“You dance?” I ask her. She shrugs—very cute. I think she’s adorable. Perhaps it’s mean of me not to ask the bride-to-be to dance, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to dance with anyone except this little blond.

“I’m a terrible dancer,” I say.

“Me, too.”

“Then shall we?”

Kara polishes off her fruity drink and rises from her chair. I’m praying for a slow song, but something tells me they don’t ever play slow songs in this place.

I take her by the hand and lead her out onto the dance floor. Her hand is very small and warm. Would it kill DJ SuperCasanova to play a slow song?

Kara only comes up to my shoulder. When we find a spot in the crowd, I lean down and put my lips to her left ear. The beat pulses on relentlessly. Boom…Boom…Boom…Boom.

“Would you mind if we slow-danced to this?” I ask.

I hope I haven’t hurt her eardrum, but I have to scream to be heard.

She looks up at me, smiles, shakes her head.

I cup the small of her back and pull her body into mine. She’s wearing a sleeveless black dress and she smells like someone I could love. I know that sounds strange. But right now, I don’t give the first shit about anything except standing here with her, moving together at our own pace. Even though we haven’t said three words to each other, I know her more than anyone I’ve met since leaving North Carolina, and underneath all this noise, I’ll bet we hear the same song.

Chapter 14

leaves La Casa ~ takes Kara home ~ prepares his specialty for the Dunkquists ~ talks with Bo about marriage and Hannah ~ plays with Sam in the swimming pool

We slow dance through two more fast songs, and it feels so good being pressed up against her. Finally she pulls my ear down to her mouth and tells me that the music is hurting her ears. It’s hurting mine, too. I ask her if she wants to leave, because it kind of seems that way. She does. I’m ready to go, too. Even though I haven’t been here very long, I’ve seen all I care to see of LA club life. And of course, I secured an invite to my good pal, Richard Haneline’s, movie premiere and party.

On a side note, his most recent movie was called The Soldier. It’s about a solider who has to sneak behind enemy lines in World War I to kill some general or colonel. And the movie is actually pretty decent, but do you think they could’ve put a tad more thought into the title? I just hate stuff like that.

I hold Kara’s hand again and lead her out of the crowd. We return to the table of her four dance-shy friends and she tells them she isn’t feeling well, and that I’ve offered to take her home. Of course, her friends are very concerned about her, but I also catch a whiff of envy.

You think you’d enter and exit through the same doors, but actually you exit out the side of the building. I guess those three fuckheads at the door wouldn’t want any of the La Casa hopefuls to know that anyone ever leaves the place.

Kara and I stand in the warm evening while the long-haired valet goes searching for my car. You can still feel the throbbing music, but it’s muffled enough to hear the traffic cruising up and down Hollywood and the murmur of the crowd standing in line just around the corner of the building.

“Thank you,” Kara says as I hear my Hummer crank somewhere out in the parking lot darkness. “I just had to get out of there.”

The Hummer pulls up to the curb, and I usher Kara to the passenger side, open the door for her, and help her in. I know it sounds mean, but I don’t tip the valet. I mean the guy’s made $200 off me already tonight. I think that’s sufficient. Even still, he sighs and rolls his eyes when I get in without tipping him.

So I head back out onto Hollywood and we just drive for awhile in the direction of UCLA.

Kara’s quiet. I can’t tell if something’s wrong since I don’t really know her, but I can’t believe she isn’t more excited to be riding in James Jansen’s Hummer.

“Everything all right?” I ask.

“I’m a little nervous,” she says.

“Why?” I know why, but I’d love to hear her say it.

“I’m just a little in awe. I don’t really know how to act. My friends would be talking your ear off, but I’m…I don’t know.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” I say, and it’s true. I really don’t. I want her to be comfortably in awe.

“Turn here,” she says.

“How about this?” I say. “Pretend I’m just some guy you met in the club.”

“I wouldn’t have met any guys in that club. They certainly wouldn’t be driving me home. I don’t know if you noticed, but everyone in that place is swimming in the kiddie pool.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry, bad analogy. They’re shallow.”

“Oh. Yes, I agree.”

“Look, Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know how this normally works for you. I’m sure you get women like crazy, but I’m not one of those. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I really…I’m incapable of bullshit. That’s who I am. So I’m going to just say it. The reason you’re taking me home, the reason I wanted you to, beyond the fact that I despise clubs, is we made a connection. It has nothing to do with who you are, your fame I mean. I honestly felt something that has nothing to do with any of that. And I know that I’m not supposed to be telling you this. Maybe you’d rather we…turn here…maybe you’d rather we played a little game where neither of us admits how incredible that was on the dance floor, but that’s not me. I’m sorry if I’m ruining this for you.”

“It was,” I say.

“What?”

“It was incredible dancing with you, Kara.”

She smiles and brushes her hair behind her ears.

“That’s my building up ahead.”

I turn into the parking lot of a four-story apartment building on the outskirts of the UCLA campus. I kind of wonder if she’s going to invite me up. This sounds strange, but part of me hopes she doesn’t.

“I’ll kill the suspense for you. I’m not going to ask you up,” she says as I pull up to the main entrance. “I’m sorry.” She unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn’t open the door yet.

“This is it?” For some reason, the possibility of her getting out of this car and me not ever seeing her again turns me desperate. “Could I call you?”

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she says, opening the door and stepping out.

“No plans.”

“Pick me up at eleven if you want to. Right here. I’ll spend the day with you.”

“I don’t even know your—”

“You will. For now, just enjoy what happened tonight. Relish it. It was pure.”

She slams the door and I wait until she’s inside the building before driving away. I’m tempted to hit another club or bar, or just cruise through the mansions in the hills.

But instead, I decide to head on home and relish it.

I rise at 6:30 before anyone else and creep into the kitchen and start assembling the ingredients for the only dish I know how to make—a Mexican omelet.

Since there’s four of us, I break a dozen eggs into a glass mixing bowl. Then I shred half a block of sharp cheddar and what’s left of a block of monetary jack. Then I cut up some tomatoes, add a third of a cup of hot chipotle salsa, sauté some onion, green pepper, and a heap of diced jalapeno peppers. I add everything to the eggs, throw in salt and pepper and red pepper and a tablespoon of Tabasco sauce. Then I whisk it all together and dump the whole runny mixture into a buttered frying pan.

The Dunkquists start drifting into the kitchen as the smell of my Mexican omelet fills the house. I’ve gone ahead and brewed a pot of coffee so strong it could run a car engine, and I’m sitting on the kitchen counter, staring out the window at those hills catching early morning sun.