“Don’t let Ryan diminish you.”
“I won’t. He didn’t.”
It was the right answer, but Sam knew all too well that it was impossible to entirely escape a dark past or prevent it from affecting your decisions. It was insecurity and fear, he supposed, lying just beneath the surface like cancer, waiting for the right moment to come out of remission. That’s probably why he and Melody had gravitated toward each other, had learned to trust one another during his past six months working the glamorous job of bar back at Pearl Club. They could talk to each other about things they couldn’t share with anybody else, especially when they were drunk.
Melody wanted a happy ending. Right now, it was some promoter and his BMW, nice place off Sunset, and condo in Vegas—and she didn’t want to let it go.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she finally said.
“I’m pretty sure you don’t.”
She scowled and took a sip of water. “After what I’ve been through, how could I be so stupid?”
“Melody, you’re not stupid. But things won’t get any better. You were afraid to go back to your own apartment last night, for Christ’s sake, what does that tell you? It tells me you think Ryan might end up killing you if you don’t walk away now. I’m being serious.”
“And he might kill me if I do.”
“That’s specious logic for staying with an abuser.”
She looked at him with bleary eyes, made a startling green by her bloodshot whites. A trick of contrasting colors. “Is ‘specious’ my vocabulary word for the day?”
“It’s an underused word.” Sam knew she was conflicted, running a threat assessment, reframing things in her mind as she tried to make sense of her predicament and make it more palatable to whatever idealism still confused her heart and mind.
“I didn’t mean that. Ryan isn’t a killer, he just gets jealous sometimes.”
Ryan, owner of Salamander Productions. He wouldn’t be hard to track down if he needed to. If he really owned the company or even worked there. LA was full of lies and hyperbole because there were plenty of victims who could be deceived or manipulated by them. “Stop making excuses for him. You know better and you can do better. Way better. You’re not a victim anymore, so don’t act like one.”
She recoiled in her chair. “You’re harsh this morning.”
“Tough love.”
“Has a lecture ever changed your mind?”
“Am I lecturing you?”
“Yeah. You did last night and you’re doing it again now.”
“Huh. Well, for the record, every time I got a lecture, I did just the opposite.”
She folded her arms across her chest in vindication. “Exactly.”
“So think of it as a pep talk.”
“Semantics,” she muttered under her breath as the coffee maker crackled a final wheeze, announcing the brew cycle was finished. Sam filled two mugs and dosed them both generously with milk and sugar.
“Drink some coffee, eat some toast. You’ll feel better.”
She took an exploratory bite, then another before abandoning the idea of eating. “Ryan’s a coward. He won’t kill me.”
She was nothing if not persistent in her defense of the scumbag. Ryan had gotten his hooks into her. Were BMWs really that great? “It’s the cowards who kill, you know.”
“You’re not a coward and you killed.”
“In battle. Normal life isn’t war. At least it shouldn’t be.”
Melody toyed with her mug, processed that, scraped a bright pink fingernail along the auto shop logo emblazoned on white ceramic. Sam couldn’t remember how it had come into his possession. It didn’t really matter, but he hated the holes in his memory. Especially hated that some of the things he didn’t want to remember played loud and clear in his mind while the innocuous details of regular life sometimes escaped him.
“How are things with Yukiko?” she finally asked, initiating an official change of subject.
Sam sighed and rubbed the left side of his face, the side still intact. “I don’t know how it’ll turn out.”
“Is that up to you or to her?”
“I guess it’s up to both of us. Whether she wants to participate is her decision.”
“She loves you, right?”
“She does. But I’m not the same guy she fell in love with. There’s a difference. Besides, I’m not really that loveable.”
“I think you are. And you’re cute, too. Do you know the waitresses all think you’re on-fire hot?”
“Then they’re all fetishists.”
“Everybody has scars, yours are just on the outside. But it’s not the scars. You’re kind. Respectful. Or maybe it’s the combination.” She tipped her head and studied him for a moment. “The scars, they make you look dangerous. Are you?”
“I’m incredibly dangerous.”
“See? On fire. I’m not hitting on you, by the way, just sharing my perspective.”
“You’re entitled to an opinion, even if it’s wrong.”
“Maybe I am wrong. According to you, I’m a terrible judge of character.”
“You just made my point for me.”
“You’re also a smart ass.” Melody sipped her coffee delicately, a pinky finger raised. A former junkie with a debutante demeanor, as discomfiting as it was charming.
The throw slid off her shoulder, fully exposing her inked arms, the phases of her life, her various rebellions and hardships. They were all etched there in vivid color as an invite, a challenge to interpret if you dared get close enough. There was a shamrock on her right bicep that reminded him of his soap. Irish Spring. Magic leprechauns who turned green into white.
She noticed him scrutinizing it and she flexed her muscle with a sad smile. “I got this for luck.”
“Is it working?”
“It’s just a charm, a talisman, whatever. We make our own luck. But it can’t hurt, right?”
“I get it. I have a lucky cat.”
She looked around hopefully. “You have a cat?”
“No, I have a lucky cat. Maneki Neko. The ones you see when you walk into an Asian restaurant or business.”
She gave him an unexpected smile. “No way. You mean those cat statues that wave at you?”
“Not all of them wave, but yeah.”
“Cute. So you have your own talisman.”
“Yep, one with absolutely no mystical properties I believe in, just like your shamrock. But like you said, it can’t hurt.”
“Everybody needs a symbol of hope. Mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Go ahead, you know where it is.”
“I should after last night. I don’t know how many beers I had, but they went through my kidneys before my liver had anything to say about it.”
“That might be a good thing.”
Melody retrieved her purse from the living room floor and disappeared into the bathroom while Sam gulped coffee and helped himself to her uneaten, second piece of toast, which had turned into a cold, limp, butter-soaked sponge. He went to the front window and lifted the shade. The black Jeep was gone. He briefly wondered if it had ever been there to begin with.