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 The once-worn hardwood floors had been replaced by polished concrete, the plaster walls now covered in white dry wall, giving the spaces an industrial and modern edge that echoed the raw energy of an art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.