The Sunset Strip

The Sunset Strip, just outside LA city limits, is home to some of the richest celebrities in the world, and as such, is also home to some of the most prestigious bars and nightclubs that money can walk into and get drunk within. Everyone knows this. What most people don’t know, or what the Strip tries its hardest to keep secret, is that just off the boardwalk, less than half a mile into its heart, lies the dirtiest, seediest, most Led Zeppelin-lovingest boozers on the entire West Coast. Teresa pulled up outside the dirtiest.

She had a plan. It was simple. Go inside. Hustle some pool. Make some money. Get drunk. Drive home. Five little steps, just like dealing with grief. But her steps were more fun. They involved JD.

Part of her plan was her uniform. This was, after all, her job, unofficially at least, and her uniform had been planned to meticulous detail. She couldn’t use her bike to sit outside on. No, hers was unique. Recognisable. Traceable. She needed something more run-of-the-mill, fade-into-the-crowd-never-to-be-thought-of-again. The 2006 Harley Fatboy with rusted wheel caps and a faded black paintjob that she’d ‘borrowed’ worked just fine. Same goes with the helmet. Her custom paintjob was no good her, and au naturale was no way to go. She had to buy a new one, plain, boring. You have to speculate to accumulate. Next was the clothing, and this was the easy part. Dress to attract and distract. Lips: red. Cleavage: to the max. Belly stud: on show. Jeans: cuddling ass. Thong: escaping jeans. Only her boots weren’t part of the get-up. Red cowboy boots: sexy as fuck.

She leaned against the Fatboy and eyed up the situation. ‘Antonio’s’ skulked away beneath an Italian restaurant, tunnelling it’s depravity into the foundations. Little more than darkened windows and the flashing neon sign, proudly displaying patronage, could be seen from ground level. The stairs downwards stank of last night’s piss, and the gutters overflowed with a brown liquid. It wasn’t alcohol.

A man leaned again the railings outside, his Stetson tilted down across his face. Promising start.

“Hey, sweet cheeks,” Teresa mused, for voice singing in well-rehearsed Texan. “Keep an eye on the prize there, hun, will ya?” She flicked him a dime and a wink, and sauntered right past him.

“It looks just like Cheers” the Stetson shouted enthusiastically.

Teresa had reached the bottom step and was opening the door handle before she replied, “What the fuck is Cheers?” She was inside without waiting for the answer.

Inside most certainly did not look like Cheers. There were no baseball mitts framed and walled, nor was Woody Harrelson working behind the bar. Instead, the bar looked like broken pool cues and fights in the alleyway, and smelled like Rock and Roll, and slightly of piss. It was quieter than Teresa had hoped. Less marks. First stop: jukebox.

It was a well known fact that certain music encouraged people to take risks. Something up-tempo, to get the blood flowing away from the brain and to anywhere else, would do. Guns and Roses? No. Iron Maiden? No. Judas Priest? No. She slipped her quarter into the machine, pressed G6, smiled to herself, and walked to the bar. Before she got there, the song kicked in. Never made it as a wise man, I couldn’t cut it as a poor man stealin’. All eyes were on her now.

“Nickelback?” the barman asked, raising the obligatory eyebrow.

“Double JD. Neat.” Even for a woman used to the subtleties of the male stare, Teresa could feel the eyes on her. Their pupils scratched her calmness, saw straight through her cleavage, threatened to read that brain inside that pretty little head.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“You don’t say.”

A stand-off was forming. Barman on one side, Teresa on the other. Roughly twenty men, intoxicated to various degrees of ‘hammered’, watched like children in a playground, ready for a fight.

The door opened. The bell above jingled. Eyes turned.

Stetson stood in the doorway, his silhouette striding forward like a knight in shining armour. “Oh, I love this song,” he exclaimed, then started singing along.

“Tosser,” the barman whispered under his breath, then to Teresa, “What’ll it be?”

