I just finished re-reading Nathanael West’s Novella The Day of the Locust. Not sure why I love that book so much, but I do! It also makes me think of this song by Patrick Park called “Stay With Me Tomorrow,” and after a day bored out of my mind sitting in a jury room I thought of a new story sorta inspired a bit by the setting of the West’s book, and the lyrics to this Patrick Park song. It was interesting writing JC in my first fan fiction, so I figured I’d give it a shot again. But like in a 3-Way Fan Fiction, JC, Nathanael West, and Patrick Park?

Stay with Me Tomorrow 

The quiet night room

Filled with unfinished stories

And wait for smoke that lines the air

A body burning out of moderate rage

And you can find me there

And I'll offer you nothing

Nothing worth saving

And I'll ask for nothing in return

Just for you to stay with me tomorrow

If this world still turns

Now if I could stop my dreaming

And curse the upward skies

Of all their April gales and shepherd gulls

Riding side by side

There would be a world to breathe

Between you and I

And it wouldn't break my heart

If you called to say goodbye

If you're really leaving

Leave nothing in my care

Everything I own is broken

And far beyond repair

I've offered you nothing

Asked nothing in return

Just to stay with me tomorrow

Watch this whole world burn

Oh but now you're really going

The night it cuts like nails

Pulling hard and fast and full

Or boring holes into my sails

So lead the way tomorrow

To a world that's free from care

And may a small amount of truth in life

Somehow find you there

If you're really leaving

Leave nothing in my care

Everything I own is broken

And far beyond repair

I've offered you nothing

That's nothing in return

Just to stay with me tomorrow

If this world still turns

The quiet night room

Filled with unfinished stories

And wait for smoke that lines the air

A body burning out of moderate rage

And you can find me there

And I'll offer you nothing

Nothing worth saving

And I'll ask for nothing in return

Just for you to stay with me tomorrow

If this world still turns

 Nestled in the heart of Hollywood, California, the San Bernardino Arms stood as a weathered relic, its storied walls bearing witness to the passage of time. The bungalow complex had persevered through years of resilience and decay, its former glory stripped away and replaced with an eclectic mixed-space art community that showcased a haphazard blend of 1920s remnants and Spanish-style architecture. Time may have worn down the original grandeur of the building, but the money of the Hollywood Arts Collective had reimagined it as a space where artists of all genres could create. Beyond the newly refurbished wrought-iron gate, the historic apartment complex revealed a courtyard that had borne witness to many Hollywood days.

The fountain at its center, once a symbol of elegance, now sputtered with sporadic bursts, echoing the irregular rhythm of the surrounding city. The worn Saltillo tiles beneath it bore the scars of countless footsteps, their dull hue reflecting the fading sunlight. Each of the 10 units boasted red-tiled roofs and pink stucco exteriors, hinting at the Spanish influence that permeated the architecture. The 1920s spirit lingered in the small details-the wrought-iron railings, the arched doorways, and the ornate embellishments that adorned the facades. It was as if the complex held within its walls a silent narrative of the city's evolution.

Inside the apartments, all remnants of the past were erased, save for the original wood doors and crystal doorknobs. The once-worn hardwood floors had been replaced by polished concrete, the plaster walls now covered in white dry wall, giving the spaces an industrial and modern edge that echoed the raw energy of an art studio. The transformation was profound-a testament to the imaginative spirit that now thrived within this enclave.

JC pulled up to the San Bernardino Arms on a late Thursday afternoon, his Mercedes E-class idling in front of the gated entrance. He was pleasantly surprised by the ample parking out front, a rare occurrence here in Hollywood. Retrieving a covered keyboard and a guitar from the trunk, he took a moment to survey his surroundings before ascending the tile steps that led from the street.

The subtle breeze that greeted him as he entered the courtyard seemed to whisper secrets of the past, its cool fingers brushing against his skin as if urging him to listen to the tales it had to tell. His brown hair, now graced with hints of silver and falling loosely to his shoulders in gentle waves, exuded an unkempt charm. He may not have been the heartthrob of his youth, but now his attractiveness took on a different quality-reflective of experience, authenticity, and the quiet assurance of a man who had embraced the evolution of both his art and himself.

JC moved with purpose, a seasoned musician accustomed to the weight of his instruments. The unassuming yet confident aura about him blended seamlessly with the eclectic charm of the artistic enclave. He stopped at the fountain and looked around for a hint of where he should go. All he had received was the address, but no specific unit number or location.

JC scanned the courtyard and found himself drawn to a figure seated at a small mosaic garden table. She was an enigma, a captivating blend of contradictions. Her platinum, nearly white blonde hair hung in loose waves, the juxtaposition of wild tresses and a darker shaved undercut on the left side defining her edgy style. Despite her petite stature, her figure emanated a sensual confidence, a harmonious dance of gentle curves and unyielding strength. Her tattooed arms bore intricate tales, a living gallery etched into her skin.

Unadorned by makeup, her face radiated natural beauty, its stoic features softened by an inherent femininity. The absence of makeup only accentuated the authenticity behind her gaze. A small gold ring adorned her nose, a subtle ornament adding a final touch of defiance to her overall aesthetic.

Seated in the courtyard, cigarette in hand, tendrils of smoke danced around her like ethereal brushstrokes as she sketched with purpose in a pad held firmly between her tattooed hands. The soft click of JC's shoes on the tiles announced his presence, prompting her to look up from her sketchbook.

Her eyes, one dark brown and the other a soft green, met his with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. JC felt an invisible force drawing him closer to her, perhaps it was the magic of her eyes or the kaleidoscope of her appearance that added an intriguing layer that seemed to haunt him in the most enchanting way.

"Looking for Patrick?" she asked, taking a drag from her cigarette and eyeing him intently.

"Y-yeah," JC stammered, shifting awkwardly under her gaze. It was as if the dual hue of her eyes saw everything about him, beyond the surface and into the depths. "How did you know?"

"Music man," she said, nodding toward the instruments he carried. 

"You know Patrick?" He asked. "I'm not quite sure which studio is his."

A subtle smile curved her lips as she glanced up at JC. She exhaled a plume of smoke and pointed casually. "Yeah, Pat's studio is next to mine. Just to the left, right over there. Number three."

JC noticed the distinctive contrast between her rugged style and the delicate strokes of her sketch. Intrigued, he followed her gesture, spotting the door with a worn number three sticker. "Thanks," he said, appreciative, and turned to make his way to Patrick's studio.

"He's pretty good," she commented, eyes fixed on her sketch pad. "You should see his set at Spaceland on Mondays."

"Tell me about it. That's how I met him." JC explained.

She looked back up and studied JC. Her mismatched eyes captured the contours of his face, and she quirked an eyebrow as if contemplating something. She suddenly wanted to draw him. She tamped out her cigarette, her gaze never leaving him.

JC shifted uncomfortably under her stare. He wanted to say more - ask her name, ask what she was working on - but nothing came out. He smiled and with a final nod of gratitude, JC made his way to Patrick's studio, leaving the strange woman to her sketches and the quiet courtyard.

He knocked on door number three and after a moment, it swung open, revealing Patrick, tall and thin, with dirty blond hair falling in a purposefully mussed way that suggested both nonchalance and artistic flair. His casual demeanor was reflected in his outfit - a loose shirt with faded blue and white stripes and comfortably worn jeans. He looked like he had stepped off the cover of a 1992 Rolling Stone Magazine.

"JC! Glad I could finally get you out here," Patrick said, extending a hand for a hearty handshake. A clutter of instruments and cables hinted at the countless musical endeavors that had unfolded within those walls. Patrick, his guitar slung casually over his shoulder, ushered JC in.

"Good to see you too, Patrick. I'm excited to dive in," he responded with a warm smile, appreciating the familiarity of the space. He pulled out his keyboard and began setting it up in the corner next to a row of guitars.

Patrick, a seasoned solo performer, expressed his desire to add layers to his sound, welcoming JC's expertise in arrangement. "I've been working on a few new tunes," he shared, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "I think I will always tour solo, but if they are going to pay me to make a legit studio album, I'm thinking of adding some other instruments, round out the sound, you know. Take it to a whole new level. That's where you come in, my friend."

JC nodded, his excitement mirrored in his eyes. "I'm ready. Let's see what you have." Patrick picked up his well-worn guitar and strummed a few chords, igniting the creative spark that would carry them both through the evening.

