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Lost Angels

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Some memories don’t stick. They’re not important or consequential enough to make a lasting impression. But I remember Aiden. Everything about Aiden. For the first time in my life, in my messed-up shunted around excuse of a life, I felt as though I’d found someone who came from the same place.

We were young. Young and angry and selfish and dangerous. I think we felt as though the world owed us something. It was easy to make that assumption, especially when we were wandering around Los Angeles, wide-eyed and hungry.

We were always hungry back then. I’m not sure what for. Success. Excitement, maybe. We’d slope down the streets of Bel Air, Brentwood and Beverly Hills, shirts and hair damp with sweat as we looked at everything we didn’t have.

There’s no harm in looking. We saw the wealth, the homes, the cars; everything jutting out, offensively on display like a porn-star with over-enhanced tits. There was something both sickening and extraordinary about it.

Summer had set in. The rich families had gone on vacation. The houses lay empty. Big, gated residences with pretty gardens. Palm trees. Balconies and pools. We’d see the maids go in, the pool cleaners, and once a week, the gardeners. They worked in a perfect routine.

We timed it. Picked the easiest house. Waited until the maid left. Ran around the back, pushed through the tall hedge and cut a hole in the wire fence. It tore a scratch in my leg, made the blood trickle down to my ankle.

Pristine white sun loungers were out by the pool. It was secluded, private. Aiden caught the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it off. He kicked his boots off, unzipped his jeans, stripped down out of his boxers and dived in one perfect arch into the pool.

“Fuck!” he gasped, surfacing. “Get in here, Lise!”

I didn’t need to be told twice. We swam up and down, raced each other, luxuriating in the clean, perfect water.

“Imagine if we actually lived here,” I breathed. “If we were like this rich couple with all this to ourselves.”

“But this isn’t us.”

I looked over my shoulder at him.

“What, you mean we wouldn’t flaunt our wealth?”

He scoffed. “No, I mean, I’d have a round swimming pool, not a rectangular one.”

I smiled, warming to the fantasy.

“We’d eat breakfast. Like croissants. And champagne. And strawberries.”

“Caviar?” Aiden suggested.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’d drive a Ferrari.” He jumped out of the water and sat on the edge of the pool, naked and dripping wet. “A blood red Ferrari. I’d drive it to work. Some useless job somewhere. The kind of office with free food. On the weekend, I’d play golf.”

I looked up at him, my chin balanced above the surface of the water.

“I’d play tennis.”

His smile lifted. “In all-white? Like the short skirt?”

“Exactly. At some exclusive club.”

He smirked and splashed water at me.

“Would you make sex noises every time you hit the ball?”

“Maybe,” I splashed him back. “If I played with you.”

“And at night we’d fuck in like a bed of money. Just money,” Aiden’s eyes closed, his face tilted up to the sun. “Everywhere. Flying all over the place. Drifting down. So much fucking money, Lise.”

“And everyone would know us and want to be us.”

“And we’d laugh behind their backs.”

“’Cause their houses would be smaller than ours.”

We laughed as though the whole idea was too ridiculous, as though we would never want to do that kind of thing and yet underneath, we ached because we always wanted everything. People who have nothing want everything. They want money and parties and country club passes and fancy dinners and expensive clothes and more than anything, they want other people to give a damn about them.

We fucked right there by the pool, my mouth finding his cock first. It never took long to turn him on. In fact, I privately believed he was always half-ready, sex just beneath the surface, ready and waiting patiently like an appliance on standby. His fingers wrapped into my damp hair as I sucked on him and like he always did, he waited a little while before taking over to guide my movements.

“You’re fucking incredible,” he hissed.

I felt incredible. I felt beautiful. I felt as though I could do anything, be anyone, but all I wanted to be in that moment was myself, doing exactly what I was doing. He pulled me up, dragged my mouth to his and kissed it hard.

The sun filtered through the palm trees and soaked into me, into Aiden’s broad back. I felt his shoulder blades, the way they jutted out, still waiting for the bulk of maturity to settle into. The edge of adulthood. He knew me. He’d been my first and I was certain he’d be my last as well as everything else in between.

He fucked like it nourished him; urgently and desperately, his hard cock driving into me over and over. His hands touched me in a way no-one could ever hope to match, grasping my tits, my neck, fingers gliding into my mouth as he watched, slack-jawed. His lean, warm body pressed against mine, his mouth hungry as ever, his fingers skilled and knowing. Sometimes I thought I could come from just having him look at me.

We lay there a while after we were done, gasping and sweaty until we found the energy to get back in the pool. When the shadows became longer, the sun receding, we dressed, wandered away from the pool to luxuriate in the huge park-like garden.

The grass had been cut and watered and we could smell it, that perfect, perfect scent. The gardener had left everything immaculate but to our amazement, he’d also left the basement door unlocked. We went inside like we owned the place. The basement was almost empty, lawnmower and garden tools to one side, bicycles and boxes of crap stacked against another wall. It would be too good, wouldn’t it, for the door into the house to be open? Surely, we couldn’t be that lucky? But we were. It was open.

