“You look great,” I told her gruffly, pushing past the gravel in my throat. “Ready to go?”
“I’d feel more ready if you’d tell me where exactly we’re going,” she hedged, smiling a little from the side of her mouth. She had on some kind of lip gloss that emphasized the full softness of those lips, and I swallowed around the lump in my throat, willing my body to stop acting like an overexcited teenager.
“That’d ruin the surprise,” I told her. “But trust me. I think you’ll like it.”
When we were in the car and buckled up, Allie let out a low whistle. “Nice ride, Ratliff.”
“That’s what all the girls tell me,” I quipped, and she laughed louder than I expected.
When she calmed down, she asked, “Did you just basically make a ‘that’s what she said’ joke at me? How old are you?”
“I didn’t say the exact words,” I defended myself, but I was smiling in a self-deprecating way as we pulled off the narrow street of the beach house and really got on the road. “I’ve never claimed to be especially sophisticated with my humor.”
“Alright, fair,” she said, laughing again. “Where are we headed, Mr. Maturity?”
“Well, it’s not in Hollywood proper,” I started to explain. “And I’m not telling you everything. Like I said, it’s a surprise. But this place…it’s outside the city enough to not be overly full of LA assholes, but it’s kind of a secret hideout for industry people. I think it’s a good first step.”
Allie mulled that over in the quiet for a minute, then decided, “Alright. That sounds…pretty good.”
The hum of the road soon lulled us into a comfortable silence, only broken by the soft notes of my favorite radio station, which played at an almost indiscernible volume. After a while, I glanced at Allie from the corner of my eye. The city lights were fading into view in the distance as we got closer to LA, punctuated by the occasional neon glimmer from roadside diners. Sensing an opening and needing to fill the silence somehow, I asked, “So, what got you into music in the first place?”
Allie turned toward me in her seat, the dashboard lights playing across her thoughtful expression. “Ever since I was little, I felt music was the only language that made sense.” She paused,as though weighing the weight of her own memories. “I used to sing all the time—at school talent shows, in the backyard, even when I was just playing by myself in my room. It was my escape, my way of dreaming big when everything else felt…small.”
I listened, caught up in the sincerity of her tone. “It’s like music was your first friend.”
“That’s kind of sad,” she replied with a slight laugh, “But…yeah. I mean, it was more than that. It was my whole world. I used to imagine a future where I’d be out there, performing full-time instead of just waiting tables.” Her gaze shifted to the window as if searching for something in the dark. “I mean, every time I serve a coffee or clear a table, I think—there’s got to be more to life than this.”
Her voice dropped a notch, and I noticed a flicker of something unspoken. “I want to do it—really do it—not just for me, but…” She started to add something, but stopped.
I studied her profile in the soft glow of the dashboard. “For someone?” I asked gently, curiosity lacing my tone.
She sighed, then shook her head as if to dismiss the thought. “Never mind,” she said quickly, a touch of embarrassment in her voice. “Some dreams aren’t just mine to chase, if that makes sense.”
It didn’t. Not really. But I let the moment pass, feeling compelled to jump in. “I get that, I guess. Working in the industry, I’ve seen it all.”
“Do you like what you do?” she surprised me by asking.
I wasn’t sure what I’d say until the answer spilled out. “Yeah. It’s interesting, and I’ve always pictured myself taking over eventually.”
Of course, I hadn’t imagined I’d have to take over so soon. I figured my dad would be around for another few decades. That he’d live to see if I ever settled down, got married, gave him a grandkid or two. But he’d helped me learn to love this industrybefore he passed, and it was more than familial obligation that kept me in his shoes, in his old office, even now.
But I didn’t tell Allie that, despite the subtle nagging feeling that I should. That she’d shared something with me, and I owed her reciprocation.You don’t owe her anything,I reminded myself, staring out at the road.You barely know her.
We drove in companionable silence for a bit longer until the mystery destination revealed itself. We pulled into a parking lot beside a modest building with a faded, familiar marquee.
“This is it,” I said, parking the car with a sense of ritual. “Welcome to the launchpad.”
Allie stepped out of the car, her eyes scanning the building with a mix of excitement and apprehension belied by the wry disbelief in her tone. “Really? Because the sign says Lenny’s.”
My lips twitched. “Yeah, but it’s a launchpad for stars. You wouldn’t believe how many artists have been discovered at Lenny’s open mic.”
The wordsopen micseemed to get her attention. I placed a hand at the small of her back, relishing the warmth I could feel through that sinful dress, as we headed to the door.
Inside, the club was a small, intimate space with exposed brick walls, dim amber lighting, and a low hum of conversation. The ambiance was raw and unpolished, yet there was a charm about it—like it was a secret that only those brave enough to dream big could share. I led her toward the small stage area, where a lone microphone and a couple of stools awaited the next performer.
“Listen, I really think you should sign up tonight,” I said, giving her an encouraging smile as I showed her to the small booth where she’d put her name on the list. “This is the kind of place where talent gets noticed—where stars are actually born.”
Allie hesitated, her gaze drifting toward the stage as if she were contemplating stepping into a spotlight that might exposeall her vulnerabilities. “I don’t know,” she replied softly. “I haven’t really warmed up my voice, and I didn’t bring my guitar.”