*****

The afternoon sun was high as JC arrived at the San Bernardino Arms for his third day of working with Patrick. The warm, orange glow cast a nostalgic hue on the Spanish-style architecture, highlighting the details that hinted at the building's storied past. As he approached the main gate, he noticed a shimmer of platinum hair and a flash of tattoos walking toward him.

"Hey there, Music Man," she called out to him, a seductive smirk playing o her lips. Her platinum hair shimmered in the sunlight, the pieces that hung around her face bouncing with each step she took.

"Hi," JC replied. Her mismatched eyes catching his for the briefest second, and the world seemed to stop. He was momentarily captivated by her presence. "Heading out?" he recovered.

"Yep, got some errands to run. You have fun making those tunes, Music Man." With that, she flashed a smile and continued on her way, leaving JC standing there, once again intrigued by the enigmatic woman.

Later that evening, JC stepped outside to make a call to his girlfriend, Jen. The air had grown cooler, and the courtyard was now bathed in shadows. He was taking a short break, and then assured her he would be home in a few hours. Their conversation meandering through the mundane details of their day, when his attention averted toward the street by a move of shadows and a slight rise in voices. He watched the scene unfold. An extremely young woman with long black hair dressed proactively. She was young, very thin. If her body had had the time to develop into the seductive woman she was trying to be, then her short shorts and crop top would have left little to the imagination. Her arms and legs were covered in sporadic tattoos, and she was in a heated discussion with the tattooed artist JC had been encountering in the courtyard.

With the phone still pressed to his ear, JC watched the scene unfold, his interest piqued. Was this young girl a sex worker? The artist seemed to be bargaining with her. Was she trying to negotiate a better rate? He thought. After several minutes of heated discussion, it appeared as if they had reached an agreement, and the artist handed the young girl some money. The artist's gaze shifted suddenly toward JC, and he felt a chill run down his spine. Her two-colored eyes boring into him. The intensity of her stare caused him to take a step back, as she began walking up the steps and through the courtyard toward him.

JC finished his call and lowered the phone from his ear as she passed him on her way back to her studio. "Hey, Music Man," she said softly as she walked by, her arm brushing against him lightly.

JC couldn't help but ask, "What was that all about?"

She gave him a sly smile, "Just taking care of business. You know how it is around here."

JC nodded, in the affirmative, even though he did not know what she meant by 'how it is around here'. It was clear that she was involved in something shady, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what.

Her eyes lingering on his face just long enough to send a shiver down his spine. "G'night Music Man," She smiled seductively. JC blushed. She then slipped into her studio and, closing the door behind her. JC was left standing there, unsure if he was afraid of her or inexplicably turned on.

The following day, JC returned to the courtyard, his gaze instinctively drawn to the familiar sight of the woman seated at the mosaic garden table. She puffed at her cigarette and sketched intently, her mismatched eyes darting between the paper and her surroundings. Catching sight of him, she smiled warmly.

"Music Man. I was hoping to see you again," she said, her voice smooth and inviting.

JC smiled politely. "Oh yeah," he replied, feeling a sense of intrigue wash over him. "I'm JC, by the way. Not Music Man" He chuckled softly. "I never caught your name."

"Ah, it's Benny," she responded, flicking ash from her cigarette.

"Benny?" he asked with a smile. Her name was not what he expected. 

"It's Berenice. But I get more Ber-neice than I get Bere-nee-say, so I make it easy on folks," she explained with a shrug.

JC attempted to lighten the moment with a joke. "I get it. People have a hard time with Josh too, so I go by JC." His words hung awkwardly in the air as the humor failed to land.

Undeterred, Benny gestured for JC to follow her. "I've got something for you, Music Man."

"JC," he corrected her.

"JC." She smiled accepting. Clearly, nicknames were off the table. "Come with me."

As they approached her studio, she handed him her cigarette before ducking inside. Beyond the frame of the open doorway, an artist's studio lay in wait. The room was a mess of art supplies, books, canvases and easels. The floor was scattered with scraps of paper and stained rags, and the walls were draped with unfinished projects and sketches. The space was small, but the art on display was unparalleled.

Against one wall leaned a large unfinished canvas with the Los Angeles cityscape and the Hollywood Hills sketched and half painted across it. Against another wall, sat a smaller canvas. A painting of a woman baring her breasts, both nipples blackened with a permanent marker. Around her neck, thick beads of translucent paint formed the outline of a collar. From the collar, eight heavy chains hung, each one ending in a large cold cast metal screw. Two screws were placed directly at the crest of her nipples, where they then plunged into her breasts. Next to that painting hung a series of photographs, portraits of women standing against a black backdrop. Their eyes radiated a cold sexuality that seemed completely devoid of passion. They wore neutral expressions, but their poses were filled with strength. And finally on in the corner lay stacked against each other a series of small brightly colored canvases, oils, acrylics, and water colors of still-lifes, natural scenes, and portraits of children provided a striking contrast to the art on the other side of the room.

"Your work is incredible," JC remarked from the doorway, genuinely impressed by the diverse subject matter. "You're really capturing some interesting moments here."

"Thank you," Benny replied, her voice muffled from within the studio. Moments later, she reappeared holding a charcoal sketch. "Here, this is for you."

JC's eyes widened as he recognized his own face within the drawing. The likeness was uncanny, and he was at a loss for words.

"Couldn't resist," Benny admitted, noticing his discomfort. "You've got an interesting face, JC. Thought I'd capture it." Her mismatched eyes searched his, hoping her drawing hadn't offended him.

"Thank you," he finally managed, feeling a mixture of gratitude and unease.

With a knowing smile, Benny pulled her cigarette back from between his fingers, and placed it between her lips. She sauntered back to the mosaic garden table to resume her cigarette and outdoor sketches, leaving JC to ponder the enigmatic artist.

Later that night, as JC exited Patrick's studio, he noticed Benny engaged in a heated exchange with the same young woman from the other evening. But this time she wasn't alone. A very large, overweight man, with a fat gold chain draped around his thick neck, and sweating profusely, stood with her. The man took an aggressive step toward Benny. JC made a move to walk toward them, but Benny turned quickly, noticing him, and smiled wide. JC continued to watch from his distance, thinking it best not to intrude. Benny attempted to calm the agitated man, then looped her arm through his and ushered him and the young woman up the courtyard steps, past JC, and into her studio, shutting the door firmly behind them.

As JC walked to his car, the art-filled walls of Benny's studio lingered in his mind, along with the disconcerting scene he'd just witnessed. What was her story? Whatever the truth, JC knew he couldn't shake the magnetic pull of the captivating artist who called herself Benny.

*****

Three days had passed since JC last saw Benny. Her absence was notable. He had even asked Patrick about her, to which Patrick explained that "you can't tame a wild horse." He assured him that she comes and goes as she pleases without a standard schedule.

On the fourth day, JC strolled into the courtyard of San Bernardino Arms, and there she was-Benny, standing outside her studio, the epitome of mystery with sunglasses veiling most of her face. He greeted her with a smile and a wave, but she remained indifferent. Undeterred, he approached her, intending to pass on his way to Patrick's studio, but the sight of Benny's appearance halted him in his tracks. Behind those shades, a cut adorned her eyebrow, and a bruise marred her otherwise flawless complexion. Her usual exuberance seemed replaced with an uncharacteristic reserve.

"Hey, Benny. Haven't seen you in a few days. Everything good?" JC inquired.

"Peachy keen," she replied, turning her face away as she blew smoke in a veil of nonchalance.

Concern etched on JC's face. "Are you okay? That cut looks painful," he said softly.

Benny dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "Oh, it's nothing. I'm just clumsy. Tripped in my studio and took a canvas corner to the eye."

JC furrowed his brow, skepticism evident. However, before he could delve into the questionable explanation, Benny skillfully redirected the conversation.

"By the way," she stepped toward him, and raised a hand to his hair, which lay in soft waves at his shoulders. Her fingers brushed his neck softly, as she looped them in his hair. "I like your new haircut," she said, her voice taking on a flirtatious lilt. "It makes you look even more handsome than before."

JC saw right through her, and he appreciated the attempt at diversion. "Thanks, Benny." He gripped her hand in his, stopping it from its progress through his hair, then eyed her sternly. "Seriously. I hope you are okay. Let me know if I can do anything for you."

Benny offered a playful smirk. "Kind and sexy" she smiled.

"I'm serious," JC warned.

Benny stepped away in defeat. "JC, I appreciate it." She tossed her cigarette to the floor, tamped it out with her foot, then picked it up. "But really, it's nothing to worry about. Just a little accident, that's all."

