Unforgettable ~ A Jared Leto/MARS Fanfiction

9-Jared

I haven't been into the L.A. club scene in more years than I care to remember. Partly because I'm not a drinker. I haven't been in a long time. Also because hanging out in a bar watching a thousand so-called friends falling all over themselves while grinding against someone they'd never consider fuckable while sober is not my idea of a good time. Nor do I particularly enjoy the hangover afterward, or worrying that I did something the night before that not only do I regret, but was caught doing by the paparazzi who maintain a constant presence outside these establishments.

But then there comes a time in everyone's life to say fuck it. For me, tonight happens to be that night. I'm pissed off. I'm pissed off at the whole fucking world, in fact. At my wife who's chosen to believe the worst about me. At my brother for taking off to set up housekeeping with his girlfriend in Seattle. At Katia and Ivan Valkov who've made my life hell for being who I am, and truthfully, at myself for being who I am, too.

My decked-out and flame-painted Bronco is hardly a low-profile vehicle in which to cruise West Hollywood, but it's too late to worry about that now. I'm just glad I have a rudiment of concealing accessories stashed away in it. The last thing I feel like doing is getting mobbed by the scads of tourists strolling up and down the sidewalks, gathering in bunches at the corners amid dope dealers and hookers of both genders plying their trades.

I wait as a parked SUV's back-up lights come on, and grab the spot the second it's vacated. Throwing twenty bucks in the meter, I stroll toward the nearest club, knowing the black bandana wrapped around my head and the tinted glasses—Carreras, but still the ugliest and nerdiest things I've ever seen—are a ridiculous combination and probably do little to conceal my identity. The loud, bass-heavy music bursting out into the street as the doors open for patrons coming and going promise an evening of getting lost in a crowd. I welcome both gladly.

If Shannon still lived here, he'd jump at the chance to join me bar-hopping, something he hasn't managed to talk me into doing in years. I can imagine the shit I'd get if he was here, watching me get buzzed on a single Chivas Regal and Coke. The taste of alcohol reminds me of some kind of vile medicine, but it has the desired effect. I feel my anger and stress peel away as I stand at the bar, watching the action on the huge dance floor. Despite being in such close proximity to people, no one seems to recognize me. It's an odd and liberating feeling.

Soon, I realize why. A look around the room and I realize I'm by far not the only celebrity in the place. No A-listers, they're more at home at the Windows Lounge at the Four Seasons, but a few respectable names are dotted here and there amid the young, hip clientele. Younger and hipper than I am, anyway.

Two more drinks and I'm well on my way to feeling young and hip, not to mention hammered. I still have enough presence of mind to realize I passed my non-existent alcohol limit a while ago and should get the hell out of here before I do or say something stupid to the few people—women, mostly—who've actually recognized me and engaged in conversation. And so I extricate myself with polite excuses and pull my jacket on, weaving my way to the exit.

But I have no intention of going home. Not only am I not willing to face Lanie, but I'm reasonably sure I'm in no condition to drive. Besides, I'd noticed another club at the end of the street. As long as I'm already shit-faced, I may as well check that one out, too. I head up the block toward it, my head buzzing pleasantly. I can hear the muffled but thumping house music from half the block away.

A couple of overly made-up hookers, a blonde and a redhead, linger near the club entrance, smoking cigarettes and talking in low voices. Their conversation halts as I draw near and I brace myself for the pitch. I haven't been close enough to a streetwalker to get hit on by one in years. I try to think of something caustic but witty to say back to them, but my brain doesn't seem willing to come up with anything.