still haven’t seen you in anything.”
“ That is why I work, Francisco.”
“ I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude, just curious,” he said apologetically. “It seems everyone has to work two jobs in this town just to survive.”
Keelen ’s always alert and perky eyes sagged with worry as she began to run the various excuses she hadn’t used in her head. “Dammit, what do I tell my boss?” she mumbled to herself. “God, I feel so bad for stepping on that guy’s hand.”
“ Tell your boss you got mugged.”
“ What? No! I already used that one,” she said. “Is there any way I could use your phone, please?”
“ What happened to yours?” he asked.
Keelen frowned and gestured a throat -cutting motion as she pulled out her phone.
“ Yeah, I know the feeling. That’s why I went prepaid.”
She dialed her roommate, hoping she ’d give her a ride to the gallery. As she placed Francisco’s phone to her ear, a jangle of honks cracked and rolled throughout the busy street, drawing the attention of even the most distracted pedestrians and motorists.
A pale thin arm extended and waved from the driver’s side window of a lime-green, late 90s Beetle. Cindy Lu, her roommate, had preemptively—nay, psychically—heeded Keelen’s cries for help. Keelen’s soured face quickly morphed into a smile. She handed the phone to Francisco and wrapped her skinny arms around his round torso. “Thank you so much.”
Cindy ’s Beetle braked in front of the bus stop, raising the screeching honks behind her into a crescendo. She stuck her head out the window, scowled at the traffic behind her and yelled, “There are two lanes, asshole...you can use the other one, you know!”
Cindy worked mornings at Trance , a coffee shop off Beverly Boulevard which claimed to be the only coffee shop in town whose beans were purported to grow in a magical orchard in Honduras. Their top blend supposedly gave its drinkers the power of temporary clairvoyance. Keelen swore the coffee was just laced with meth, but Cindy, who claimed to be a medium, disagreed.
“ Get in the car. I have everyone behind me pissed off,” Cindy hollered through the window.
“ I’ll stop by the café sometime,” Keelen said to Francisco, as she quickly hopped into the passenger seat.
“ I think I’m done with Stan Morris method acting classes,” she said to Cindy.
Francisco waved at Keelen as he leaned against the bus stop sign.
“Why?”
“His methods aren’t for me and I think I broke Bruce Davidson’s hand .”
“You what?” Cindy exclaimed, before slamming her foot on the gas pedal and whipping Keelen’s neck back, escaping the flurry of angry honks.
“ How’d you know I was without a ride?” Keelen asked.
Cindy wink ed at her.
Keelen shook her head. “In all seriousness, how’d you know I needed a ride?”
“ I sensed you were in trouble.”
“ Really?”
Cindy giggled. “Not really, but someday I’ll be able to. Anyway, here’s the scoop, Matt called me and said you needed a ride.”
Keelen crossed her arms and huffed. “So, what’s his excuse this time?”
“ You’re so hard on him,” Cindy said. “He told me to tell you his trainer had to leave for New York tomorrow morning. He had to move up his Thursday training session.”
Matthew Nix was an aspiring boxer out of Pacoima, a working -class suburb in the San Fernando Valley. Not just aspiring, but one of the best boxing prospects to come out of the greater L.A. area since Oscar De La Hoya.
Matt was forced to become a roughneck brawler. He had to, as he was the only blonde -haired, blue-eyed kid growing up in a neighborhood with one of the toughest Mexican gangs in L.A. He earned the nickname El Guerro Veloz , due to the lightning-fast jabs he’d quickly developed while dusting up bullies who were sometimes three to four years older.
Matt had a wonderful support system, not only because he was the best hope L.A. had as a potential gold medalist in
“ That is why I work, Francisco.”
“ I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude, just curious,” he said apologetically. “It seems everyone has to work two jobs in this town just to survive.”
Keelen ’s always alert and perky eyes sagged with worry as she began to run the various excuses she hadn’t used in her head. “Dammit, what do I tell my boss?” she mumbled to herself. “God, I feel so bad for stepping on that guy’s hand.”
“ Tell your boss you got mugged.”
“ What? No! I already used that one,” she said. “Is there any way I could use your phone, please?”
“ What happened to yours?” he asked.
Keelen frowned and gestured a throat -cutting motion as she pulled out her phone.
“ Yeah, I know the feeling. That’s why I went prepaid.”
She dialed her roommate, hoping she ’d give her a ride to the gallery. As she placed Francisco’s phone to her ear, a jangle of honks cracked and rolled throughout the busy street, drawing the attention of even the most distracted pedestrians and motorists.
A pale thin arm extended and waved from the driver’s side window of a lime-green, late 90s Beetle. Cindy Lu, her roommate, had preemptively—nay, psychically—heeded Keelen’s cries for help. Keelen’s soured face quickly morphed into a smile. She handed the phone to Francisco and wrapped her skinny arms around his round torso. “Thank you so much.”
Cindy ’s Beetle braked in front of the bus stop, raising the screeching honks behind her into a crescendo. She stuck her head out the window, scowled at the traffic behind her and yelled, “There are two lanes, asshole...you can use the other one, you know!”
Cindy worked mornings at Trance , a coffee shop off Beverly Boulevard which claimed to be the only coffee shop in town whose beans were purported to grow in a magical orchard in Honduras. Their top blend supposedly gave its drinkers the power of temporary clairvoyance. Keelen swore the coffee was just laced with meth, but Cindy, who claimed to be a medium, disagreed.
“ Get in the car. I have everyone behind me pissed off,” Cindy hollered through the window.
“ I’ll stop by the café sometime,” Keelen said to Francisco, as she quickly hopped into the passenger seat.
“ I think I’m done with Stan Morris method acting classes,” she said to Cindy.
Francisco waved at Keelen as he leaned against the bus stop sign.
“Why?”
“His methods aren’t for me and I think I broke Bruce Davidson’s hand .”
“You what?” Cindy exclaimed, before slamming her foot on the gas pedal and whipping Keelen’s neck back, escaping the flurry of angry honks.
“ How’d you know I was without a ride?” Keelen asked.
Cindy wink ed at her.
Keelen shook her head. “In all seriousness, how’d you know I needed a ride?”
“ I sensed you were in trouble.”
“ Really?”
Cindy giggled. “Not really, but someday I’ll be able to. Anyway, here’s the scoop, Matt called me and said you needed a ride.”
Keelen crossed her arms and huffed. “So, what’s his excuse this time?”
“ You’re so hard on him,” Cindy said. “He told me to tell you his trainer had to leave for New York tomorrow morning. He had to move up his Thursday training session.”
Matthew Nix was an aspiring boxer out of Pacoima, a working -class suburb in the San Fernando Valley. Not just aspiring, but one of the best boxing prospects to come out of the greater L.A. area since Oscar De La Hoya.
Matt was forced to become a roughneck brawler. He had to, as he was the only blonde -haired, blue-eyed kid growing up in a neighborhood with one of the toughest Mexican gangs in L.A. He earned the nickname El Guerro Veloz , due to the lightning-fast jabs he’d quickly developed while dusting up bullies who were sometimes three to four years older.
Matt had a wonderful support system, not only because he was the best hope L.A. had as a potential gold medalist in
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