He respected her desire for privacy, but the unease lingered. "Alright, if you say so."

Benny's half-smile hinted at her gratitude for his concern. "Now, don't let me keep you. I think I heard Pat choking on his harmonica, you should probably go save him."

With a friendly squeeze of her shoulder, JC continued toward Patrick's studio, his mind grappling with the mystery beneath Benny's flirtatious facade.

As he entered, he found Patrick seated at a sound board, staring intently at a monitor and clicking about on the computer. He had a harmonica resting in a neck rack dangling from his neck. "Hey, JC," he greeted him absently.

"What are you working on?" JC asked, approaching Patrick. He could hear a faint melody coming from the speakers, but it was too quiet to make out.

"Just tinkering with a few things," Patrick replied, still focused on the monitor. "Trying to find the right sound for this new track we're working on."

The image of Benny's injured face still haunting his thoughts. "Patrick, Hey, can I ask you something?" JC asked.

"Sure," Patrick replied. He turned his attention away from the computer and looked at JC, giving him his full attention. "What's up?"

JC recounted his recent encounters with Benny, including her apparent connections with prostitutes and the mysterious altercation he'd witnessed. "I don't know what's going on, but I'm a little worried," he admitted.

Patrick contemplated for a moment before answering. "I think Benny's just being Benny. She got a show coming up, and she's doing a series on LA. She's probably just gathering subjects."

"Are you sure? Her face is all beat up today," He pressed.

"Well, she's definitely not a prostitute, if that's what you're thinking. Her husband is loaded."

"She's married?" JC asked, surprised by this revelation.

"Yeah. And he's got a fat wallet. He pays for that studio, and so that she can do art full-time. She's kind of a kept woman." He smiled.

Though Patrick's explanation offered some relief, JC couldn't shake the feeling that Benny was hiding something. His thoughts drifting to her vibrant paintings and the provocative world in which she seemed to be entwined. "Maybe," he said softly.    

Now if I could stop my dreaming

And curse the upward skies

Of all their April gales and shepherd gulls

Riding side by side

There would be a world to breathe

Between you and I

And it wouldn't break my heart

If you called to say goodbye

If you're really leaving

Leave nothing in my care

Everything I own is broken

And far beyond repair

I've offered you nothing

Asked nothing in return

Just to stay with me tomorrow

Watch this whole world burn

The afternoon sun dipped low in the sky as JC stepped through the wrought-iron gate of the San Bernardino Arms, its hinges protesting with a faint creak. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of traffic on Hollywood Boulevard. He traversed the tiles of the courtyard under the watchful gaze of the sputtering fountain.

As he approached Patrick's studio, the door was open, revealing the chaotic beauty of creativity within. Pausing for a moment, JC took in the eclectic mix of instruments and artwork that adorned the walls before stepping inside. To his surprise, he found Benny sitting on one of the many carpets that layered over and on top of each other, covering the concrete floor. Her knees were up to her chest, and her arms were wrapped around her legs. Her platinum waves cascaded around her like the wild spray of a waterfall. She was engrossed in the music emanating from a set of headphones that muffled over her ears. Patrick was playing back a track from the computer. She had an unlit cigarette between the fingers of her tattooed hand, and she spun the lighter between her other fingers as she listened intently. Her eyes were closed, and she swayed to the rhythm.

"Hey," Patrick announced JC's arrival.

Benny's eyes snapped open, the spell broken, and she looked up at him with an enigmatic smile. "JC, you're here." She pulled the headphones from her ears and rose gracefully to her feet. "Patrick was playing a song you guys wrote. It's great! And, your voice... it's incredible."

"It's the emotion in the song that makes it great. And, you know, that is all Patrick," JC replied softly, momentarily taken aback by her genuine admiration. He shifted his gaze to her hand and focused on the way she held the unlit cigarette between her tattoo-covered fingers, seeking a reprieve from the intensity of her eyes.

"Maybe, but your voice is great. You should be proud."

"Thanks," JC finally said, forcing a smile. "I appreciate that." His gaze shifted from Benny to Patrick, who was leaning against a soundboard. A ray of sunlight filtered through the dusty window, illuminating the haphazard mix of music equipment and vintage records that cluttered around him. "Again, Patrick deserves the credit, really," JC said, his voice soft but unwavering. "His songwriting is what makes all that track great, not my voice."

"Ah, come on, JC." Patrick cracked a smile. "Mr. Humble over here." He shook his head. "You want to hear more of JC?" Patrick asked Benny. "Come to my set at Spaceland on Monday. I think I have finally convinced him to join me. We are going to try out some of the new stuff."

JC rubbed the back of his neck, a mixture of anticipation and anxiety coursing through him. It had been a while since he last performed for an audience, but Patrick's music was great, and he was excited to be a part of it.

Benny's two-colored eyes sparkled with excitement as she narrowed in on JC. "Sounds great," she said, her voice a sultry whisper. "It's been far too long since anyone has had the pleasure of seeing you perform," she added with a knowing smile.

JC felt both flattered and uncomfortable at her words. Her subtle reference to his past fame stirred up complicated emotions within him. And, as much as he wanted to respond to her, he found it difficult to focus on anything but her damn eyes.

"Your eyes," JC blurted out before he could stop himself. "Damn, Benny, you gotta stop using them to stare at me. They're sorta haunting. You're making me nervous, to be honest." He attempted to pass his comments off as a joke, but his voice wavered slightly as he strung his words together into a kind of lisp-laced whine of exasperation.

Patrick chuckled softly, interjecting with a sly grin. "They're sorta dizzying. Or, like, if you look too long, they make your own eyes kinda water. Like when you're watching someone else putting in eye drops; you get the sympathy tears."

"Are you making fun of my birth defect?" She laughed at Patrick.

Patrick shook his head, no, then after a beat turned to JC with a sudden realization. "She's like Medusa, isn't she? Look too long and you'll turn to stone."

Benny smirked, rolling her eyes playfully. "If only it was that easy to escape," she replied, her tone laced with a hint of subtext.

"Patrick," JC began, turning to face the singer-songwriter, "you know, we should probably get to work finalizing the set list for Monday. It's only three days away." His tone was assertive, ready for the distraction of work.

Benny placed the unlit cigarette between her lips and nervously clicked the wheel of the lighter a few times. She began to make her exit, so the two men could get to work.

"See you Monday, then?" Patrick asked as Benny moved toward the door.

Benny's lips turned up in a sardonic smirk; a sound of hollow laughter escaped her. "I'll have to discuss it with my better half," she said with a tinge of resentment, emphasizing the words 'better half'. "You know, he likes to be the one running this show."

*****

The dimly lit Spaceland pulsed with life, a gritty oasis in the heart of Silver Lake. The hum of conversation and laughter mingled with the electric anticipation in the air, creating a palpable energy that enveloped every corner of the space. A makeshift stage loomed at the front corner, and bar tables were strewn about around an open floor space.

Amidst the throng of people stood JC, his dark, wavy hair peppered with silver strands that seemed to glint beneath the hazy lights. He gripped his girlfriend's hand tightly as he scanned the room for Patrick. Jen had long black hair flowing down her back like obsidian. She was beautiful and glamorous, yet her attire-a simple black t-shirt and jeans-suited the unpretentious atmosphere of the club. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Babe, are you nervous?" she asked, noticing the tight hold he had on her hand. She pulled it loose and wrapped her arm around his waist, her touch steady and reassuring.

"Not nervous," he answered. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in close, pressing his lips to her temple. "Just excited."

He scanned the room, taking in the faces of those who had gathered, searching for Patrick. His eyes fell on a pair of shadows at a booth in the back corner, opposite the bar. Patrick and his wife, Marie, were arranging items on the table. JC led Jen to them to make introductions.

Marie was short and petite, dressed in a simple vintage black dress with buttons all down the back, a growing baby bump proudly on display. Her short hair, dyed a vibrant shade of violet, framed her face in wild waves.

"Marie!" JC said in surprise. He hadn't seen her in months and was surprised to find her five months pregnant. He turned to Patrick, who was hanging up a shirt with his album cover on the back wall behind the booth. "You didn't tell me you two were expecting!"

"Hey, JC!" she replied. "Yeah, it's been a while, huh? I can't believe Patrick didn't mention it."

"Neither can I," he said, shaking his head as he eyed Patrick. "I'm going to have words with him about that later."

"Please, don't be too hard on him," Marie pleaded, amusement sparkling in her eyes. "He's been so preoccupied with his music and you lately."

