“Why?” Beanie Boy demanded, clearly offended.
Tommy reached for the acoustic the kid was holding and strummed the opening riff of Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water.”
“Hear that?”
The kid nodded cautiously.
Tommy returned the guitar and reached for the electric twelve-string he’d been eyeing from the moment he started working at Farrington’s. The one he’d be a lot closer to owning if one of these punks ever decided to make themselves useful and actually buy something.
He played the same piece as the kids leaned toward him. “It’s louder, fuller, brighter. But that’s just me. Don’t go acting like it’s gospel or anything.”
“That was good, bro. You should think about joining our band.”
Tommy laughed, ran an appreciative hand over the neck of the guitar before returning it to its hook. “So, which one you gonna buy?” He glanced between them.
“All of ’em!” Dookie Boy grinned. He reminded Tommy of himself at that age—a lethal mix of insecure and cocky.
“Yeah, as soon as he sells his MILF porn collection on eBay!” Beanie Boy laughed and ran for the door as his friend gave chase, shouting insults that weren’t nearly as good as the one he’d been served.
Tommy watched them exit, the small silver bell attached to the handle jangling behind them, relieved to finally have some time to himself.
Not that he disliked his customers—Farrington’s Vintage Guitar was known for attracting a pretty specific, music-obsessed crowd, but it wasn’t exactly the job he’d envisioned when he first arrived in LA. He had some serious skills, all of which were going to waste. If things didn’t pick up, he’d have no choice but to track those kids down and beg for an audition.
Aside from playing the guitar, he could also sing. Not that anyone gave a shit. His last attempt to book some steady solo gigs was a fail. The hundred or so flyers he’d plastered around town (prominently featuring a picture of him in faded low-slung jeans with his guitar strapped across his bare chest) gleaned only two hits. One from some pervert asking him to “audition” (the sick giggle that followed had Tommy seriously considering changing his number), and an actual gig at a local coffee shop that seemed promising, until his original stuff was quashed by the manager, who insisted he play nothing but acoustic covers of John Mayer’s biggest hits for a full three hours. At least he’d managed to make a fan of the fortysomething blond who’d passed him a crumpled napkin with her hotel and room number scribbled in red, winking as she sashayed (no other way to describe it) out the door, sure that he’d follow.
He didn’t.
Though he had to admit he’d been tempted. It’d been a bleak six months since he’d arrived in LA, and she was damn good-looking. Fit too, judging by the dress that hugged every curve. And though he appreciated her directness, and while her body probably really was a wonderland, he couldn’t deal with the thought of being no more than an interesting diversion for a woman who’d grown bored with men her own age.
More than anything, Tommy wanted to be taken seriously.
It was the reason he moved halfway across the country with the entirety of his worldly possessions (a dozen or so T-shirts, some broken-in jeans, a turntable that once belonged to his mom, his prized vinyl collection, a pile of paperbacks, and a secondhand six-string guitar) shoved in the trunk of his car.
Sure, he figured it might take some time to get settled, but the shortage of gigs was never part of the plan.
Neither was the job hawking guitars, but at least he could tell his mom he was working in the music industry.
He turned the page of his magazine, only to see a full-page article praising the Strypes (fuckin’ sixteen-year-olds poised to take over the world—making Tommy wonder if he’d peaked two years ago and missed it entirely).
When the door clanged open, Tommy was glad for the distraction, only to see some rich bastard who looked totally out of place among all the Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, and B. B. King posters slapped on the walls. His designer jeans and T-shirt alone probably cost more than Tommy made in a week. Never mind the suede blazer, flashy gold watch, and spendy-looking loafers—most likely handmade by craftsmen in Italy—that probably cost more than all of Tommy’s possessions combined, including his car.
Lifestyle tourist.
Los Feliz was full of ’em. Rich, wannabe hipsters, ducking in and out of the area’s numerous cafés, galleries, and eccentric boutiques, hoping to glean a little street cred they could haul back to their Beverly Hills hood and impress all their friends with tales of their journey to the wild side.
Tommy frowned and flipped past the article. Reading about the Strypes was bringing him down.
Waiting for the customer to complete his obligatory walk around, maybe even ask for a card (they made great souvenirs—proved you really were there!), was also bringing him down.
&nbs
p; But unlike the Strypes, this guy would eventually pass through Tommy’s life. Whereas every band in that magazine seemed to mock him, making him realize just how big a fail his move to LA had become.
Figuring he should exert a little effort and acknowledge the pretentious asshole invading his space, he started to speak when the words caught in his throat and he found himself ogling like the worst kind of groupie.
It was Ira.
Ira Redman.