I think I purchased my senior year of high school, I might have thought I’d imagined the whole episode. But it happened, and I couldn’t wait to do it again.
* * *
The twinkling lights above the outdoor patio and soft strains of Italian music set the scene for romance. I eyed the gay couple lovingly gazing at each other over the single votive candle on their table with envy as I followed the maître d’ to a private section at the far end of the dining area. Sorrento’s was one of my favorite LA eateries. I loved the authentic food, the sophisticated ambience, and quite honestly, the people-watching couldn’t be beat.
Hollywood royalty came to Sorrento’s for quiet dinners with family and friends while everyone else came to get noticed, or at the very least, to get a quality selfie. And the real world tended to overlook the hypocrisy of paying thirty dollars for a plate of pasta after lamenting hunger epidemics in poorer countries for a photo of their favorite social media personality hobnobbing with a beloved actor or singer. It might seem shallow and opportunistic, but entertainment ruled at all costs in LA, where image was everything. It was hard not to get swept away by the glamour and the glitz.
The thing was, I saw through the BS faster than most. Wining and dining a prospective client on two-hundred-dollar bottles of wine and imported artisan cheeses smacked of something my dad would do. So I couldn’t decide if I should be glad the execs from Sandstone chose one of my favorite places or wary of the blatant schmooze move.
We’d been given a generous round table shielded from view of the restaurant by long white privacy curtains and large potted olive trees. This particular table was usually requested for big-name celebrities who liked being able to come and go via the discreet pathway leading to a back alley. Perfect escape route to avoid the paparazzi, Hollywood hopefuls who didn’t get the part, or pesky exes. The first two didn’t apply, but I thought I spotted my Clark Kent ex when we first walked in. I couldn’t remember his name…Mason or Myron maybe. But he was built like Superman and was kind enough to leave his glasses on during sex.
The important stuff was all in the details, I mused as I sipped my Brunello and surveyed our party of eight…Zero and me plus the founders of Sandstone, Ray and Neil. Oh…and Daria, the beautiful brunette they hoped to assign as an account manager to the band. She was tall and had green eyes, straight long hair she parted to one side, and a body that wouldn’t quit. I couldn’t be any gayer if I tried, but even I had to admit Daria was stunning. Better still, she was smart, levelheaded, and seemed to have a better feel for Zero’s music than her bosses, which might have been a generational thing.
Ray and Neil were former bandmates in a ’90s grunge group turned respected studio musicians who’d pooled their resources to form their own record company a few years ago. Their focus was primarily on giving indie artists a platform that was a hundred times more professional than recording on YouTube with more transparency and fewer layers of bureaucracy than a big-name firm. On paper, they were a perfect fit for Zero. But in person…they were a couple of oddballs.
That was a major statement coming from me. I grew up surrounded by “movie and music” industry people. There were days I came home from school to find a posse of A-list actors lounging by the pool or reading their lines in the living room over a pitcher of margaritas. Creativity reigned in our house. Scripts were everywhere, live music played till dawn. I distinctly recall drinking orange juice at our kitchen island as a famous actress rehearsed a scene from a film that won her an Academy Award the following year. I had a rarefied upbringing, to say the least. And though I didn’t have an ounce of talent, I had a true appreciation for those who did. Like Ray and Neil.
Ray looked like a cross between Slash and a psychedelic priest, with his wild curly black hair, pink-tinted glasses, and colorful brocade smoking jacket. He had to be six foot five. His hand practically swallowed mine when he shook it. And other than saying a brusque hello when we first met, he left all the talking to his extremely loquacious partner. Neil was literally Ray’s opposite. He was short, skinny, balding, and he dressed like a banker. I surreptitiously googled a twenty-year-old photo of him under the table to make sure I was talking to the same hunk who’d wielded his bass like a badass almost thirty years ago.