Warm in the Night

Chapter 1: Seize the NightIt’s getting dark in Westwood. I turn the lights on in my room to finish packing. All of my clothes fit in one suitcase, a beat-up old thing that I’ve had since I was a kid. My name is scrawled on it in childish handwriting: DYLAN, every letter a different color. I’m about to pack my black blazer but then reconsider. I’ll wear it to WeHo tonight. WeHo is West Hollywood, the gay mecca of Los Angeles. Its main street, Santa Monica Boulevard, known to the locals as Boys Town or just The Boulevard, is a haven of gay bars and nightclubs surrounded by trendy boutiques and restaurants. My first time there as a recently turned eighteen-year-old, I felt like Dorothy landing in Oz. Dorothy, however, never drunkenly made out with strangers in Oz. I want to get drunk. I want to get laid. I want to forget that I’m failing spectacularly at life. All summer, I’ve had zero luck finding a job. No employers care that I graduated from a prestigious university. A bunch of other people did, too. A high volume of qualified applicants. Exceptionally competitive. Thank you for your interest in our company. We wish you the best in your future professional endeavors. They wished me the best. Now I can’t afford to pay my rent and don’t know where I’ll be sleeping tomorrow night. So naturally, I’m going out to get wasted. I dress in some dark denim skinny jeans and a T-shirt, then fix my hair into a look that I hope says I didn’t try too hard. I throw on my blazer and get a look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My green eyes shine brightly with cynicism. The living room is a haze of fruity flavored smoke. My roommate, Tish, is sitting at her usual spot on the couch, puffing on a hookah bong and clicking away at her laptop. She looks up at me and grins. “Where are you headed off to all cleaned up?” “WeHo,” I say. “Do you need a ride?” she asks, blowing a stream of smoke away from her laptop screen. “No, there’s a cab on the way.” “A cab?” she repeats, startled. “Isn’t that really expensive?” “Yeah,” I shrug. “But whatever.” I may be low on cash, but I have a credit card and I’m in a very screw-it sort of mood. On the wall behind Tish, there’s a blue and gold UCLA Class of 2012 banner. I scowl at it. I used to be so proud of being a UCLA student, after having worked so hard to get into the school. Now I just feel like a sucker. I learned a lot, of course, and made lifelong memories. I also have five figures in student loan debt to show for it. “Farha’s bringing all her stuff over in the morning,” says Tish. “Are you sure it’s okay for her to have your bed?” “Yeah,” I sigh. “It’s not like I can take it with me.” “Are you bummed to be going back to Ohio?” “I’m not going back to Ohio.” Tish looks confused. “I thought you were moving back in with your parents?” “Nope.” “Then where are you going tomorrow?” Her worried expression is offset by the series of smoke rings she blows out. “I’ll crash on somebody’s couch, I guess.” I have no idea whose couch it’ll be. Most of my friends have graduated and moved back home. Tish, now a senior at UCLA, is one of my few younger friends. My phone vibrates with an alert saying that my cab is arriving. “That’s my ride,” I say, heading for the door. “See you later.” Tish takes a long drag from the hookah bong, the liquid inside it bubbling like a witch’s brew. “Bye, be safe!” she puffs out, a cloud of smoke obscuring her face. I step out into the night and am just in time to meet the cab as it pulls up to the apartment building. “Where to, young man?” the aging driver asks. “WeHo,” I say. “The Boulevard.” We drive through Beverly Hills to get to WeHo, along the famous Sunset Boulevard. I stare out at the massive houses, the neatly manicured lawns, the shining vehicles parked in front. It may as well be on another planet for how attainable it feels. The people who live in these mansions have high-paying, glamorous jobs. There are thousands like them in the city, living in gated estates in Bel-Air, in seaside palaces in Malibu. To them, the amount of money I owe in student debt is chump change. What must it be like to just be able to afford things and not have to worry? The glittering color of WeHo looms up in the night. The Boulevard is swarming with people, dressed in their Saturday-night best. Young women totter around in form-hugging dresses and high heels, their hair blown out and faces painted to perfection. The gay men travel in packs, their pants and T-shirts tighter than any straight man’s. Neon signs glow and fairy lights twinkle in front of the various bars, dance music blaring out as we pass. People are packed into the front patios like sardines but look cheerfully content, sipping cocktails and smoking cigarettes. There’s that familiar sense of anticipation in the air, the feeling that anything could happen. The driver slows down at the corner of Santa Monica and San Vicente, where the painted rainbow crosswalks are. The ride comes out to thirty-five dollars plus tip. I swipe my credit card in the machine attached to the glass partition, watching myself sink that much further into debt. I walk past Micky’s and The Revolver before reaching Eleven, a large two-story bar and dance club. A surly-faced bouncer at the door checks my ID and then lets me into the noisy, crowded space. Disco and strobe lights flash from above as Nicki Minaj’s “Starships” thunders from powerful speakers. People stumble around the dance floor, having the time of their lives. I weave through the crowd, heading for the wide bar at the far end of the room. There are two shirtless, impossibly beautiful bartenders gamely handling the throng of thirsty patrons yelling out their drink orders. I wait patiently, watching the taller of the two as he mixes a drink and flashes