Chapter 4
Antonio
Custom-rimmed tireson Jonah’s Tesla scream as he erratically peels out of the parking lot of my downtown office. “TM-fucking-Z, dude?Really?”
“I know, right? You see what happens when I decide to ride theMetro?”
I sway side to side, all five of my fingers gripping the car’s interior handle while Jonah mimicsThe Fast and The Furious,dashing in and out of traffic. He’s trying to evade the zealous TMZ paparazzi. He peers through the rearview mirror as he turns the corner, plowing into a crampedalley.
He rolls past a homeless man pushing a shopping cart full ofaccoutermentsbefore jolting to a halt in front of a trashdumpster.
“There,” he exhales, “I think I may have lost them.” He turns to face me, hazel eyes narrowed, glaring at me as if he were a coach about to chew out the star quarterback. “Now where to, Your Freakin’Majesty?”
I hate when he calls me that. As if he’s my very own equerry. I should be solucky.
“My house. And can you turn off Duran Duran—play something much morenow? I guess you probably don’t realize this is 2017…not1984.”
Admittedly, Jonah is a pretty cool dude, despite his obsession with the 1980s. Depeche Mode. Duran Duran. The Cure.Everything’80s. Including his wardrobe. Blazer. T-shirt. Jeans. He looks like Rico Tubbs straight out of that 1980s cop show,MiamiVice.
He cranks up the volume, loud enough to irritate me. “The ’80s wasthe shit,man. Don’t knock music from my era,” he says as he moves his head to themusic.
“Man”—I shoot him an over-exaggerated eye roll—“you’re not even from the ’80s. You were born in the ‘90s.”
“Barely. I was meant to be an ’80s kid. If only I’d been born a minute earlier, at least I would have made1989.”
It’s annoyingly true. Jonah was born January 1st, 1990 at 12 a.m. And he’s been late to everything eversince.
He pulls out of the alley and, minutes later, we’re on the busy freeway, making our way toward my home in BeverlyHills.
“Why is it that every time you end up on TMZ, it’s behind achick?”
He’s got a valid point. But the last time it was because a scorned ex-girlfriend rented billboard space that featured my home address and she also claimed to have sold details of my personal life to some tabloids. She teetered a little on the cray-cray side. Tinder. I should have swipedleft.
“Yeah well, you know I haven’t had the best of luck with women. It’s hard to find someone interested in justme.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my phone to check emailmessages.
“Are you getting nervous, man?” he asks with a slightgrin.
I toss him a guarded look. “Nervous aboutwhat?”
“Oh, you know what,” he says, one thick eyebrow lifted, hands firmly attached to the steering wheel, as he darts into the carpoollane.
“I try hard not to think or talk about it. So, if you don’tmind—”
“Dude.” He breaks into my attempt at an allusive response. “You can’t keep putting it off. I mean, if I were you I’d be shitting mega-sized bricks right aboutnow.”
But he’s notme.
“Look.” I shove my phone back into my pocket. “I do appreciate your concern. But honestly man, this is my problem, not yours. I’ll figure it allout.”
Ihope.
Jonah rolls his shoulder, then raises a mocking thumbs-up. “Right. But I’d hate to be the one to say, ‘I told youso’.”
I shift my gaze to peer out the tinted window as we zoom past cars on thefreeway.
Like a fuckin’ broken record, Jonah’s words play in my head over and over and over again:Are you nervous? You can’t keep putting itoff.
If only I could put off my 30th birthday. Normally, it wouldn’t be an issue. But for me, being single on my 30th birthday could be viewed by some as a potential lifestylechanger.
