8. Is he good looking?
Is he good looking?
THREE MONTHS LATER…
Hunter wondered if he should just walk out.
Maybe driving for Uber would be better than this.
But his car was too shitty to qualify for Uber.
And also, he thought of Colby. Getting to watch Colby sing and get paid for it- that’s what kept Hunter’s butt in the seat across from Maxwell Ford, the manager of Range.
And also, the manager of Tidal, Colby’s band.
“Tell me how you met Colby again?” Ford asked as he rubbed his forehead with his index finger and his tired hazel eyes narrowed on Hunter.
“We met in an earthquake,” Hunter said, not really understanding how this was a legitimate question for a bartending job. “He works at Trader Joe’s part-time, which I guess you know.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“We were both there when the quake hit.”
Ford’s eyes widen. “When we had that six-point-four quake earlier this year? Jesus. I actually got under my desk for that one. It made me think about buying an emergency kit.”
Hunter nodded and tried to not to look judgey.
Lots of long-time Californians didn’t take earthquakes seriously.
Ford wasn’t the only idiot. Hunter’s mom had bought him a bug-out bag, a first aid kit, and a LifeStraw before he even left Montreal.
And Leandra had bought her own supplies after he pestered her.
She’d taken it with her when she left. He’d bought a second bug-out bag a couple months ago when he found out Colby didn’t have his own.
It was next to his in the dining room closet.
“Yeah, well, that’s how we met. In the restroom waiting for it to stop. ”
Ford stared at him silently for a second and then let out a huff of air from his lungs, which were likely black since his fingers were yellow from holding way too many cigarettes. “Fucking crazy. But how do you go from meeting him at a grocery store to rooming with him?”
Hunter wasn’t surprised, but he was irked that Ford knew Colby was sharing Hunter’s shitty apartment.
“He was living in his van, and it got crushed by a falling tree during the Santa Anas. The same day as the earthquake, actually,” Hunter explained. “He happened to be parked outside of my apartment building when it happened.”
Yeah, the story was insane. Hunter knew it. Ford was just staring at Hunter, imploringly, like he wanted more, so Hunter gave it to him and hoped he didn’t sound frustrated. “Anyway, then my girlfriend and I split, so he moved in. He sleeps on the couch.”
Hunter wasn’t sure why he needed to add information about where Colby slept.
Ford was making him uncomfortable, which made him babble.
It was a common occurrence whenever Ford and Hunter were in the same room, and it had happened a few times over the last few months.
Hunter tried to catch as many of Colby’s shows as he could, because that’s what friends did, and Ford was always there.
Hunter ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, probably messing it up, which was a shame because he’d spent a good amount of time styling it this morning.
He leaned forward in his seat. “So, I haven’t bartended in a couple of years.
I was a server at Cut in the Beverly Wilshire most recently, and Craig’s before that, but I used to bartend in college. ”
“Where did you go to college?”
“UCLA Extension. For acting. I bartended at a place called Studio Lounge for almost two years.”
“Right. An actor…” Ford smiled at that, and it felt offensive.
Hunter was an actor, now with a spiffy new SAG card too, which meant insurance and a much easier visa renewal when the time came.
Since Leandra moved out and Colby moved in, Hunter had landed another commercial and a paid part in a play that ran for two weeks in Silver Lake.
He still wasn’t making enough to pay rent without Colby or afford his anxiety meds, but whatever.
He was an actor. So fuck Ford and his judgment. “Okay. Can you start Thursday?”
Hunter swallowed and forced himself to say, “Yeah. I can.”
Ford stood up, rummaged through some paperwork and folders on his desk, and handed Hunter a pile of papers. “Fill these out and bring them back with you Thursday night at seven.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Colby really wanted this,” Ford said, and the message was clear—this was a favor for the lead singer in the band he was trying to make famous.
“I figure you’ll be better than no one, which is what we have now.
Rhonda walked out without notice. Ran off with a wellness influencer to Mexico or some shit. ”
Hunter took the paperwork as Ford searched his rumpled suit pockets for something. “So, you’re like what? Best friends?”
“With Colby? Yeah. I guess.” Hunter felt instantly uncomfortable as Ford’s eyes flipped up and seemed to examine his face.
