An unexpected meeting with her one night sparked an interest for Caden Whitlock, who'd never witnessed a woman using her guitar as a weapon.
The same unexpected meeting left Lennie St. James wondering who was really the man beneath the motorcycle h...
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It's probably not a wise decision to walk around this area of Los Angeles alone.
The lights in the heart of the city offer some comfort, but the dingy hues of Romeras Avenue offer nothing but the urge to vanish. The urge to wrap my thin jacket a little tighter around my shoulders.
I do just that, manoeuvring it around the strap of my guitar case as I pass by the fifth bar of the street. A couple of drunk people are scattered outside, mumbling incoherent sentences in their own alcohol-forged language, puffing smoke into each other's faces.
That's probably how my group and I look to other people.
Damn, I could really do with a vodka-cranberry right now. With ice. Heaven in a cup.
I divert my gaze as one whistles. I could theoretically go over and whack him across the head with my instrument, but that would be very fucking silly.
Going to jail isn't exactly on my agenda. Especially not when sophomore year only just began three weeks ago.
Instead, I continue my walk, pretending to speak into my phone. It's my own damn fault I'm solo right now. The group wanted to carry on the 'festivities' after we brought our shitty little gig to a close in Riva, but I've got a fat-ass heap of assignments on my desk that are unfortunately not going to complete themselves.
Writing an essay on Gatsby with rock music still ringing in my ears won't be fun. But hey, what can I expect? I signed up for this. The ridiculous ambitions of a wannabe author.
I near the end of the street, and I spot a man huddled in a doorway. He has a beanie pulled tight over his head, despite the surprisingly warm October weather; sunken features that look like a result of malnourishment.
Jesus, poor dude looks like he's been through it.
A cardboard sign is stood in front of him, constructed from an old pizza box.
'I have nothing. Please spare me some change. Anything will make a difference. Thank you for any kindness. -John.' It reads.
'John' lifts his head, his gaze meeting mine for a moment as I finish reading his sign, sliding my phone into my jacket. A bony arm snakes out from the tattered coat over his lap, towards a small polystyrene cup.
My heartstrings tug, those hope-core videos getting the better of me as I dip my hand into the pocket of my shorts, pulling out the bleak contents.
A snapped hair-tie, a receipt from McDonalds for nine dippers, a stray piece of gum, and the lousy $20 bill I earned from the gig.
Lousy payment or not, he obviously needs it more than I do. I'm the one frolicking back to a warm bed in the dorms, with access to a fridge and hot water.
