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Blaze
In the quiet hours of Friday morning, a motorcycle went rumbling down the tree-lined residential streets of Highland Park. The small, cozy homes were bunched together like gingerbread houses along Echo Street, with vehicles parked down the driveways and along the curb. It was an area of town filled with every type of person, every type of household. There were families of five, their yards neatly trimmed and sometimes adorned with a tricycle or a plastic baby pool left in the warm sunlight after an afternoon of summer fun. There were collectives of young creatives with more hope than money, who banded together as roommates to make rent in a city with a wildly high cost of living. Lost, wandering souls came blowing into town on a desert wind or ocean breeze in the quest for success. Some stayed and managed to make the sometimes-brutal city of Los Angeles their true home. Others were chewed up and spat out into the cruel world, forced to slink back to their rural origins, tail between their legs. Los Angeles was a city that could make or break you.
As the motorcycle puttered to a halt at a stop sign, the rider gracefully set down one heavy black boot, using it to balance himself and the massively heavy motorbike. It was a large, dense machine perfectly suited for the open road. There was a sizable storage space on the back and low rear sides, and more bulk to the front than a smaller bike would have. It was a rich, glossy black, accented with chrome, giving it a bad-ass, timeless look. The silvery words Harley-Davidson glittered in the morning sunshine. True connoisseurs would’ve recognized the model as an Electra Glide Ultra Classic, nearly a decade old, but just as shiny and powerful as the day it was purchased. Clearly, it had been well taken care of by the owner.
The large, calloused hands on the handlebars tightened and revved the engine. A girl in a yellow Volkswagen stared out a tinted window at the handsome, tall, rugged-looking motorcyclist beside her. His wild black locks were secured loosely in the back, curling around his broad shoulders and powerful back. He wore a motorcycle helmet the same black and chrome color scheme as his bike, and a pair of black wayfarer shades. His outfit, as usual, matched along with it because his wardrobe consisted mainly of black clothing. Even in the LA heat, the driver wore a black leather jacket and black pants. But far from looking overheated, this guy managed to look totally, undeniably cool. And the crisp white button-up under his jacket gave him an air of professionalism, in the most ruggedly handsome way imaginable. He would look nearly as tough in some dull corporate boardroom as he did on the back of a Harley.
The man slowly turned to look at the girl in the yellow Beetle. Her eyes went wide as the man smirked at her. His face was so strikingly handsome, she hardly noticed when the light turned green. The biker turned back to the road and jetted around the corner, leaving the stunned commuter to be honked at from behind as she realized he was gone.
Blaze grinned into the breeze as it whipped around his face. The curly black hair tied at the nape of his neck fluttered in the wind. He revved the engine and kicked up the speed as the bike turned down the ramp and thundered onto the 110, a local stretch of historic Route 66. His piercing ice-blue eyes drank in the familiar scenery from behind his sunglasses as he made his way across the sprawling metropolitan area of Los Angeles to reach the Hollywood neighborhood. He saw concrete warehouses spray-painted with colorful graffiti, interspersed between charming houses and apartment buildings. On his left, the lush green hills rose like a giant looming over the road. The sky above was a faultless blue, punctuated by only a few fluffy, painting-like clouds.
Perfect day to kick off an exciting career opportunity, Blaze thought. He was thrumming with anticipation of the day ahead. It was always a thrill to start a new project with a new client, but this particular client had Blaze admittedly a little starstruck.
Throughout his years of working as a songwriter in the LA music scene, he had become acquainted with a long, impressive list of musicians, bands, and artists. He had writing credits on too many albums to count, and one could find a treasure trove of awards and accolades scattered through his house—and the internet. Blaze Norton was not quite a household name, but the music he helped create was popular enough to play on the radio. He loved the simultaneous fame and freedom his job allowed. Among those in the know, Blaze was a respected titan in the industry. Other music geeks admired his ability to turn any song into a rock anthem. He was passionate and persistent, the kind of guy who would happily stay up all night cramping his fingers over guitar strings to hammer out the perfect bridge. He was not afraid of hard work, but he did shy away from the spotlight somewhat, preferring to let his clients take their work public. Usually, by the time one of his hits blew up, Blaze was already long gone, on to the next project with the last one in his rearview mirror.
It was a pretty similar way to how he handled his love life. Brief, fiery passion that burned out by the time he found the next flame. But while Blaze was serious about his work, he was considerably less so when it came to dating.
Today, though, he wasn’t thinking about that. He was focused on arriving at this meeting with Hot House Entertainment on time, making a good impression, and kicking off a working relationship with his exciting new clients. It was a band he had admired for some time, both as an industry colleague and as a fan. He was usually into harder rock-and-roll music, but even a rugged guy like Blaze could appreciate the artistry behind Tortured Hearts’ soft rock style.
The motorcycle glided down Melrose Avenue, the engine quieting slightly as it slowed. Blaze turned onto a side street and quickly found a reasonable parking space at the back of the Hot House executive building. It was a multi-story concrete block with shiny windows that shimmered in the bright morning sun. Blaze looked up and down the impressive building as he rounded the corner to the entrance. He was surprised to find another guy waiting there, too.
This man looked to be about the same age as Blaze, but he gave off an entirely different vibe, almost opposite of what Blaze brought to the table. He was tall and lanky, with shoulder-length, dark blond hair that he kept brushing back with his fingers. He was dressed smartly in a brown blazer with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, a white shirt, khakis, and mahogany-toned oxfords. There was a decidedly professor-ish look about him, like he was about to lecture a class on philosophy. In his free hand, he held his phone and seemed to be feverishly typing something out.
Blaze smiled slyly and decided this was as good a time as any to introduce himself. He sauntered up to the blond man and, upon noticing the wireless buds tucked in the guy’s ears, raised his voice to address him.
“Damn. That must be one hell of a text conversation,” he remarked with a vague gesture toward the phone.
The guy looked up and did a double take, as though he hadn’t even noticed Blaze approach. He had gentle green eyes behind a pair of retro thick-frame glasses, and promptly gave Blaze a soft smile as he took the earbuds out of his ears and popped them in his pocket.
“Just writing up some lyrics that came to me,” he answered. “Never know when inspiration is going to strike.”
Blaze’s dark eyebrows inched up. He nodded slowly, looking the guy up and down.
“You write music?” he said. “You look familiar.”
“Asher Tate,” the blond man said, holding out his hand to shake.
“Blaze Norton,” he replied. “I’ve heard your name before. You worked with Jade Haverland on that song that came out back in February, right?”
“‘Topanga Smile,’ yeah. It dropped on Valentine’s Day,” Asher confirmed.
“Her work is a little bubblegum for my taste, but that was a banger,” Blaze confessed.
Asher smiled widely, showing a perfect dimple on each cheek. He pushed his glasses up and replied, “And your songs have been tearing up the Billboard charts for years.”
Blaze grinned. “So we know each other already, then. Are you going in for a meeting with Hot House, too?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to meet with Bruce Jimenez and this band called Tortured Hearts about a songwriting partnership,” he answered. “You?”
“Well, bud, looks like we’re playing on the same team here. Unusual to bring in two writers at once like this, but I guess Mr. Jimenez isn’t messing around,” said Blaze. “How long have you been waiting out here?”
Asher glanced at his watch. “Maybe an hour?”
“Jeez. You always show up this early to meetings?” Blaze asked dubiously.
“The bus was a little early this morning,” he said.
Blaze looked at him like he was insane. “You rode a bus here? You don’t drive?”