“That’s cute. I didn’t know people did that after high school.” Ford smirked and pulled a nearly empty pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
You didn’t know people had friends after high school?
Hunter wanted to challenge, but this wasn’t just Colby’s sketchy manager anymore.
Not just the dude running the club his best friend played at.
Now it was Hunter’s boss, so Hunter didn’t say anything other than, “Thanks for the chance. See you Thursday.”
Ford grunted a goodbye as Hunter left the small, messy office behind the bar of Range.
He walked through the empty club, glancing at the clusters of tables and the scuffed wood floor in front of the stage.
The last time he’d been in here, Colby, and his bandmates were on stage and that dance floor was filled with people staring up at him adoringly.
Mostly college-aged women. And Hunter stood by the bar, next to Briar, slammed so hard with one thought that his mouth hung open—Colby Keaton was going to be a star.
It was just moments away, Hunter knew it.
He wanted it for Colby, but he also wanted it for himself.
And Colby inching closer to success only highlighted how far away Hunter was from the same thing.
But still, he was happy for Colby.
The sun was high in the sky when Hunter stepped out onto the West Hollywood sidewalk.
It was like stepping onto a cast-iron skillet over a blazing gas burner.
Early September in Los Angeles was like mid-August everywhere else.
He regretted the decision to walk home immediately.
But Colby needed a car for band practice, and he hadn’t replaced his van yet, so Hunter had said Colby could drop him off for the interview and then Hunter would walk home.
“It’s just four blocks east and half a block south,” Hunter murmured out loud to remind himself. And he could get sweaty and gross because he had nowhere to be today after this. No auditions lined up. No shift to go to. No… nothing.
He plucked his sunglasses from where they’d been hanging off the collar of his shirt and covered his eyes.
Someone honked. He ignored it and turned around to start walking east on Fountain.
The sidewalk was empty because no one walked in LA regardless of temperature unless they had a dog.
But even dog owners didn’t walk them midday in heatwaves.
Another honk. Hunter finally turned and caught sight of an arm waving out the window of a parked car.
His car. The arm was freckled and tanned. “Come on!”
Hunter grinned and darted across the street between passing cars. He hopped into the passenger seat and found it gloriously cool. Colby must have had the car running, AC on, the whole time Hunter was in Range. Bless him. “I thought you had practice?”
“I do. I’m late,” Colby said and glanced at the paperwork on Hunter’s lap. “You got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Fucking awesome!” Colby reached over and squeezed Hunter’s thigh in excitement.
Hunter felt a rush of something at that, which he ignored, like always. Hunter still wasn’t used to how Colby was so tactile, but he didn’t hate it. “Glad my day job brings you joy.”
“It’s a night job,” Colby corrected, grinning, as he glanced in the side mirror and pulled into traffic. “A night job that won’t interfere with auditions and will have good tips, and most importantly, we’ll get to hang on gig nights, and both get paid for it.”
As long as you keep playing there, Hunter thought to himself.
Colby didn’t know how good he actually was.
If he did, he wouldn’t have agreed to be in a band.
He would have stayed a solo artist, writing and singing his own music—which was incredible—and getting full credit for it.
But he’d get famous with this band, and Ford would get the credit, and these other guys would share the fortune.
At least he’d still have success. And Hunter knew one day Colby would move on to become a best-selling solo artist. It had to happen. He was that good.
“I could’ve walked.”
“Yeah. I know. You weirdo Canadians use your legs for that kind of shit,” Colby said with a snarky grin that made the dimple in his left cheek appear. “But it’s too fucking hot. And you can’t cool down at home with the AC in the apartment broken. So, I texted Kenner I’d be late, and I waited.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
Hunter smiled. His life here in Los Angeles had never gone as planned, not since he stepped off the plane for college. There had definitely been more failure than success so far, but becoming friends with Colby? That was in the success column for sure.
“When do you start?”
“Thursday night.”
Colby’s whole face lit up again. “Tidal’s playing! Epic. I can’t wait!”
Colby reached over and squeezed his leg again, briefly, before putting his hand back on the steering wheel. Hunter smiled.
“I have something for you,” Colby said. “Grab my backpack and open the front pocket.”