"Still, he should've said something." JC couldn't help but smile despite his disapproval. He embraced Marie carefully, mindful of her condition. "Congratulations, by the way."

Patrick, satisfied with the arrangement of his merchandise on the wall behind the table, dusted his hands together and smiled broadly. "This must be Jenifer," he asked, reaching his hand out to shake hers.

Jen took Patrick's hand with a warm smile. "Please call me Jen," she said, laughing. "It's so great to finally meet you in person, Patrick. JC talks about you all the time."

Patrick chuckled as he gestured for them to take a seat. "Well, I hope it's all good things," he replied. "I've been looking forward to getting him on stage with me. I heard you were helpful in getting him to agree."

JC laughed softly as he took a seat next to Jen, draping his arm over her shoulder. "She can be quite compelling," he mused flirtatiously.

After finalizing the formal introductions and a round of initial small talk, JC stood to buy a round of drinks, when the atmosphere in the venue seemed to shift as Benny entered and approached their table hand in hand with her husband.

JC noticed them immediately, his gaze drawn to Benny's platinum hair and the way it contrasted with Colin's slicked-back dark locks. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease as he watched them approach, Colin's polished exterior juxtaposed with the gritty and alternative flare of Spaceland was palpable.

"Hey, Benny, Colin," Patrick greeted them with a warm smile, motioning for them to pull up chairs and join the table. "Meet my wife Marie, and Colin, this is JC, and this is JC's girlfriend, Jen."

"Nice to meet you," Benny said, her voice soft and sweet as she offered a genuine smile to both women. It was easy to see how her warmth and beauty could be captivating to those around her.

"Likewise," Colin replied, his tone more clipped and businesslike. He pulled out a chair for Benny, placing his hand on the small of her back as if to guide her into it. The gesture appeared courteous, but JC couldn't shake the feeling that it was more about control than chivalry.

"Can I get you two anything to drink?" JC asked. "I was just heading to the bar."

"Scotch, neat, and she'll have a vodka soda," Colin responded before Benny could even open her mouth.

"Actually, I'd like a gin and tonic," Benny interjected, her gaze holding Colin's for a moment. There was a hint of defiance in her eyes, as if daring him to challenge her choice.

"Alright then, one scotch and one gin and tonic coming up," JC said, patting the table, before heading off to fetch their drinks.

It was impossible to miss the tension between Benny and Colin. It was palpable, an undercurrent running beneath their interactions. The way Colin would lean in a little too close when speaking to Benny, or how his fingers would brush against her arm in a possessive manner. Thankfully, the tension was eased, somewhat, by JC's return with the drinks, but he noticed Benny's unease simmering beneath the surface, her jaw clenching and unclenching as she endured Colin's subtle power plays.

"Your EP looks fantastic, Patrick," Benny complimented, holding up one of the CDs. "I love the cover art." It was a pencil sketch she had done of Patrick reclined and wrapped in a series of tendrils growing from a tree.

"Oh, you do, now?" He asked dramatically.

"I hope she billed you for it," Colin interjected, his words dripping with sarcasm.

"Colin," Benny warned, her tone sharp and edged with irritation. She shot him a look that seemed to say, 'Enough.'

"Sorry, just making conversation," Colin replied, feigning innocence, but JC could see the satisfaction in his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Let's just enjoy the night, alright?" Benny suggested, her voice strained but determined. "We're here for the music, after all."

"Of course, dear," Colin agreed, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

The stage lights flickered to life, casting long shadows over the small crowd that had gathered near the front. Patrick and JC exchanged a final glance before taking their places on stage. Patrick, guitar in hand and harmonica dangling from his neck, and JC, perched behind a keyboard, began to play as the rest of the room fell away. The music wove its way through the air, ensnaring the audience in its spell.

Benny watched from the table, her eyes fixed on the two performers with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the dim lighting. She seemed momentarily lost in the world of the music, the tension between her and Colin temporarily forgotten.

"Isn't this just fantastic?" she spoke loudly over the music, leaning toward Marie and Jen. "They're really great together."

"Absolutely," Marie agreed, her eyes shining with pride as she watched her husband perform.

As the set continued, Benny's earlier agitation appeared to dissolve, replaced by a genuine enjoyment of the music. Her gaze followed JC as his fingers glided over the keys, his energy infectious and captivating. It was almost easy to forget the unease that had hung over the table earlier in the evening.

But then Colin shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming against the table, and the fragile peace shattered. She leaned away from him, and when his hand slid over her thigh possessively, she pulled away from him sharply.

"Are you seriously still upset?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. "You're acting like a child, Benny."

"Colin, not now," Benny hissed, her voice low and strained. "We're here for the music, remember?"

"Of course," he replied insincerely, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he reached out to grasp her arm tightly. "That's no way to talk to your husband." He dug his fingers into her skin in an iron grip, squeezing until she winced in pain.

"Let go of me," Benny demanded in a whisper, trying to pull her arm free from his grip. 

Marie and Jen noticed the slight commotion. Jen eyed their interaction with an expression that was a mixture of concern and disbelief. She couldn't hear them over the sound of the music.

"Is this really the time and place for a scene?" Colin asked, his grip tightening. His eyes were cold and unfeeling as he glared at her. "We wouldn't want to distract from your friends' little performance, now, would we?"

"Maybe it is," Benny shot back defiantly, her voice shaking with anger. "Maybe it's the perfect time." She could feel her body trembling under his unyielding hold. Benny stood abruptly.

"Careful now," Colin warned, his voice dangerously low. He stood and leaned in closer toward her, pressing her body between his and the table. "You don't want to push me too far."

"Or what?" Benny challenged softly, throwing caution to the wind, yet not wanting to draw attention to them, as she finally managed to break free from his grip.

"Oh, Behave, Berenice," he retorted, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he brought his face mere inches away from hers.

"Behave?" Benny interrupted, her voice rising with indignation. "I am not your child, Colin. I'm your wife."

"Then act like it?" he spat back, his face contorted with rage. He grabbed her arm and yanked her toward him. He placed his mouth to the side of her face, his lips brushing her ear as he spoke. "You should be more grateful. Everything I have done for you"

With that, she yanked her arm free, and stormed out of the bar, leaving behind a heavy silence and an air of uncertainty.

Benny's storming exit resonated through the club, creating an uneasy atmosphere that permeated the stage. Even as JC and Patrick continued to perform, JC couldn't shake the nagging feeling that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

"Thank you," Patrick said into the microphone after the final chord faded away from their last song. The crowd clapped and cheered, but JC's thoughts were already elsewhere.

"Great job, man," Patrick clapped JC on the back as they made their way off the stage and joined Jen and Marie at the back table.

"Thanks," JC replied, distractedly. "I think something happened with Benny while we were playing?"

"Yeah, I saw it too," Patrick sighed.

As they reached the table where Jen and Marie had been watching, both women wore unsettled expressions.

"What was that all about?" JC asked, nodding at the door in reference to Benny and Colin, as he rejoined them.

"Hard to say," Jen replied, biting her lip. "Colin seems like a real piece of work, though."

"Did they leave?" Patrick asked, sliding into the seat next to his wife.

"I don't know," Marie answered, rubbing her pregnant belly absently. "I thought they were fine, but something happened."

"It got sorta tense," Jen added, as JC slipped into the booth next to her.

"I think it's been like that for a while," Patrick mused. "I don't imagine she'll take his shit for much longer."

*****

JC arrived as the sun made its final descent, casting only one soft, diffused ray of orange light through the courtyard of San Bernardino Arms. It had been a week since the concert, and he hadn't seen Benny since that night. A sense of unease settled within him, accompanied by an inexplicable anticipation.

As JC walked past Benny's studio on his way to Patrick's, he couldn't help but let his gaze linger on her door, which was slightly ajar. The sound of shattering glass caught his attention, followed by a string of muffled curses.

"Dammit!" Benny's voice rang out, laced with frustration and anger.

JC hesitated, torn between offering assistance and respecting her privacy. He could feel the thrum of her chaotic energy, the palpable tension emanating from her space. He furrowed his brow, his concern for her well-being overriding his initial reluctance. With a deep breath, he approached her door and pushed it open.

"Hey, Benny... everything okay in there?" he called out softly, trying to mask the worry in his voice.

The platinum blonde waves that once framed her face now hung limply, dampened by sweat and tears. She sat on the concrete floor in the center of her studio surrounded by a splattering of paint, and broken glass, a half-finished canvas was covered in a spill of colors. One arm rested in a sling.