We fell into this palace, this gold and cream furnished heaven, flat screen TV’s and wall lamps and soft fucking furnishings. We wandered around in a wealth-induced haze. The place smelt like money. It literally smelt like banknotes. The kitchen looked like it was from the future, marble, glass, stainless steel and polished granite. There were eight bedrooms, six bathrooms.

Chandeliers. Cinema room. Glass walls. Home gym. Signed sports memorabilia. A wall full of wine bottles. Movie props. A fucking bowling alley.

We didn’t trash the place, partly because it seemed a waste, but mainly because we didn’t want to get the maid in trouble. We ate small, sensible amounts of food from the kitchen. If we’d have known how to open champagne bottles, we’d have drunk some. We washed in a palatial bathroom and came up smelling of sweet lemons. In the master bedroom, I found a walk-in closet bursting with clothes, fancy names on the labels that I couldn’t even pronounce.

I put on a Caroline Herrera dress, and raided the rooms until I found a matching pair of heels in my size. I found MAC and Elizabeth Arden cosmetics and made-up my face ecstatically until I looked like I could possibly belong in Bel Air. I found Aiden wearing a tuxedo and trying on cufflinks.

“How’d I look?” I asked, leaning against a glossy white doorframe.

He glanced at me, eyes a little guarded like he didn’t quite recognise me.

“You look – like a magazine version of yourself.”

I pouted. “Is that bad?”

“No,” he shrugged, still frowning. “But I like you the regular way.”

The view from the huge window looked out onto the sky-scraping city, buildings and palm trees, a sweeping vista of wealth and fantasy.

“I almost feel like we belong here,” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I’d decided to say them.

Aiden glanced across at me, his eyes dancing.

“Wanna test that theory out?”

We hit the White Temple, a pretentiously overpriced fusion cuisine restaurant in Brentwood. The waiter gave us a quick onceover before his face melted into one big smile. He started working his tip the moment he opened his mouth. I could only imagine the way he’d have acted if we’d come in our regular clothes.

We ate charred rib eye and shrimp fried rice. Coconut ice cream. We’d eaten the exact same meal in Chinatown a few months back and the bill had been a modest forty bucks. At White Temple it came to two hundred and thirty. Needless to say we got the hell out of there as soon as we’d finished eating but not before Aiden had swiped a valet ticket from the neighbouring table.

“You get the car,” he said, handing it to me. “I’ll be out when you’re ready.”

I stood outside the restaurant nervously, waiting for the valet to bring out the car. A black BMW. It gleamed like treacle. I glanced into the restaurant; saw Aiden still lounging at our table making small talk with the waiter. I got into the car, kicked off my heels and put it into first. Half a minute later, Aiden yanked open the door and fell in.

“Go!”

I went. I didn’t even look in the rear-view mirror. Aiden twisted in his seat, laughing wildly at whatever scene was going on behind us. We drove all night, hitting Sunset Boulevard for the fun of it, driving along the whole road and back again, debating how long we had before the car started showing up as stolen. We joined the Pacific Coast Highway in the early hours, flying over mile after mile of smooth road.

“Faster!” Aiden yelled. “Burn this motherfucker up!”

The car’s purr became a growl. Bring it on, it seemed to be insisting, bring it the fuck on. You think I can’t handle you? Bring it fucking on.

I drove so fast that the road blurred and every part of me was sick with anxiety. I clutched the steering wheel with sweaty fingers, the exhilaration making me breathless. I eased off the gas as slowly as I could, and yet it still seemed to take forever for the world to come back. They say the greatest moment of danger comes directly after victory and maybe that was what happened. Maybe I was relieved enough to get complacent.

As I slowed, the car skidded, control spiralling away as it lurched into the next lane, as out of its mind as Aiden and I. It happened so fast that it only comes back in flashes of panic. The BMW smashed against the highway safety barrier and bounced off. For a minute we were frozen, too shocked to move. Bizarrely, the car ended up facing the right way, having done a complete 360. It’d felt like a 720. I wondered if we’d died.

Aiden heard the sirens first and he looked over at me, rolling out the muscles in his neck.

“Lise? You okay?”

The cop cars came closer, lights flashing, red, blue, red, blue. We sat there in our stolen clothes in a stolen car, high on stolen food and a smile passed between us. We staggered out of the car like a pair of drunks and ran as fast as our shaking legs would allow.

It was a week before we found the nerve to pick up another car. We sagely agreed that Aiden would be the designated driver.

***

“Let’s go somewhere else. I’m sick of the sun, Lise.”

We were wandering aimlessly around the STAPLES store on Sunset, killing time and soaking up the free AC.

“Where?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” He rattled a box of paperclips and set it down again. “Anywhere. Let’s just get the fuck outta here. I think we’ve taken as much as we can.”