“Double JD. Neat. On the house.”

“I like you and your nerve, but you’re buying your own fucking drink. You’ve robbed my eardrums of peace with this shit, you’re not putting your hand in the till too.”

“I’ll get that,” said one of the mob, as he emerged from the crowd. His face was weasel-like; a long, thin nose enhanced by whiskers of a moustache, and rounded off by two protruding chompers at the forefront of his mouth.

“I can buy my own...”

“Nah, doll, I insist. Pretty little piece of ass like yourself, you shouldn’t be buying drinks. You should be drinking ‘em.”

“I’m buying my own...”

“Can’t you let a guy just buy a pretty girl a drink? Stop being a bitch and just...”

This time it was the weasel who was interrupted, but not by words. With what can best be describes as a well-practices swiftness, Teresa grabbed the back of his head and shoved downwards. Shards of glass flew everywhere as the nose, followed by the whiskers then the teeth then the rest of the face, smashed its way through a pint of Budweiser and dented the bar.

The mob formed again, furious. Only the pitchforks and the monster were missing.

They were on top of her within seconds. A few trying to calm things down, but most were too drunk to care. They smelled fresh meat, and, after all, a good bar brawl is a good bar brawl, regardless of even sides or genders. Teresa could feel hands on her. She kicked and screamed and clawed and flung her arms and her legs but it didn’t matter. A fist caught her in the stomach, winding her. She was on the ground now, helpless. An arm grabbed her leg tight, and pulled. She flailed like a caught fish, but still the net dragged her onwards. Another arm clenched on her, this time round her forearm, dragging her upwards, then way.

The door opened. The bell jingled. She was out.

Stetson winked at her, and threw back the dime. “Eyes on the prize, hun.”

They walked up the stairs and into the daylight. Places like ‘Antonio’s’ steal the light and hide it away. They exist only in night and darkness. L.A. was all about the sun.

“I... You... But what if...” The words failed her. She knew what she wanted to say, but her lips, her tongue, were out of practice. But maybe she didn’t need words.

She walked slowly up to him, then stopped. Her pause and breath were deliberate. She flicked the Stetson up. His face was pretty. Ocean eyes, desert skin, sunrise smile. She leaned in closer and breathed on his lips, drawing the blood to the surface. Those ruby lips, like long-forgotten jewels. Gently, she ran her lips along his, then went deeper. Her arms were round him now, and his quickly wrapped themselves around her waist. She ran her arms down his body, over his arms and down to his legs, then up to his crotch, where she, softly but with skill, drew her opened hand upwards.

“Whoa, whoa. Slowly, now,” he said, and drew himself away. For a second she looked hurt, but then she reached into her pocket and dragged out a small rectangular object. She twisted the base. Lipstick. Ruby red. She grabbed his hand. Teresa Lillian Jones she thought to herself.

He pulled his hand back and looked down. “Holly. Cute name.”

“Come find me,” she winked, tickling his pride and his heart. The helmet went back on, the Fatboy started up a treat, and then she was off. Stetson smiled to himself as he walked back downstairs. His pulse was racing. He needed a fight.

Teresa pulled over at the side of the road a few blocks down, when she was sure she’d put some distance between herself and today. She parked the bike up, and reluctantly, ditched it. As she set off on the walk back to her place, she pulled a man’s wallet out of her back pocket and counted the contents. At least a hundred, maybe even double. A quick once over was all that was needed now.

It’s a fact that physical contact makes the blood rush. It’s like a moth to a flame. A carefully caressed wrist, or a gently rubbed crotch can draw all the feeling to one part of the body, and steal it away from others. Just long enough to slip a wallet out of a back pocket, maybe.

Teresa swung the helmet in her hand up and down as she walked. It’d been a good day’s work, and as such, a reward was in store. She fingered her phone out of her pocket and went straight for her favourite number.

“My place. 20 minutes. I’m wearing the red cowboy boots.”