"Everything is fine, JC," she looked up at him, her mismatched eyes covered in a layer of tears. "This fucking broken elbow is making everything difficult!" she yelled up into the air as if condemning the heavens for bringing her to this point.

Her frustration was palpable, and JC knew all too well the suffocating sensation of being trapped, unable to express oneself through their chosen medium. He had experienced it himself during the darker days of his career, when others silenced his voice and left him feeling lost and adrift.

"Can I help?" he asked, his voice laced with concern as he approached her cautiously. He didn't want to startle her further, but he couldn't stand idly by while she suffered in silence.

Benny's eyes were filled with pain and anger, but also a flicker of gratitude for his empathy. "I can get it," she worked to get herself up to a standing position. "What I can't fucking do is paint!" she seethed and kicked at two loose paint brushes at her feet.

As she spoke, JC couldn't help but glance at her injured arm, his mind full of suspicions. Even after only one brief interaction, Colin had struck him as controlling and volatile, and he worried that Benny might be paying the price for his temper.

"Here, let me help you pick some of this up," he offered, his voice gentle and steady. She tried to stop him, but he inched further, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, as he offered a comforting smile. "I'm really good at cleaning," JC informed, bouncing on the balls of his feet with pride. JC pulled his phone from his pocket, "You want me to call my mom? She'll confirm it," he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Benny shook her head, a sad smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "No, JC. This is something I have to deal with on my own," she replied, her tone resolute yet tinged with vulnerability.

He hesitated. He raised his hand up to his chin and rubbed at the thin stubble, thinking for a moment before fully stepping inside, his brow creasing with concern. He bent down and picked up three large shards of glass from a shattered cup. He took in the sight of her injured arm cradled carefully in its sling. "So what happened?" He asked her, trying to be as casual as possible, bending over to pick up another remnant of glass.

Benny's eyes skittered away from him, focusing instead on the cluttered array of paintbrushes and art supplies that lay scattered across her floor. "It's nothing, really," she reassured him, though her voice lacked conviction. "Just a stupid accident."

"Oh honey, I don't think so," JC pressed gently, taking a cautious step closer. "You know, Colin is your husband, but that doesn't mean..."

"Colin?" Benny's laugh was hollow, tinged with a chilling bitterness. "No, JC, this wasn't him. I fell-that's all. I'm just clumsy sometimes, especially when I'm trying to juggle so many things at once."

"Okay," JC replied, though he couldn't quite bring himself to believe her. He knew what darkness could lurk behind closed doors, hidden from the world by a carefully maintained facade. "If you say so, Benny. But if anything changes, I'm going to be right next door. Until probably nine, you know, Patrick and I will be there."

"Thank you," she murmured, her eyes downcast. "If I knock anything else over," she raised her sling-wrapped arm as a reference, "I'll be sure to call you both over to rescue me."

"Look," JC said, annoyed by the downplaying of his offer, "I don't know what's going on," his voice firm but gentle, "and I won't pressure you to tell me. But, you know, you're an incredible artist, Benny, and you deserve so much more than whatever he..." He paused, searching for the right words, "...than whatever is causing this pain," he concluded, eyeing her injured arm.

Benny looked up at him, her brown and her green eye both wide, searching deep into his. Then, without warning, she leaned forward, rose on her toes, and pressed her lips against his. The kiss was sudden and intense, desperate in its plea or yearning for solace in a sea of chaos.

JC felt his breath catch in his throat, his heart pounded in his chest. It wasn't that he didn't find her attractive-quite the opposite-but this was not the turn he wanted their relationship to take. He was paralyzed with indecision, unable to respond to her unexpected and sudden display of affection and worse, unable to keep the blush from his heating cheeks.

The surrounding air grew heavy with intensity, but as quickly as it had begun, Benny broke away from him, her eyes flicking down in shame. "I'm sorry, JC," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "I shouldn't have done that."

He was conflicted, unsure of what to do next. The kiss was not a proclamation or an attempt at seduction; he knew that. It was a cry for help. "Hey," he said softly. He bent down and picked up the rest of the broken glass on the floor. "It's okay, Benny. We all need someone sometimes."

Benny took a step back, looking at him as if for the first time. "Jesus Christ, JC," she said, just above a whisper. "You're a fucking rarity. One of those people, who really is, just... kind."

Oh but now you're really going

The night it cuts like nails

Pulling hard and fast and full

Or boring holes into my sails

So lead the way tomorrow

To a world that's free from care

And may a small amount of truth in life

Somehow find you there

If you're really leaving

Leave nothing in my care

Everything I own is broken

And far beyond repair

I've offered you nothing

That's nothing in return

Just to stay with me tomorrow

If this world still turns

The late-night recording studio was bathed in a dim amber glow that seemed to seep from the walls themselves. The soft sound of music played in the background, its melancholic melody weaving through the air, filling every crevice with an atmosphere of introspection. JC, his silver-streaked waves tied back into a low ponytail and covered with a gray beanie, leaned over the mixing board, his jaw set, eyes focused, exuding a quiet confidence. Beside him, Patrick stood, chewing on the thumbnail of one hand and running his other hand through his hair repeatedly, to the point that it was starting to stand up straight on its own. They were engrossed in their work, adjusting levels and discussing the nuances of the track.

"Maybe bring up the reverb just a touch," Patrick suggested, his dry wit momentarily set aside as he focused intently on the task at hand.

"It needs depth," JC agreed, "But I think strings. What if we add some more strings," his soft-spoken voice barely audible above the music's gentle ebb and flow. He tweaked the controls, turned the volume up, then moved to his keyboard. He adjusted the sound to mirror a harpsichord and played along with the music from the speakers. He sang softly, "You think I've gone and changed my song to one that's more with singing..." He played a brief interlude with the backing harpsichord as the tempo began building. "I'd walk a mile for you to love this song and smile / and stand in a storm that's stingin'..." JC sang Patrick's lyrics, eyeing him for approval while, again, playing the notes as a harpsichord.

Patrick moved his head to the beat and sang out the start of the chorus as JC continued to play. "I'll call you up and spill my guts the way that I always do. / I'm sure a better man than me won't do that to you." He smiled widely, and JC stopped playing; he moved back to the soundboard and stopped the track.

"I gotta get a harpsichord," Patrick laughed, eyes wide.

"That pedal steel guitar could work too," JC nodded at the instrument in the corner.

"Both! Why limit ourselves," Patrick smiled softly, followed by a yawn. He stretched out his arm and looked at his wrist. "Meeting with the label in the morning, we should probably call it a night."

JC smiled at him. "I'm going to just play out the track on the keyboard so we have it saved. You know, something to at least play around with next week. Do you care if stay maybe 30 more minutes?"

"You're a workhorse, man," Patrick laughed.

"Hey. I'm on your timeline; you're having a kid in like two months, we need to get this done."

"Yeah," Patrick warmed at the thought of meeting his child for the first time. "Well," he scratched absently at the back of his neck as he looked around the studio. "I guess, just shut it all down and lock it up, and I'll see you next week." He turned to leave.

"Good luck tomorrow," JC called after him, then returned to the soundboard.

Thirty minutes turned into two hours and thirty minutes, and it was well after midnight when JC finally realized he should close up shop. It was a hot October night; the Santa Ana winds were kicking up and moving heat across the Southland. The stifling atmosphere within the soundproof studio urged him to seek relief. He swung open the door and stepped halfway out. He took a deep breath, welcoming the outdoor air, which, while still warm, felt much cooler than the studio's stale confines. He glanced upwards, taking in the moonlit sky dotted with stars, before moving back inside to shut down the monitors and pack up his guitar and keyboard to take with him for the weekend.

As he fastened the latches on his guitar case, he caught the faintest hint of muffled voices coming from the open door. Though the words were indistinguishable, the rise and fall of their tones indicated a discussion of some kind. JC paused, curiosity piqued. He cocked his head to the side, attempting to discern the nature of the conversation, but the voices stopped.

JC closed the door behind him, his fingertips lingering on the cool doorknob for a moment before letting go. The quiet hum of the studio was replaced by the whooshing Santa Ana winds. He started toward the courtyard, and as he approached Benny's studio, he noticed the windows were open, inviting in the sultry night air. A soft yellow light peeked through the window as the inside curtain was caught on something, preventing a full obstruction of the view within.

He realized it must have been Benny's voice he had heard moments ago.  He hadn't seen her since the last week when she kissed him suddenly. He hesitated for a moment, then decided to offer her a friendly goodnight as he passed.

