JC stood at his front door, digging deep into the pocket of his jeans for his key ring. It only had two keys on it-house key and car key. He didn't need much when he went out, just his phone, his wallet, and his keys. He worked the house key into the deadbolt and pushed the door open, deftly punching in the security code.

She-what was her name???-followed closely behind, looking around while he flipped light switches and turned on lamps.  JC shuffled down a hallway, pointing. "Kitchen. Living room. Patio through there." He turned when he reached the stairs, one foot on the bottom step. "Make yourself comfortable. Be right back."

He climbed the stairs, watching her over the banister. She wandered into the den, her heels clunking heavily on the wood floors. She took a seat in one of the chairs opposite the TV, perching on the edge of it, and then bent over, inspecting his collection of remotes lined up next to one another on the coffee table. She picked one and pointed it the TV.  Good guess-it popped on, music blaring from the built in speakers. Quickly, she turned the volume down, looking around as if she was in trouble. He laughed to himself, quietly climbing the rest of the stairs.

One of these days, his habit of picking up random women - and bringing them home - was going to bite him in the ass. It hadn't yet, though. At least, not in the bad way. Alcohol made him ravenous for sex. He was quite drunk, full of alcohol. He willed himself to sober up some, so he could at least talk to her. See what panned out. Maybe he'd get lucky.

He ducked into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth, and checked his hair. Stepping through the closet, he peeled off his jeans, thin sweater, socks and shoes and put on a t-shirt and a pair of cotton lounge pants. He gave the bedroom a once-over glance on his way out, making sure nothing would embarrass him later. Just in case.

When he got back to the living room, the TV was on. A small leather purse sat on the coffee table. But the girl was nowhere to be found. He checked the kitchen-empty. The bathroom, too.  A light breeze stirred the sheer curtains over the sliding glass doors. One of them was open. She was out by the pool.

"Marco," he called out softly, stepping through the open door. Barefoot, he padded across the warm concrete toward the loungers arranged around the calm, cerulean blue water. The only sounds in the air were the crickets in the distance and the filter in the pool.

"Polo," she answered back.

She sat up a little, leaning around the side of the lounge chair, her feet stretched out in front of her. She had removed her heels and placed them, side by side, near her chair. Her toenails were a deep burgundy, her skin-what he could see of it, mainly her ankles, her neck, her face and her arms, were a golden tan. His eyes crawled up her body, from the fitted jeans to the eclectic print halter top to the elegant ponytail atop her head. He made no secret of the fact that he was checking her out. She didn't protest.

"So, do we know each other? I feel like we do, but I'm still drunk." JC was restless, tired but not sleepy, slowly pacing from one end of the pool to the other.

"You're famous. Everyone knows you. You and I, though? Not officially."

He stopped directly in front of her and dropped onto the lounger next to her, forcing her to scoot over and make room for him. "Can we change that? I'm JC." He stuck out a hand and offered a smile.

She slid her fingers across his palm. His hand-huge and warm-closed around hers. "I'm Gab--Gabriele. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too, Gab--Gabriele.  Are you uh... well, what do you do, exactly?"

"Well, exactly, I'm an unemployed writer."

"Isn't everyone, in LA?"

"Technically, no. Everyone in LA is an unemployed actor."

"True," he said, laughing. Nodding. She was cute. Quick on her feet. Or off her feet. "I hope I didn't steal you away from something-or someone-important." Puzzled, her head tilted slightly. He pointed, looping a finger under the hem of her blouse. "You look nice. Like you had a date."

She laughed, but didn't swat him away, or anything. Clues. She was into him, maybe. "Oh, no. I uh... I had a party. Actually it was a birthday party. A surprise party."

"Yours?" She nodded, smiling shyly. "Well happy birthday, Gab-Gabriele."

"Thanks. And you can... just call me Gabby."

