Anna was nearly buried in luggage in the backseat, since the trunk in this thing wasn’t overly spacious. But she didn’t seem to mind as we sped with the top down along the sun-soaked streets of Los Angeles. Her smile was huge as her hair whipped around her. “I could definitely get used to this,” she murmured, resting her head back on the seat.
It had been a drizzly, overcast day in Seattle, which the residents there had actually been happy about—less risk of your house catching on fire by a stray firework if everything was a little sodden. Here, the skies were a clear, bright blue. Well, I suppose the blueness was a bit tainted by the layer of smog hovering over the city, but it was brilliant and beautiful nonetheless.
The air running through my fingers as I held them in the breeze was also different than back home—warm instead of cool. I took in the expansive, sprawling city in absolute awe. Everywhere you looked, cultures and ethnicities were blended together. The lacing freeways and highways were more complex than any I had ever seen before, but Kellan seemed comfortable traversing them as he led us to the heart of the city. My eyes were everywhere as I tried to take it all in. Kellan laughed at my wonderstruck face. I couldn’t help it, though. Los Angeles was iconic, legendary. The size and scope of it was intimidating. There was a reason people were drawn to L.A.—dreams were made there and they were destroyed there. You could almost feel the pulse of life in the tepid air.
Moving away from downtown, we began approaching residential districts. As we kept going, it was clear from the neighborhoods that we were getting into one of the more affluent parts of town. The properties were spacious, the houses absurdly large, the lawns ridiculously green and plush; they were even nicer than the yards in Seattle.
As the houses became farther and farther apart, we turned onto a street that was closed off by a gate. There was a paunchy, older man in a booth overseeing the gate, and for a moment I had the strangest feeling that we were crossing the border into a foreign country. If the man asked to see our passports, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
Kellan reached into his back pocket as he stopped the car. “Afternoon, Walter,” he said as he handed the man a card.
“Back already, Mr. Kyle? That was fast. And I see you picked up two beautiful young ladies while you were out.” He tipped his hat to me as he handed Kellan back his card and raised the gate.
Kellan grinned as he revved the engine. “Careful, Walter. I might think you’re trying to make a move on my wife.”
Walter seemed abashed. “Wouldn’t think of it, sir.” He winked at me as he indicated the now-cleared path. Kellan was shaking his head good-naturedly as he pulled forward. Laid-back in his sporty car with dark sunglasses covering his eyes, he already seemed comfortable in his new place. Then again, Kellan had lived in Los Angeles for an entire year after high school, although he probably hadn’t lived quite so nicely.
As we drove past monolithic homes that probably cost more money than most people made in their lifetimes, I hoped Kellan didn’t want to settle down here. True, I’d follow him anywhere, but this city just didn’t hold the same appeal to me that Seattle did. Everything here was just a little too flashy for me.
Like the house Kellan finally stopped at, for example. It was a contemporary, three-story home, with sandblasted white walls. There were large decks jutting out from the home, one on the right side, one on the left, so each floor received the most unobstructed sunlight as possible. All of the balcony railings were frosted glass and shiny chrome, and even from the parking area I could tell that the top floor had a pool on its deck.
It reminded me of a “party house.” The kind that you would see in a crude comedy about spoiled teenagers throwing a rager while their well-to-do parents were “abroad.” The fact that dozens of beautiful, scantily clad people were milling about the property—with drinks in hand, despite the fact that it wasn’t even noon yet—didn’t deter that image either. I frowned over at Kellan as a woman in a teeny weeny bikini walked past the front of the car.
He answered me before I could even ask him who all these people were. “It’s the record label’s house. Any artist on their label is welcome to come here,and some of them invite guests. Actually, almost all of them invite guests . . . at all hours of the day and night.” He rolled his eyes.
That made me frown even more, because I’d always pictured him tucked away in a quiet, secluded spot, dutifully working on his album. I hadn’t pictured him staying at a frat house while I’d been finishing up school. And I’d really thought that Kellan and I would have some much needed privacy here. It looked like I was wrong.