He approached the window and was ready to call out to her, but as his eyes adjusted to the light within, he froze. There, amidst a sea of scattered paintbrushes and splattered canvases, stood Colin and Benny, locked in a passionate embrace. JC's heart hammered in his chest, his pulse quickening as he took in the sight before him. Benny, one tattooed arm wrapped tightly around Colin's neck, her other arm still in a sling, seemed to cling to Colin for support - and perhaps something more.

The studio itself appeared chaotic; art supplies were strewn about haphazardly, and half-finished canvases leaned against the walls as if bearing witness to the couple's intimate encounter. JC couldn't help but notice how the vibrant colors and bold lines of Benny's work contrasted sharply with Colin's dark, polished suit, the lux fabric clinging to his muscular form as he thrust into her with soft grunts, pressing her against the studio wall.

For a second he thought he was wrong about Colin, maybe he was not the cause of her injured arm, maybe he was a good husband, and it was just an off night when he met him. But his gut told him otherwise, and his instincts rarely let him down. His fingers dug into the strap of his guitar case. His anger rose. "Why is she taking him back?" He asked himself. Disappointed in her, he moved to take a step past the window and continue his trek to his car when Benny, her chin resting in the crook of Colin's neck, opened her mismatched eyes and locked onto JC's - wide with surprise.

"Shit," JC murmured, breaking eye contact. He forced himself to move, each step away from Benny's studio feeling like a small victory and a devastating loss all at once. As he walked to his car, his mind raced with questions and doubts - about Benny, about himself, and what the San Bernardino Arms had dragged him into.

*****

The moon cast a pale glow over the San Bernardino Arms as JC returned from Bird's, a restaurant just a few blocks away. He clutched a takeout bag filled with food; he and Patrick had been working all day, and JC needed to clear his head and grab something to eat. The night air was dry and warm. The yearly Santa Ana winds maintained a strong grip on Los Angeles.

As he entered the courtyard, the takeout bag nestled in the crook of his arm, he walked past the sputtering fountain and caught sight of Benny standing with a large canvas, propped up against the mosaic garden table she was seated at when he first met her. It had been two weeks since he caught sight of Benny and Colin tangled together in the throes of passion within her studio. The memory still caused an uncomfortable knot in his stomach. Since then, he had noticed her around, but she kept to herself, buried deep in her studio, scarcely making appearances, and he had a distinct feeling that she was avoiding him.

Her platinum hair shimmered in the moonlight as she had it piled up on top of her head in a loose bun, exposing the edginess of her undercut. Even with her right arm still in a sling, she managed to maneuver a small torch, waving it over the painting of Los Angeles with the Hollywood Hills looming behind, with surprising dexterity.

Her eyes, one brown and one green, were locked onto the canvas, their intensity cutting through the darkness like a beacon. The surrounding air danced with heat and energy as the fire emanating from the torch licked at the oils on the canvas, causing them to shimmer and dance in a mesmerizing display of destruction and transformation.

JC watched as she carefully applied the heat, the paint bubbling and charring under the intense temperature. It was both fascinating and unsettling, much like Benny herself.

Finally, she clicked off the torch and turned toward him, her eyes meeting his with a mix of amusement and challenge. "You really like to watch, don't you?" she said, her tone both a greeting and an allusion to the fact that she had noticed JC at the window two weeks before.

The comment caught JC off guard, and he felt a flush creep up his neck as he struggled to find a response. He had only meant to say a friendly goodbye, not invade her privacy. He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting away from hers for a brief moment before finding the courage to face her again.

"Look," he began, trying to steady his voice, "I didn't... It was just a... I swear I wasn't..." A flicker of amusement crossed Benny's face, and JC felt the need to defend himself further. Summoning his wits, he managed a snarky retort. "Look, if you want to keep your art a secret, then don't do it all out in the open."

The corners of Benny's mouth twitched ever so slightly, hinting at a smile that never quite materialized. She raised an eyebrow, challenging him without uttering a word, as if daring him to continue down this path.

"Or maybe, I don't know, a 'Do Not Disturb' sign," JC added, unable to resist poking the bear just a little more. His heart thumped wildly in his chest - part fear, part exhilaration - as he braced for her response.

Benny turned back to her canvas and fired up the torch again, which cast eerie shadows across her face. The smell of burning paint hung heavy in the air, mingling with the lingering scent of charred wood. "Maybe," she conceded, her tone playful, but guarded. "But then again, I've always found life to be much more interesting when the lines between public and private are blurred."

As she spoke, JC couldn't help but be reminded of the way boundaries seemed to dissolve in her presence. Her actions, her art, and her, in general, seemed to capture the raw, visceral essence of life in all its beauty and brutality. And as he stood there, watching Benny manipulate fire like a conductor bringing a symphony to life, he wondered if perhaps there was something to be learned from her fearless disregard for convention and restraint.

"Besides," she added with a smirk, "a little voyeurism never hurt anyone, right?"

JC tried to shake off the discomfort, searching for something witty to say. "Well, you know what they say," he retorted with a smirk, "curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back."

Benny raised an eyebrow, her eyes never leaving the canvas, but JC could see a hint of amusement in them as she continued to work her magic, each flick of the torch transforming the painting into something new and unexpected.

JC began, deciding to steer the conversation away from the figurative to the literal, "You know, aren't you ruining this painting with that fire?"

Benny casually flicked her wrist, the torch's flame casting a warm glow on her face, bringing out the sharp angles of her cheekbones. "Ruining?" she mused, her voice lilting with amusement. "I prefer to think of it as... evolving."

JC tilted his head, intrigued by her response, and watched as Benny continued to wield the torch, her two-toned eyes reflecting its fiery light.

"Art is impermanent," Benny continued, the playful note in her voice never fading. "It grows, changes, and ultimately fades away, just like everything else in this world. Sometimes, you have to burn it to the ground in order to create something new and beautiful again."

As JC listened to her words, he couldn't help but be intrigued by the way Benny seemed to embrace chaos and destruction as essential components of existence. It was a stark contrast to his own carefully crafted approach to life, which relied on precision and control above all else.

"Is that what this piece is about?" he asked, curiosity piqued. "Starting over?"

"In a way," Benny replied, briefly tearing her gaze away from the canvas to meet his eyes. "It's also about capturing the essence of this place - Los Angeles, Hollywood, all its secrets smoldering beneath the grandeur and opulence. It's only a matter of time before that fire spreads."

JC considered Benny's words, the vivid image of Los Angeles burning, a city of dreams reduced to ashes - a haunting representation of the dark side of ambition and desire that Hollywood so often concealed behind its glamorous façade. He'd seen it firsthand; the reality of Benny's painting.

"Here," Benny said, interrupting his thoughts. She reached down into a canvas bag at her feet, pulled out a postcard, and handed it to JC. "I have a show opening next week over at the Loop, on Melrose."

JC quietly studied the card. The black and white photograph on the front depicted the giant canvas he had seen in her studio once before, featuring the nude woman with chains. It was a stark, powerful image that left no doubt about the raw, unapologetic nature of Benny's work.

"This is going to be the centerpiece of the show. Come to the opening - see for yourself what it means to embrace the fire."

JC considered this for a moment, his thoughts drifting back to the scene he had inadvertently witnessed two weeks prior. She was playing with fire then, and she was playing with fire now. His eyes again inspecting the burning painting. "Wouldn't miss it," he replied.

*****

The low hum of the recording equipment provided an ambient backdrop as JC and Patrick worked into the night, absorbed in their creative process. Their fingers danced over buttons and dials, adjusting levels and tweaking sounds to better capture and share Patrick's vocals over their carefully crafted and assembled track.

"Hey," Patrick interrupted their process, "let me just take this call," he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he glanced at the screen of his phone. "It's my wife."

"Sure, man," JC replied, sliding off his headphones and running a hand through his dark hair, rearranging the splay of curls that hugged the back of his neck. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but still burned with the passion he had for his craft.

Patrick opened the door to the studio and stepped out into the brightly lit walkway outside his studio. The dimly lit studio was a cocoon, insulating them from the outside world, and the contrast between the two spaces momentarily disoriented him. After he answered the call, his attention was quickly drawn a few steps down to the studio next door by the sound of crashing and shouting coming from Benny's studio.

"Hey, babe-hold on," Patrick said, his brow furrowing in concern. The muffled argument grew louder, punctuated by the loud sound of a second crash and then a thud of something heavy hitting the floor. Patrick's heart rate increased; it was clear that something was not right.

