"Waldo, will you please shut the fuck up?" Reed accompanied her words with some pounding on the wall. The pounding made a few more bits of milk-barf colored paint flake off onto her work space and settled a few flakes onto her hair, making her look like she had the world's worst case of dandruff.

Wonderful.

Waldo, her neighbor who lived in the next apartment, didn't seem to have heard her, however, as the Formula Five Hundred racing, or whatever the fuck it was called, continued to blare out of his TV, along with his own play by play commentary of whatever exciting race was on.

Reed sighed and tried to focus on what she was writing. She was at a crucial point in the plot, when the two lovers, Ruark and Esmerelda, finally found each other again after having been angry with each other and at metaphorical swords' points for most of the book. If she could only get the two of them together, the rest of her novel should be plain sailing, and she might actually have something to query by her self imposed deadline of August 30th, which was barely four months away.

Something really thrilling must've happened on Waldo's TV, because he let out a yell, and dropped something with such a loud thud that the wall they shared shook all by itself, shedding even more paint all over Reed's desk, laptop, and notes, making everything now look like it had a light dusting of snow on it. Reed also heard a crashing of glass, and knew that Waldo had broken whatever bottle he was drinking out of.

If she was lucky, he'd be passed out drunk in a bit, and she could sneak over and turn the TV down and get some quiet time within an hour or so.

Reed stared dourly at her screen, and at the malevolent flashing cursor. As she looked, she heard the ping that let her know she had an incoming email. She knew without looking that it was from Sam.

Sigh.

Wonderful, patient, Sam. Her finger hovered over the little stamp on the dashboard. Should she read the email? Why not, it wasn't as if she was getting any writing done, anyway.

Hey there, babe,
Hope you're well, and that the bright lights of Hollywood are treating you okay. Is the writing going good? I hope so. You know that August 30th is coming on awful soon, right? I for one can't wait to see you. I miss you something fierce, Reed, for sure. I hope this year you took away from me and Oklahoma is enough to get this writing bug out of your system, because I really don't think I can do without you any longer than this. You were meant to come home and marry me. The bakery needs you, and I need you. I love you, and hope to see you soon.
With all the love in my heart,
Your Sam

Your Sam.

Sigh.

Reed wiped the perspiration from her forehead and took another drink of iced tea from the glass, though at this point it was iced tea in name only; the ice had long since melted on this sweltering day. She could feel the sweat dripping between her breasts, and her thighs sticking to the chair. Her AC had gone out three days ago, and the landlord had promised to come and look at it, but so far it was all crickets.

She laughed, thinking about Sam's email. He probably thought she had a cute little bungalow somewhere with a tidy yard and a view of the hills; that was what Hollywood meant to him. What would he think if he could see her in this studio over a liquor store off La Cienega, a baking hot room that reeked of booze and garbage because of the dumpsters that were right outside, the dumpsters where her alcoholic next door neighbor threw away all of his empties?

So much for the glamorous life of a writer.

Abruptly, she rose from her seat, automatically saving her work and closing her laptop. She was blocked, and it was too hot to work, anyway. She poured a cold glass of tea with fresh ice cubes into her water carrier and headed for Rhonda, her ramshackle blue Accord that was held together with paperclips and prayers at this point, but at least still had a noisy but working AC.

It had to be at least ninety-five degrees already, and it was barely noon. Reed could smell the tar from the road, the beans and chiles from the Mexican place across the street, and of course the booze and garbage from the liquor store and the dumpster. She approached her banged up car with trepidation and slid into the driver's seat after rolling down the windows and folding up the shade partition.

"Come on, Rhonda, baby, start for mama, okay?" she crooned, stroking the dashboard. The engine whined for a few seconds, but then turned over with a reassuring roar. The AC began putting out warm air, which soon became lukewarm, which soon cooled down to a bearable temperature. Reed rolled up her window, sucked on her tea and decided to head up the PCH for a while, since the sun was still to her right, and would be on her right again when she headed home. And since it was a weekday, the traffic wasn't too terrible yet. She saw a flock of pelicans, flying in their ungainly way, bills hanging strangely low, off to her left, and waved at them.

She was going to leave her troubles behind for just a couple of hours, the price of gas be damned, and enjoy a nice, cool drive.

And fuck Ruark and Esmerelda, too.