a smile at the man he gives it to, who then tips him generously. He bends down to scoop some more ice, his thick muscled arm flexing, his tight black pants riding down to show the top of his beautifully defined ass. He isn’t wearing any underwear. I feel a pang of desire. “Hey, honey, what can I get you?” the beautiful man says, when he finally gets to me. I swallow quickly before I speak. “A vodka cranberry, please.” “You got it.” He winks at me and turns to make the drink. I entertain the notion of having a chance with him before I remember that it’s his job to be charming and friendly. It’s all for a paycheck. I hand him my credit card and take a sip of the drink, looking around at the bar. A guy about my age, very drunk, nudges another guy next to him and then they both look at me, wordlessly expressing their interest. I look away and scurry into the crowd. What’s wrong with you? I wander away from the dance floor. Why not go chat with them? You came here to have fun, didn’t you? I down my drink, not bothering to pace myself the way I’ve learned with experience that I should. I then shuffle back to the bar and order myself another round from the gorgeous bartender. I watch him bend over again, feeling that heat of desire in my chest, but then tear my eyes away and head for a small table in a dim corner of the room. I watch the people on the dance floor, steadily gulping my drink to catch up to their level of relaxation. Slow down, says my rational side, but I ignore it. I tip the glass back to get every last drop of alcohol, and some of the ice slips out onto my lap. I sputter and wipe my mouth, feeling like an i***t. I glance at the people crowding around the bar and wonder if I’ve made a mistake in coming here tonight. I feel miserable as I imagine the expensive cab ride back to Westwood. “Why so serious?” I jump at the voice that sounds in my ear, deep and clear over the thumping dance music. A man has appeared on the bench next to me, seemingly out of thin air. “Huh?” I say, even though I heard him clearly. “Why do you look so sad?” he asks. “Because I am,” I say bluntly. The man puts on an expression of concern. I squint at him in the dim light. He has brown eyes, dark hair, strong angular features, and looks to be in his mid-thirties. He wears a black suit, complete with a dark blue tie neatly tucked into his jacket. The jacket hugs his body snugly, accentuating his broad shoulders, and I guess that it was especially tailored for him. An expensive-looking silver watch with a blue face glimmers on his wrist. “What does a gorgeous young man like you have to be sad about?” “Thanks,” I smile politely. He wouldn’t be the first man to come at me with a pickup line like that. Older lusting after younger is as commonplace in bars as the cocktails themselves, in both the gay and straight worlds. “No, really,” the man says, more seriously. He leans in closer and looks into my eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong.” He puts on an intimate tone, like we know each other. “It’s a stupid, depressing story,” I say, looking away. “You wouldn’t be interested.” “Try me,” he says. “How about over a drink? Can I get you one?” “Um,” I hesitate. “Sure.” I expect him to go join the crowd at the bar, but instead he gestures at one of the shirtless bartenders, one from upstairs who has come down with supplies for the ground floor. “Hey, Joey,” he calls. The silver watch on his wrist sparkles in the disco lights as he waves down the young man. “Could I get a—” He looks at me expectantly. “Um, a vodka cranberry,” I say, flustered. “A vodka cranberry for this young man,” the stranger continues, “and a scotch on the rocks for me.” “Sure thing, Mr. Knight,” says the young bartender Joey. I watch him hurry to the bar and realize I’ve never seen the bartenders here act as waiters. It’s a special favor for a special patron. “I’m Roderick,” the man says at last, extending his hand. It’s warm, almost hot. “Roderick Knight? Like a white knight?” I ask, without thinking. He smiles, his eyes twinkling. He’s probably gotten this comment before. “It’s spelled with an N, like nighttime. There’s no K. People call me Rod.” “Or Mr. Night,” I say, indicating Joey at the bar. “You can call me Mr. Night if you want,” he says. I feel my face grow warm. His eyes bore into mine, a playful gaze that’s also intense, and I have to look away. I envy his ease, the quiet power with which he carries himself. The subtle gestures he makes—the small smile, the sly gaze—are markers of firm confidence. He’s in full command. He doesn’t need to make overt, stupid gestures to attract a man. “And what do I call you?” “Dylan,” I say. “Dylan Rhodes.” “Dylan Rhodes,” he repeats, as though trying out how it sounds. “And who are you here with, Dylan Rhodes?” “No one. Just me.” “You’re here all by yourself?” he asks, with a tone of surprise. “Yeah, I don’t mind it. It’s better to be alone sometimes.” He tilts his head, regarding me as if I’ve just said something fascinating. “How about you?” I ask, even though I can already guess the answer. “I’m like you,” he says. “I’m alone, too.” I meet his gaze, wanting to show I can compete with that intense stare of his. It isn’t more than a few seconds before I feel too exposed, like he can see everything about me in my eyes. I look away again and focus on the bartender Joey who is walking back through the crowd toward us. I can feel Mr. Night’s eyes still on me. “Here you go, Mr. Night,” says Joey subserviently, setting down the scotch and my vodka cranberry. “Thank you, babe,” says Mr. Night. He takes Joey’s hand and places a bill in it. I didn’t even notice him taking the money out. “Thank you, Mr. Night,” says Joey, looking genuinely grateful before hurrying off again. “Cheers,” says Mr. Night, turning to me.