"Marie, I have to call you back. There's something going on," Patrick said urgently, ending the call with his wife. He called through the open door of his own studio, his voice strained, "Hey JC, something's wrong, come out here!"

The urgency in Patrick's voice catalyzed JC into action. He jumped up from his seat and joined Patrick outside the door to a cacophony of broken glass and guttural screams that pierced the air. The chaos from next door was unmistakable as the two men rushed over.

In Benny's studio, a whirlwind of destruction had taken hold, the once vibrant space now tainted by fear and violence.

"C'mon Benny," Colin's voice boomed through the door, venom dripping from his words. "You're completely useless, just like your pathetic art."

"Please, Colin," Benny's voice trembled, her fear palpable. Her plea was met with a cold, mocking laugh that sent chills down JC's spine. "There's no one," she cried, flinging herself across a series of paintings, protecting them from Colin's wrath.

He moved his face inches from hers and screamed, "You think I'm stupid?" She felt his hot breath on her. He pulled back suddenly, picked up a painting of a child, and slammed it over his knee, tearing it in half. "Try me again, Benny."

"Colin, no! Please, please, I beg you, stop, please." Tears poured from her face, her hair matted down against her cheeks, as she threw herself across another set of canvases.

A surge of adrenaline propelled him, JC threw open the door to Benny's studio, with Patrick right on his heels. The scene that greeted them was one of chaos and destruction-canvases slashed to ribbons, paint splattered across the walls like blood spatter, and shattered glass glittering dangerously beneath their feet. Benny huddled in a corner, her eyes wide with terror, while Colin stood over her like a predator closing in on its prey.

"Get away from her!" JC roared, his protective instincts taking over as he launched himself forward, trying to position himself between Colin and Benny.

"Colin, Man, You gotta stop," Patrick grabbed Colin's arm trying to move him away from Benny.

"She's my wife!" Colin bellowed, his eyes blazing with hatred as he wrenched his arm free from Patrick. He reached down and grabbed Benny by her sling-covered arm. He pulled her up toward him, and wrapped his fingers tightly around her upper arms, shaking her as he spoke, "The ungrateful bitch!"

"Please, Colin, stop!" Benny's voice trembled, her face tear-streaked. "You've destroyed everything! Please don't destroy us too," she pleaded, trying to convince him she was on her side.

"Colin, man, c'mon, let her go." Patrick urged.

Colin released his grip on Benny, and she slid to the floor. JC moved to her, to help her up. But before he could reach her, Colin lunged forward, his fist flying in a flurry of rage, connecting with JC's jaw.

JC stumbled backward, his hand instantly holding his jaw, which was stinging. He tried to steady himself. He could taste blood in his mouth, a coppery tang that set his heart racing with anger. His blue eyes locked onto Colin's whose eyes were filled with a fury that burned hot and bright.

"Colin, what are you doing?!" Patrick exclaimed, stepping between the two men.

Colin sneered, his eyes flicking between JC and Benny. "She's mine," he spat, his hand curling into a fist. "You think you can just waltz in here and take what's mine?" He returned his gaze to Benny.

"Colin, it's not him," Benny begged. "He's not taking me."

JC could see the terror etched onto Benny's face and instinctually lunged forward, tackling Colin to the ground before he had a chance to strike again. They grappled with each other, rolling over and over on the floor of the studio.

"Enough!" Benny screamed, her heart pounding in her chest. The chaos of the surrounding scene seemed to slow as she reached for her small torch from a nearby workbench, her eyes locked on a small pile of wet canvases. Colin had doused them in turpentine, and the paint colors bled and swirled together in an abstract dance that mirrored the turmoil of the room.

As she held the torch closer to the paintings, she could feel the heat radiating off its tip, the flames licking hungrily at the air like ravenous snakes. She knew the consequences of her actions, but desperation left her with no other choice.

"Stop it, Colin," she warned, her voice shaking with determination. "If you don't leave now, I'll burn this place to the ground!" she screamed.

Her threat hung heavy in the air, the crackling of the fire punctuating her words with an urgency that couldn't be ignored. JC, still reeling from the blow, looked at Benny with a mixture of confusion and admiration.

"Are you insane?" Colin spat, his gaze flicking between Benny and the torch, uncertainty clouding his features for the first time since he had burst into the studio.

"Maybe" Benny replied, her grip tightening on the torch handle.

With a final, resolute glance at Colin, she touched the torch to the corner of a canvas. Flames erupted instantly, consuming the artwork in a hungry blaze. Panic danced in Colin's eyes as he watched the fire spread.

He backed away slowly from the flames. "Have it your way," he growled.

As Colin stormed out of the studio, Benny watched the pile of canvases burn, her heart aching for her loss. She knew that she had made a bold stand against the darkness that had sought to consume them, but at what cost?

The flames leaped from the canvas to other surrounding materials, fueled by the volatile concoction of chemicals and paint. The fire crackled hungrily, its destructive nature mimicking the violence in Colin's eyes moments before. Dark smoke filled the air, the suffocating smell of burning wood and paint assaulting their senses. JC, eyes stinging from the smoke, pulled Benny to him, pushing her past her fiery creation to the open door.

"Jesus Christ, Benny!" Patrick exclaimed, his voice strained with panic as he rushed to the shared wall between his and Benny's studio spaces. He fumbled with the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall, releasing it from its bracket with shaking hands. The weight of the extinguisher grounded him, as he hurried back to her studio door. He found a sudden resolve within himself. He pulled the pin and aimed at the base of the growing inferno.

JC and Benny retreated behind him as Patrick unleashed a torrent of white foam. The fire roared in defiance, but the extinguisher's contents smothered the flames, snuffing them out one by one. It was as if they were witnessing the battle between creation and destruction, the destructive force of the fire, only tamed by the steadfast determination of those who refused to be consumed by it.

"Is everyone okay?" Patrick asked, his voice hoarse from the smoke and adrenaline. His hands trembled slightly, the extinguisher still in hand at the ready.

Benny nodded, her eyes wide with the shock of what she had just done. She could feel the burn of remorse in her chest, mixed with an odd sense of pride for standing up to Colin. Her thoughts raced with the implications of her actions, wondering if this was truly the end or merely a prelude to further chaos.

In the distance, the wail of sirens grew louder, their shrill cries slicing through the tension-filled air like a knife's edge. Red and blue lights flashed urgently against the walls of the San Bernardino Arms.

"Shit," JC muttered under his breath, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He exchanged a quick glance with Patrick, who was also panting heavily, sweat beading on his brow. They both knew what the arrival of the police meant; their intervention had just become infinitely more complicated.

Benny's eyes welled up with tears, her emotions a whirlwind of relief, anger, and sadness. She wiped at the moisture on her cheeks with trembling hands, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "I never thought he'd go this far," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "I should've done something sooner."

"Hey," Patrick said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You did what you could. We're all still standing, aren't we?"

As the first officer proceeded through the courtyard, his hand resting firmly on his holstered weapon, Benny's eyes widened in fear. He approached the three of them, who stood before the smoking open door. "We received a call about a disturbance," the officer began, his voice firm yet measured. "Can any of you explain what happened here?"

Benny hesitated for a moment, her mind racing as she scrambled to piece together an explanation that would protect not only herself, but JC and Patrick as well. Finally, she took a deep breath, steeling herself before speaking.

"Officer, I'm so sorry for all this commotion," she said, her voice trembling with feigned remorse. "I... had an accident working in my studio. I was using a torch for a piece I was working on, and it got too close to some turpentine. And here we are," she smiled unconvincingly. "Patrick, my neighbor, got the fire extinguished, I think."

The officer narrowed his eyes, taking in the scene before him - the demolished artwork and charred walls, the desperate expressions on JC and Patrick's faces. He could sense there was more to the story than what Benny had offered. And then they were joined by a second officer.

"Officer," JC began, but Benny's dual-hued eyes pleaded for his silence.

"JC helped get me out," she interrupted him before he could continue.

"Alright," the officer said slowly, clearly unconvinced by Benny's explanation. He looked at JC and Patrick, "My partner, here, is going to take your statements." He turned to Benny, "Ma'am, I'm going to have you come with me to the station."

Benny's heart sank as she realized the gravity of the situation. She knew that going with the officer meant facing the consequences of her actions, but there was no turning back now. She nodded silently, her eyes downcast, as the officer gestured for her to follow him.