"Gabby." Suddenly, he realized why she seemed familiar. He'd only been staring at her byline every Monday for the past 5 years! He snapped his fingers and pointed at her, his finger in her face. "You're Ask Gabby at LA Magazine."

She nodded, her head dipping to her chest. "Yes."

JC laughed. "You wrote about that story I told, when my pants split open at my salsa class."

She blushed, hoping he wasn't about to throw her out over a silly story. "It was funny! I laughed my ass off. But don't worry--I'm only Ask Gabby for a few more days."

"Lucky me, since I'm drunk. Why only a few days?"

Gabby played with her hair, pulling it over her shoulder, wrapping the ends around her finger and twisting it. It was a cute nervous habit. "I quit. I'm moving to New York and I'm going to work for a publisher. Have you ever heard of Pearson Publishing?"

He shook his head. "Don't think so, off the top of my head."

"Well, they're huge. Every textbook in the US is published by them, plus financial magazines and books and...anyway, I got a job as a Junior Editor. It's a foot in the door of real writing and publishing.  I could get transferred to London or Paris or anywhere. And I'd be out of this smut rag shit I do out here."

"Smut rag? Like... celebrity stuff?"

She blushed, averting his gaze, eventually nodding. "I have a journalism degree from Cal State. I did my internship at LA Times, writing about city government and social issues-- you know, the homeless. Stuff like that." JC nodded, following along. "And then I went freelance. Sky's the limit, right?  But I fell into this trap where the only thing that paid worth a damn was bits about Drew Barrymore's pock marked ass at the beach or Cameron Diaz without any underwear on. It pays the bills but... gross."

"Yeah. Gross." He stood, walking over by the pool and began pacing again. "So you have to leave LA to do real work? There aren't editing jobs in LA?"

"Sure, if I want to edit memoirs by 23 year olds and shitty relationship manuals. I'll take 8th grade history texts over that, any day."

"Sounds boring, though. Gotta love what you do."

"I will. And I'll be able to sleep at night."

JC ventured closer to the water, walking along the edge-- so close he could feel the cool mist as it splashed against the sides of the pool.

"I want you to know," she said, "that I can't swim."

"Okay. Stay over there, then."

"And that these jeans were expensive, so I'm not ruining them with chlorine."

"Alright."

"And that when you fall in and drown, because you're still drunk? I'll break the story myself."

He laughed, glancing at her over his shoulder. "Wouldn't put it past ya, smut rag girl."

"Hey. Drunk Guy!"  JC turned around, shocked at her sharp tone. "Get away from the pool before you fall in. Please?"

JC smiled and took a giant step back, and then another and another until he was near her lounger again and resumed his seat next to her. "Just for you. I don't normally let girls boss me around."

"I don't usually boss boys around. I was scared you'd fall in."

"Didn't mean to scare you," he said quietly, giving her a comforting pat on the thigh. "Now, let me get this straight. This totally cool, hot lookin' girl picked me up-"

"Technically, I didn't pick you up-"

"-and brought me home-"

"-gave you a ride, yeah-"

"-and is at my house, lookin' all... hot..."

"-you asked me to come in-"

"And now you're telling me that you're leaving LA? For good?"

She nodded, solemn. "For the foreseeable future, yes."

"Well. Shit. This always happens."

"What does?"

"I meet great people who are on their way out of here. It's like a mass exodus, lately."

"That sucks," she said, sighing. "I just have to get the fuck out of LA. People out here are weird. They get into cars with total strangers and then let said strangers into their homes. Would never happen in New York."

"I'd never do that, in New York. Besides, I could tell you were cool."

"Falling down drunk, you could tell I was cool?"

"I'm an excellent judge of cool. I'm right, aren't I?"

She nodded, smiling. "I am pretty cool."

"I should have asked you if you were leaving town, though. That's not cool."

She shrugged, hiding her grin. "Details."

"See now." He lifted his hand, pointed a finger at her and tapped her on the nose. "That's where the devil is."