LITMIR.BIZ

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Tommy wonder if he’d peaked two years ago and missed it entirely).

      When the door clanged open, Tommy was glad for the distraction, only to see some rich bastard who looked totally out of place among all the Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, and B. B. King posters slapped on the walls. His designer jeans and T-shirt alone probably cost more than Tommy made in a week. Never mind the suede blazer, flashy gold watch, and spendy-looking loafers—most likely handmade by craftsmen in Italy—that probably cost more than all of Tommy’s possessions combined, including his car.

      Lifestyle tourist.

      Los Feliz was full of ‘em. Rich, wannabe hipsters, ducking in and out of the area’s numerous cafés, galleries, and eccentric boutiques, hoping to glean a little street cred they could haul back to their Beverly Hills hood and impress all their friends with tales of their journey to the wild side.

      Tommy frowned and flipped past the article. Reading about the Strypes was bringing him down.

      Waiting for the customer to complete his obligatory walk around, maybe even ask for a card (they made great souvenirs—proved you really were there!), was also bringing him down.

      But unlike the Strypes, this guy would eventually pass through Tommy’s life. Whereas every band in that magazine seemed to mock him, making him realize just how big a fail his move to LA had become.

      Figuring he should exert a little effort and acknowledge the pretentious asshole invading his space, he started to speak when the words caught in his throat and he found himself ogling like the worst kind of groupie.

      It was Ira.

      Ira Redman.

      The überconnected, big-shot owner of Unrivaled Nightlife, who also happened to be Tommy’s father.

      Though the father bit was really more a technicality. Ira was more of a sperm donor than an actual dad.

      For one thing, he had no idea Tommy existed.

      Then again, up until Tommy’s eighteenth birthday, Tommy didn’t know about Ira either. He’d believed the story his mother told him about his war-hero dad who’d died before his time. It was only by chance he learned the truth. But once he did, his fate was sealed. Much to his mother’s (and grandparents’, and ex-girlfriend’s, and counselor’s) dismay, he took the money he’d saved for college, graduated early from high school, and headed straight for LA.

      He’d had it all planned. First he’d find a great apartment (a shithole in Hollywood), then he’d score an awesome job (Farrington’s was severely lacking in awesome), and then, armed with all the details he’d gathered about his father courtesy of Google, Wikipedia, and an archived issue of Maxim, he’d track down Ira Redman and confront him like the independent, deserving young man that he was.

      What he didn’t expect was how completely intimidated he felt just being in Ira’s vicinity.

      Shortly after he’d first arrived in LA, he found and followed Ira, watching from the cracked windshield of the clunker that seemed cool in Tulsa and so offensive in LA that even the valet parkers sneered when they saw it. Tommy saw the dismissive yet entitled way Ira left his chauffeur-driven Escalade at the curb and strode into the restaurant like a man who consumed power rather than food. His grim, all-seeing gaze was cloaked in a calculated ruthlessness that immediately convinced Tommy he was out of his league.

      The reunion fantasy that had fueled the drive from OK to CA instantly evaporated into the Los Angeles smog, as Tommy made his escape, vowing to make a name for himself before he tried that again.

      And now, there he was. Ira Redman sucking down oxygen like he owned controlling shares in that too.

      “Hey,” Tommy mumbled, hiding his hands under the counter so Ira wouldn’t see the way they shook in his presence, though the tremor in his voice surely gave him away. “What’s up?”

      The question was simple enough, but Ira chose to turn it into a moment. An awkward moment. Or at least it was awkward for Tommy. Ira seemed content to just stand there, his gaze fixed like he was assessing Tommy’s right to exist.

      Don’t flinch, don’t be the first to look away, don’t show weakness. Tommy was so focused on how not to react he nearly missed it when Ira pointed an entitled finger at the guitar just behind him.

      Clearly Ira had decided to take a little time out from world conquering to indulge some latent rock star fantasy. Fine with Tommy, he needed the sell. But he’d be damned if Ira walked out with the beautiful twelve-string Tommy had mentally tagged as his own from the moment he’d strapped it across his chest and strummed the first chord.

      He purposely reached for the guitar just above it, lifting it from its wall hooks, when Ira corrected him.

      “No, the one right behind you. The metallic blue one.” He spoke as though it was an order. As though Tommy had no choice but to do Ira’s bidding, serve his every whim. It was unnerving. Degrading. And it made Tommy even more resentful of Ira than he already was.

      “It’s not for sale.” Tommy tried to direct Ira to another, but he wasn’t having it.

      His navy-blue eyes, the same shade as Tommy’s, narrowed in focus as his jaw hardened much like Tommy’s did when attempting a piece of music he’d been struggling to interpret. “Everything’s for sale.” Ira studied Tommy with an intensity that made Tommy squirm. “It’s just a matter of negotiating the price.”

      “Maybe so, bro.” Bro? He called Ira Redman bro? Before he could linger on that for too long, Tommy was quick to add, “But that one’s mine, and it stays mine.”

      Ira’s steely gaze fixed on Tommy’s. “That’s too bad. Still, mind if I have a look?”

      Tommy hesitated, which seemed kind of dumb, since it wasn’t like Ira was gonna steal it. And yet it required every ounce of his will to hand the piece over and watch as Ira balanced it in his hands as though expecting the weight to reveal something important. When he strapped it over his chest and assumed some ridiculous, pseudo-guitar-god stance, laughing in this loud, inclusive way like they were both in on the joke, Tommy had to fight the urge to hurl right then and there.

      The sight of Ira manhandling his dream had him sweating straight through his Jimmy Page T-shirt. And the way he dragged it out, pretending to do a thorough inspection when he clearly had no idea what to look for, made it clear Ira was putting on some kind of show.

      But why?

      Was that how bored rich people entertained themselves?

      “It’s a beautiful piece.” He returned the instrument as Tommy, relieved to have it safely out of Ira’s possession, propped it back against the wall. “I can see why you’d want to own it. Though I’m not convinced you do.”

      Tommy’s back stiffened.

      “The way you handle it …” Ira placed both hands on the counter, his manicured fingers splayed, his gold watch gleaming like a cruel taunt, as if to say, This is the life you could’ve had—one of great privilege and wealth, where you’d get to harass wannabe rock gods and piss all over their dreams just for the fun of it. “You handle it with too much reverence for it to be yours. You’re not comfortable with it. It’s a part from you, rather than a part of you.”

      Tommy pressed his lips together. Shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had no idea how to reply. Though he’d no doubt the whole thing was a test he had just failed.

      “You handle that guitar like it’s a girl you can’t believe you get to fuck, rather than the girlfriend you’ve grown used to fucking.” Ira laughed, displaying a mouthful of capped teeth—shiny white soldiers standing in perfect formation. “So how ‘bout I double whatever it is you think you could pay for it?” His laughter died as quickly as it started.

      Tommy shook his head and stared at his trashed motorcycle boots, which, in Ira’s presence, no longer seemed cool. The treads were shot. The shank was gashed. It was like his favorite

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