As she turned to leave, she caught JC's eye, silently willing him to understand the gravity of the situation, and her need for him to stay quiet. He nodded imperceptibly, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and determination.

"Alright, let's go," the officer said, his tone brusque as he led Benny through the courtyard and out into the street.

*****

Patrick stood in a small glass booth in the corner of the studio, one hand pressing a set of headphones to his ears, the other holding down flat a paper with lyrics on the music stand. His lips brushed the microphone as he sang, "She's a restless sort, / with secrets that wait, / on corners in the dark, / to pinch with a pain, / to sting and to smart..." His voice resonated through the studio. JC, seated behind the soundboard, wore a contemplative expression as he listened intently, his fingers dancing over the controls, adjusting levels.

It was their last day together in this space, the culmination of months spent crafting melodies and weaving stories into the fabric of sound. The song, "Thunderbolt," held weighty significance, and Patrick poured his heart into every lyric. "God knows, it gets so hard / to keep out the cold / when you're living in a house full of holes." As he transitioned into the final verse, the studio itself seemed to hold its breath.

JC glanced up from the soundboard, meeting Patrick's eyes. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a mutual acknowledgment of the journey they'd taken to arrive at this moment.

As the final note of Patrick's harmonica reverberated from the track in the dimly lit recording studio, lingering for a moment before fading into silence, Patrick leaned back from the microphone, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He cast a weary yet satisfied smile at JC, who stood behind the mixing console, his fingers poised above the controls as he listened to the song's conclusion with a deep sense of satisfaction. The album was complete.

"Man, that was incredible," Patrick breathed, stepping out from behind the glass booth, running a hand through his dirty blond hair. He glanced at JC, noting the glimmer of anticipation in his eyes. "I think we've got something really special here."

JC nodded, his lips curling into a wry smile. "I couldn't agree more." His dark brown hair, streaked with silver, framed his age-lined face, adding an air of authenticity to his quiet confidence. "This album is going to be one hell of a journey for your listeners, Patrick."

Patrick crossed the room to join JC at the console, his tall, thin frame casting a shadow upon the floor. Together, they powered down the equipment, the weight of their accomplishment settling upon them like the dust motes swirling about the room. As they worked in companionable silence, JC couldn't help but reflect on the months spent within these walls, creating music alongside Patrick, and he felt a pang of sadness knowing this chapter was coming to an end.

"Hey, JC?" Patrick's voice pulled JC from his thoughts. "I just wanted to say... thank you. For everything." He shifted awkwardly, his gaze momentarily averted. "Working with you has been an incredible experience."

"Thank you," JC responded, touched by Patrick's sincerity. "It's been an honor to work with you, too."

The warm twilight air enveloped JC as he stepped out of the studio, the lingering notes of their final song still echoing in his ears. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the city in a muted glow, as if even Hollywood itself was acknowledging the end of an era. The courtyard of the San Bernardino Arms stood before him, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. The complex had been almost like a second home to him the last few months.

"Hey, Patrick," JC called, turning to his friend who was locking up the studio. "It's been quite a journey, huh?"

"Absolutely," Patrick replied, pocketing the keys. "I can't believe it's been almost three months since we started."

JC leaned against the cool stucco wall, letting his gaze wander over the courtyard. The fountain's sporadic bursts seemed to mirror his own mix of emotions-relief, joy, but also a sense of uncertainty. He couldn't help but think of Benny, whose absence left a strange void. Could this journey really end without her?

"Have you heard from Benny?" he asked Patrick, hopeful.

Patrick shook his head. "No, she hasn't been answering my calls. I know the police let her go that same night, but I haven't seen her around since then."

"Damn," JC muttered. His brow furrowed with concern.

"She's probably lying low," Patrick suggested, trying to sound optimistic. "You know, she's the kind that always bounces back."

JC nodded, though he wasn't entirely convinced. He thought about Benny's art, her passion for transformation and renewal, and couldn't help but hope she was finding a way to rise from the literal ashes herself.

"Let's hope so," he murmured.

"Agreed," Patrick said, clapping a hand on JC's shoulder, before leading him toward the courtyard and out to their cars.

As JC and Patrick started to walk away, JC's gaze was drawn back to the bungalow complex. The door to Benny's studio stood slightly ajar, inviting his curiosity. "Wait," he said, grabbing Patrick's arm. "Look," he nodded his head at Benny's studio door.

Patrick's brow furrowed as he followed JC's gaze. "Yeah, that's odd. Let's go see."

JC hesitated at the threshold of Benny's studio, his hand gripping the doorknob tightly. The acrid scent of smoke assaulted his senses as he stepped inside, Patrick following close behind. The floor of the room was a charred mess, remnants of burned objects and scorched walls bearing witness to the fire's destructive power. JC's heart clenched at the sight - this had once been Benny's sanctuary, her creative haven.

At the center of the cluttered open space stood the building manager, a stout man with salt-and-pepper hair, who surveyed the charred remains of Benny's studio, his face a mixture of concern and frustration as he took a deep breath and sighed. Patrick approached him, treading carefully through the debris.

"Damn," Patrick muttered, shaking his head as he surveyed the damage. "Sorta looks worse than I remember."

"Just needs a clean, the inspector said. Everything structurally is fine," the building manager explained. 

JC's gaze drifted over the ruins, recalling what had transpired here and trying to make sense of it. His eyes landed on an unexpected sight: amidst the wreckage, a painting still stood, its perimeter blackened but not consumed by the flames. His eyes still fixed on the scene - Los Angeles in all its burning glory, somehow more captivating now than ever. The colors were warped and distorted, blending together in an eerie dance of disillusionment. His eyes traced the singed edges of the canvas, taking in every detail of the distorted cityscape. The blackened buildings seemed to shimmer with defiance against the smoky background, as if refusing to succumb to the destruction that surrounded them. He recognized Benny, her ability to create something beautiful in the midst of chaos, in the distinct brush strokes and colors. "Sometimes, you have to burn it to the ground..." He thought. He could almost hear her.

His thoughts were broken by the team of cleaners who entered the studio. Their expressions somber and focused. One of them stepped towards the painting, intending to remove it from the wreckage. Instinctively, JC held up a hand to stop them.

"Wait," he said, the word barely more than a whisper. The cleaner looked at him quizzically, but JC didn't notice, too focused on the ruined canvas. "Where are you taking this?"

"The trash," one of the men answered.

"You can't throw it out." He finally fixed his gaze on the man he was speaking to.

"It's not in the best of shape," the cleaner explained, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"I'll take it. I'll keep it." JC turned toward the building manager, who was still in conversation with Patrick. "Excuse me, everything in here is going in the trash?"

"Yeah, the husband hired the guys to come clear this place out," He explained.

"So you don't care if I take this?" He nodded his head to the canvas.

"Wow. Look at that," Patrick breathed, his voice tinged with awe. "That's the one she was working on outside, yeah?"

"Yeah, it is," JC answered.

"The one she literally meant to set on fire is the only one left!" Patrick laughed. "That is so Benny."

The irony was not lost on JC; the painting now mirrored Benny's own destruction in the hope to rise again.

"Can we get that in your car?" Patrick asked.

"I think if I put the seat down and slide it through the trunk."

"It's all yours," the building manager gave his final approval.

Patrick lifted one side of the large canvas, while JC took the other. They carefully stepped over the wreckage of art that did not survive. They carried it across the saltillo tiles of the courtyard, past the sputtering fountain. Night had finally settled in on The San Bernardino Arms. The once-bustling hive of creativity now eerily quiet. Patrick helped JC maneuver the large painting into his car.

Before saying his final goodbye, JC couldn't help taking in the San Bernardino Arms one last time. Tucked away in the heart of Hollywood, the bungalow complex was a living portrait of endurance amid decay. Its pink stucco walls and terracotta tiled roofs spoke volumes about the residents who once lived here. It bore witness to the secrets of long ago, and would continue to attend to the secrets and stories of its current inhabitants.

"Hard to believe this place has survived all these years," JC mused, the words escaping his lips before he realized he'd spoken them aloud.

"Yeah," Patrick agreed, his eyes scanning the structure with admiration. "It's seen better days, but there's still something beautiful about it, don't you think?"

"Definitely," JC said, nodding. He looked at Patrick and held out his hand. "It's been great, Patrick. And when your record lands, call me up for your next one."

Patrick shook JC's hand vigorously. "Guaranteed," he said.

JC slipped into his car, started the ignition, and drove off into the Hollywood night.