something.”
“Not likely,” Colt says, but he tugs it from his pocket. Then he laughs. “I totally forgot. Dylan’s going to be on a talk show tonight.”
“Who’s Dylan?” I ask.
“A friend of mine. He got a big recording contract. Broke out with some song about blue shoes, then he did ‘Where You Belong,’ that song I heard about a million times all summer.”
“Dylan Wolf.” Zero claps his hands. “I love his eyes.”
I think Angel is going to shoot him a look or act all jealous, but he’s just as excited. “Isn’t Dylan Wolf the dreamboat who sang at our charity event that time?” he asks.
“Yes!” Zero jumps from his chair. “What show is he going to be on, what time?”
Zero and Colt try to figure out the cable channels as the room swims a little more fuzzily. I pick up the glass to take another sip, then realize what I’m doing and set it down again.
“You okay, Jo?” Angel asks.
“Probably should stop with the wine,” I say.
He nods and begins clearing the table, taking my glass away.
“It’s coming after the break!” Zero announces. He’s practically hopping with excitement.
I stand up a little unsteadily but manage to make it over to the sofa. Colt puts his arm around me, and we sit down together.
“Angel! It’s time!” Zero calls out. He settles on his papasan chair.
Angel comes out of the kitchen and fits in beside him.
I’ve never seen this show, so I don’t recognize the host. He’s young and charismatic, with one of those scruffy beards that I never get how they can keep the exact same level of almost-but-not-quite shaved.
The host and Dylan sit opposite each other in a pair of green chairs. But Dylan has a quality about him that has changed since he performed the drag show. “Does he seem subdued?” I ask Colt.
He squeezes my hand. “He went through a bad spell.”
“How is that possible?” Angel asks. “Big recording contract. Looks like he’s doing all the talk shows.”
“A girl,” Colt says.
“Oooh,” Angel says.
Still, Dylan manages to be charming and funny. Probably anyone who hadn’t seen him before wouldn’t know anything was different.
“Oh, I hope he sings ‘Blue Shoes,’” Zero says.
But when Dylan picks up his guitar and moves to the stage area of the set, he doesn’t play either of the songs we know. Instead he strums the opening chords to something new.
We’re all pretty captivated by the song, mournful and full of soul, about lost love. When it’s over, Zero’s hands are clasped tight around Angel’s. “I have to buy that one right now.” He jerks out his phone.
I lay my head on Colt’s shoulder. “Text him and say he was great,” I say. I’m so sleepy.
“Will do,” he says. “I think I should get you home.”
I haven’t even seen Colt’s place in LA. Traffic was bad coming in, so we came to Zero’s straight from Santa Barbara. When we say good-bye and head outside, the cool air makes me alert again, excited.
“Do you want to stop by your apartment to get anything else?” Colt asks. He holds open the door to the red Stingray.
“Not tonight,” I say. I’m anxious to be alone with him.
As he pulls away from the apartment complex, I remember seeing my part of town through new eyes on the back of Colt’s motorcycle, the first time I rode with him, after he pulled me away from that group of jerk guys. I’m feeling exactly the same now, the colors of the night scene blurring by. Coffee shops, pizza joints, people walking in jackets and scarves, happy couples.
I’m one of them now.
I reach over the console and slide my hand along Colt’s thigh. He lifts his eyebrows, taking a quick glance at me as we turn a corner. “Someone’s anxious to get home.”
“If we make it that far.” I reach for the snap of his jeans. By the time I’ve worked it loose, he’s rock hard beneath the zipper. I ease it down.
“You make it difficult for a guy to concentrate,” he says.
“That’s the
“Not likely,” Colt says, but he tugs it from his pocket. Then he laughs. “I totally forgot. Dylan’s going to be on a talk show tonight.”
“Who’s Dylan?” I ask.
“A friend of mine. He got a big recording contract. Broke out with some song about blue shoes, then he did ‘Where You Belong,’ that song I heard about a million times all summer.”
“Dylan Wolf.” Zero claps his hands. “I love his eyes.”
I think Angel is going to shoot him a look or act all jealous, but he’s just as excited. “Isn’t Dylan Wolf the dreamboat who sang at our charity event that time?” he asks.
“Yes!” Zero jumps from his chair. “What show is he going to be on, what time?”
Zero and Colt try to figure out the cable channels as the room swims a little more fuzzily. I pick up the glass to take another sip, then realize what I’m doing and set it down again.
“You okay, Jo?” Angel asks.
“Probably should stop with the wine,” I say.
He nods and begins clearing the table, taking my glass away.
“It’s coming after the break!” Zero announces. He’s practically hopping with excitement.
I stand up a little unsteadily but manage to make it over to the sofa. Colt puts his arm around me, and we sit down together.
“Angel! It’s time!” Zero calls out. He settles on his papasan chair.
Angel comes out of the kitchen and fits in beside him.
I’ve never seen this show, so I don’t recognize the host. He’s young and charismatic, with one of those scruffy beards that I never get how they can keep the exact same level of almost-but-not-quite shaved.
The host and Dylan sit opposite each other in a pair of green chairs. But Dylan has a quality about him that has changed since he performed the drag show. “Does he seem subdued?” I ask Colt.
He squeezes my hand. “He went through a bad spell.”
“How is that possible?” Angel asks. “Big recording contract. Looks like he’s doing all the talk shows.”
“A girl,” Colt says.
“Oooh,” Angel says.
Still, Dylan manages to be charming and funny. Probably anyone who hadn’t seen him before wouldn’t know anything was different.
“Oh, I hope he sings ‘Blue Shoes,’” Zero says.
But when Dylan picks up his guitar and moves to the stage area of the set, he doesn’t play either of the songs we know. Instead he strums the opening chords to something new.
We’re all pretty captivated by the song, mournful and full of soul, about lost love. When it’s over, Zero’s hands are clasped tight around Angel’s. “I have to buy that one right now.” He jerks out his phone.
I lay my head on Colt’s shoulder. “Text him and say he was great,” I say. I’m so sleepy.
“Will do,” he says. “I think I should get you home.”
I haven’t even seen Colt’s place in LA. Traffic was bad coming in, so we came to Zero’s straight from Santa Barbara. When we say good-bye and head outside, the cool air makes me alert again, excited.
“Do you want to stop by your apartment to get anything else?” Colt asks. He holds open the door to the red Stingray.
“Not tonight,” I say. I’m anxious to be alone with him.
As he pulls away from the apartment complex, I remember seeing my part of town through new eyes on the back of Colt’s motorcycle, the first time I rode with him, after he pulled me away from that group of jerk guys. I’m feeling exactly the same now, the colors of the night scene blurring by. Coffee shops, pizza joints, people walking in jackets and scarves, happy couples.
I’m one of them now.
I reach over the console and slide my hand along Colt’s thigh. He lifts his eyebrows, taking a quick glance at me as we turn a corner. “Someone’s anxious to get home.”
“If we make it that far.” I reach for the snap of his jeans. By the time I’ve worked it loose, he’s rock hard beneath the zipper. I ease it down.
“You make it difficult for a guy to concentrate,” he says.
“That’s the
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