******************

Duncan looked around his Malibu beach house, and thought that he should feel something more than boredom. It was huge, lavish, top of the line, cost a cool mid-eight figures. In other words, it was the shit. It had immediately made him a very popular fellow, with everyone he knew clamoring for an invitation to come and stay for a few days or weeks. It had turned his life into a never ending queue of houseguests, coming and going, thanking him for his hospitality, waving and smiling as they said good bye.

Now, he was down to one guest, Fritz, a friend from his school days, who was fun, for sure, but a bit of a daredevil. The truth was, Duncan would rather have had a few quiet days to himself, just to zone out and maybe write some music for his next album. His last hadn't been very well received by the critics, though his fans had eaten it up. He was glad his fans liked it, but he yearned for the success of his early days, when he was the critics' darling, when he was in the running for Grammys and Peoples' Choice awards and the like.

"Duncan? Dunc? You listening?"

"Yeah, I'm listening, mate, sorry."

"So, what do you say? You just got these amazing electric bikes, man, let's take them out for a spin, okay?" Fritz was looking at Duncan expectantly, eyes alight with excitement.

"I don't know, Fritz, you ever ridden one before? Because I haven't, and I've heard they take a bit of getting used to," Duncan began.

"Come on, dude, live a little! We're young and coordinated, we can handle it!" Fritz encouraged. "It's another perfect day, I love LA," he sang, doing his best Randy Newman. "Let's test these babies out, then come back here and get baked, what do you say?"

Duncan looked up at his friend of many years as he shook his brown curly hair out of his face. Then, mainly to shut him up, he nodded, hoisting himself out of the chair where he was reclining.

"Okay, buddy, let's try those bad boys out," he agreed, smiling. "There are some trails on the other side of the highway that would be perfect, I think." He didn't mention that they didn't have helmets or anything. Somehow, he knew that lack of protective head gear wouldn't stop Fritz Schumacher. He also knew that, even if they were to get stopped by local law enforcement, the fact that he was Duncan Browne, as in Duncan Browne, pop icon and rock star extraordinaire, would work in his favor.

They pulled the monster bikes out of their boxes and wrappings, and kind of figured out how to work them, manhandling them across the PCH when there were no cars coming in either direction.

It was brutally hot already, and Duncan knew he'd regret not bringing any water with him before the afternoon was over. However, he knew that Fritz would be feeling the heat also, and this might entice him to end their excursion early, which would only be a plus as far as Duncan was concerned.

The got the bikes going and headed off up the trails, getting covered in dirt and sweat in nothing flat. Duncan had to admit he enjoyed the exertion of the bike, pushing himself until he just couldn't anymore, then engaging the motor for the really steep parts.

Sure enough, though, after about two hours, Fritz looked over and motioned that he needed a drink.

"Ready to head back?" Duncan asked.

"I think so," Fritz huffed. "Plus, I think some girls were going to come over this afternoon to try out the weed with us, and I want a chance to shower first, you know?"

Duncan sighed. More girls. He'd kind had his fill of LA girls, truth be told. They were all the same: Tall, blonde, thin, with large breasts and long legs, all wanting to be in movies or music and hoping that Duncan could help them get there. Some actually didn't want to be in the business at all, but merely wanted to tag along for the ride on Duncan's life, joined to his hip as he moved from one glamorous activity to another.

"Well, we'd better go, then," he said to Fritz, motioning for his friend to take the lead.

Fritz got in front as they headed out of the brown canyon and back toward Highway One, the midday sun blazing down on them.

When the reached the PCH, Fritz quickly looked both ways, then engaged the motor to get him up the grade and onto the asphalt. He scooted across both lanes easily, as there were no cars coming from either direction. He turned and waited for Duncan, who was still at the bottom of the grade on the east side of the highway.

Duncan craned his neck and looked both ways, but he could tell already that he wasn't going to have such an easy time. There was a big rig heading south, going just a little slower than the flow of traffic, and a trail of frustrated cars behind it as far as the eye could see. Once the big rig reached him, there would be no chance to cross for at least five minutes.

He looked south, and saw a blue Honda Accord headed north, an old model with a bad paint job, he could tell even from this distance. It rounded a bend and disappeared from view. No way it would reach this spot for at least a few seconds.

This was his chance.

Duncan flipped on the motor and felt the bike accelerate up the grade of the highway, gaining momentum as it fought gravity. He gave a rebel yell of triumph as he gained the asphalt, fist pumping toward Fritz, who watched in horror from the other side of the PCH.

Then he heard the sound of a car horn, loud and close, too close. Why was it so close? There was no way that rattletrap Honda could have made it here so fast.

Except it had.