TITLE: Tinseltown in the Rain
AUTHOR: Teanna (teanna@gatefiction.com)
WEB: http://gatefiction.com/teanna
ARCHIVE: Ask me, please
DISCLAIMER: Bla bla Aaron Sorkin etc
SUMMARY: The words are still there, in the air
NOTES: PG13? Pre-admin. Drug-taking. Lack of Angst. See end.

*

Mike's parked his new Porsche right before the gates, and the guests 
all have to squeeze past it, of course. CJ's hanging out the window 
of the second floor bedroom, drawing the last guilty puffs on a 
cigarette. "Yes, Sir, we're all agreed on the dangers of smoking, we 
all are." 

A sudden wind flaps the curtain in her face and the smoke gets in her 
eyes and in the room. Steps outside and she panics and grabs the 
first spray can she can get her hands on and poof! and as Mike comes 
in, the room is smelling like something died in it, and he takes a 
step back.

"What the -"

"Shouldn't keep your bug spray next to your perfume," she says and 
smiles.

She doesn't like the look in his eyes then and knows it's past time. 

There's still her group, at the party, the men and women who don't 
talk about kids or stock markets or new cars, they gather around the 
pool with their joints and she feels okay then. They need more 
pretzels or whatever and she grabs the keys to the Porsche that Mike 
never let her drive and she walks behind him and says in a voice he 
can't hear "I'm taking the car to get some more pretzels" and he's 
talking bearer bonds with his friends.

She drives and there's a drop falling from the sky and she puts the 
top up - does it ever rain in LA it never rains in sunny sunny 
Tinseltown-by-the-Sea - and so she puts it down again and then it's 
stuck, the top is stuck and it's raining on her head.

She tells her joint "you'll get wet, you know, the fire in you will 
just go out, you'll be wet and limp and pale and I couldn't tell the 
difference between you and Mike's cock then."

That thought kinda cheers her and she speeds on, takes a left turn 
and then she's driving along the quiet streets where rich people put 
their gates up so no one can tell what they're doing, what they're 
taking, who they're fucking.

She's too young to be this old and she's too young to settle for 
this, and she thinks that when the road forks she'll take the turn 
that feels the least familiar and just drive on.

And so the road forks and she tries to decide where to go and a cat 
is suddenly in front of the car, and she knows, she knows she knows 
she should just drive on but she's not a cat-killer, never was, and 
so she takes a sharp turn to the left and the Porsche spins out of 
control and she ends up in a fountain.

The joint isn't at all wet, she finds out when she climbs over the 
windscreen and sits down on the hood of the car. Mike's floating car, 
and all that leather, such a shame. 

Someone, a person in the corner of her eye. She turns her head.

He's short and round and his hair is thinning and there are lines 
around his eyes but he's not much older than she and he's doing 
something with his hands. Like writing.

"Are you writing in your head?" she says. 

He blinks, touches his head with a fingertip. Halts his fingers and 
their restless patterns in the air. But the lines are still there, 
blame it on the pot, she can still almost read his words.

"I'm. Uh, yes. Yes, I am," he says, "and you're... Did you steal the 
car?"

"No," she says, then "or, yeah, yes, I guess, I stole it."

A careful smile.

"He was my boyfriend," she explains.

"Ah."

His hands are moving again. He's wearing a corduroy suit, and he's 
practically got "New York" tattooed on his forehead. She doesn't kiss 
bearded men, she thinks. 

"I... I think the cops will be here shortly."

"Mm." She's thinking about how she spoke of Mike in the past tense, 
about why it would matter. 

"So... Will you. Come with me?"

"Before the cops arrive?"

"Yes."

She throws her joint in the fountain, rubs her hands together. What 
the hell.

"I haven't actually left him yet."

He smiles, of a sudden. Steps close to the edge of the fountain, 
holds out a hand.

"I don't care either way."

She takes his hand, because she doesn't have to. His nails are chewed 
and ink stained. 

"You better not have a script you're dying to show me. I'm not in 
that kind of PR."

They leave the car, the fountain, Mike. LA.

FINIS

Endnotes: First, lyrics and title by Blue Nile. Yeah, it's yet 
another fic for (not a) soundtrack - 
http://gatefiction.com/teanna/soundtrack 
Also for the bordello's First Meeting Challenge - 
http://gatefiction.com/bordello

Leea keeps me sane and is not to blame for any badness or the drugs. 
Blame her for all Good Things - and kittens and ribbons. And the 
bordellinos inspire me, always. 

And this is for the lady in the fishnet stockings. We're so married 
it's scary. Find us in matching overalls - my ChristineCGB.