We didn’t have much in the way of possessions. A bag of clothes between us. There really was nothing stopping us, nothing to stick around for.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Aiden went out to find a car to start us on the road. I used the last of the small change we’d found in the BMW to buy food. Water. Potato chips. Peaches. I waited outside. I had become rather attached to my stolen high heels and wore them even with my white t-shirt. The traffic was loud and busy, the heat inescapable. I paced up and down, trying to be inconspicuous. Where the hell had Aiden gotten to?

I finally saw him coming towards me. In a goddamn Lamborghini. God knows where he’d got it but he could hardly drive it. It sputtered down the road like it was out of gas and people were looking, staring in fact, and I covered my face with my hands, unable to believe his how blinded he was by greed. What the fuck was wrong with a nondescript Ford? We only needed to get the hell out of town. We weren’t going to the fucking Oscars.

But at the same time, I couldn’t blame him. There was something so sleek and beautiful about that car, something that looked like money and comfort and carelessness. I could hardly wait for him to pick me up, could hardly wait to sit beside him in that ridiculous machine, to have him put his foot down until life and death were just words and all we knew was speed. Faultless engineering and sheer speed.

I waited impatiently, jiggling my weight from one foot to the other. I started towards him, too piqued to wait and such was my haste that the heel on my right shoe snapped, making me stumble and twist my ankle. I swore, snatched the left shoe and broke that heel too so they were even but by then it was too late. I was far too late.

I straightened up but a black and white LAPD patrol car had pulled up in front of the Lamborghini. God. I watched breathlessly, the sun beating sweat down on me. Aiden. For fuck’s sake. I willed him to run. But it was a goddamn Lamborghini. He couldn’t even get the door open. By the time he’d stepped out of the damn thing, another patrol car had pulled up. Four cops. I saw Aiden’s eyes dart to me, saw him scan for an escape even as he reached into the car to procure registration papers.

The cops watched him lazily, smugly, arms folded across their chests, chewing gum and smirking at one another. I moved towards the scene numbly. Aiden shot me a look of warning. I felt the cops look at me in my shirt and broken heels, groceries clutched pathetically to my chest.

“Is there a problem, miss?”

They waited for me to say something. One of them muttered something. Three of them laughed loudly.

Aiden started forward, already losing it. He had a dirty mouth when provoked. The three officers stopped laughing and looked expectantly at the fourth who seemed to be their superior. Aiden was still running his stupid, beautiful mouth. He insulted them, their mothers, their daughters, as well as their family pets. They didn’t seem amused anymore.

The fourth cop reached for his handcuffs.

***

A kilo of cocaine, they claimed. In the pocket of a jacket Aiden hadn’t even been wearing. Something about the outrageous lie made my heart thump and echo like it was empty. Helplessness. I’d always thought there were some things that just couldn’t run. Lies. Lies. And there we were, caught in a system that hated the fuck out of us and for what? For the cars? The food? For playing house? Or just for our sheer arrogance?

One kilo meant more than simple possession. It meant intent to supply which meant jail time.

I knew Aiden. I knew the dust he came out of. I knew he’d learnt to walk in a place where the adults were too stoned to walk. He didn’t touch drugs. Not even goddamn weed. Not when he was raised in the low, clammy aftermath of a high.

I phoned seven criminal defence attorneys. They said one kilo in small bags was most certainly intent to supply. They didn’t believe it had been planted and even if they did, there was no evidence. They said the same senseless things. Were Aiden’s rights violated during the arrest? Was it entrapment? Did he even have any character witnesses? They weren’t interested. There wasn’t enough money to ever interest them.

***

He got off lightly, they said. No previous convictions. Eight years. It may as well have been eighty.

I visited him the Saturday after he got sent down. He wore an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs which were roughly removed once he sat down. His eyes were tired. One of them had become swollen with a purple bruise.

“It had to happen sooner or later,” he said. His smile fell to one side like it always did. He reached out as though to take my hand but his knuckles bumped against the glass screen separating us.

“You should – uh – do something,” he said vaguely. “Something real, y’know? Like get some decent work and have a place to sleep and all that.” He dropped his voice. “I holed up some cash. Buried it in the place we met. For a rainy day, y’know?”

I looked at him blankly. “It never rains here.”

“It will,” he said. “So you go get it and I don’t know. Play ‘em at their own game, huh? You can do that, can’t you?”

“I don’t know,” My voice sounded lost. “I don’t know anything.”

“You can. Shut up, Lise. You know you fucking can. You know the place. Listen to me, damn it!”

I couldn’t look at him. I felt suddenly drained of life. For the first time in so many aching years, I wanted to cry.

“It’s at the edge. You get in on Seventh Street at the corner. The gate. Five forward. Seven down. Inclusive. It’s on the left. You hear me?”

My eyes flicked up to meet his and something in his jaw tightened.

“Don’t you cry. Fuck everything else. Just don’t, Lise. Don’t cry. Please.”

I blinked, tried to reply. There were no words that didn’t come with tears.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Excuse me, miss.”

I turned. The cop’s face was lined, old, and grey like his hair....

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