Free Say You Love Her, An L.A. Love Story by Z.L. Arkadie Page A

around the bridges we cross, or the white stone plantations, relics of the antebellum South.  
    “The first time I came to Hollywood I was one of those people who criticized everyone for being fake. Then, I thought, how could they be fake when they’re real people, and there are more than one of the same kind?” Angelina takes that pause where she waits for me to reply.  
    “Right,” I say on cue.  
    “My mother taught me never to come to a conclusion until you know the whole story, which you’ll never fully know. So I learned to respect L.A. for being different from everywhere else and everywhere else for being different from L.A.”
    “Josephine is a wise woman,” I say.
    “In a lot of ways she is, but in some ways she isn’t. She just won’t get off of this doctor thing. Can you ever see me as a doctor? It’s just nonsensical to put that kind of pressure on me.”
    “If you were a doctor, I’d be a hypochondriac.”
    She tosses her head back and pushes her chest up as she chuckles. That’s something she does unintentionally. Hell, she doesn’t know that every time she does that I have a reaction.
    “I have to figure out a way to break the bad news. Maybe I could say, ‘Mother…’” She looks upwards to ponder. The silence rolls on and on.
    “You could say, ‘I’m not a doctor.’”
    “Well she knows that.”
    “And, ‘I’m not in medical school.’”
    She shrugs one shoulder. “Now that’s the truth.”
    I pet her thigh without realizing it. It was a good call. She puts her hand on top of mine, and we stay like that as I drive into the city.  
    “We’re going to the French Quarter?” I ask, and decide to ignore the way my voice croaks. I rub the outside of her thigh with my thumb.
    She hesitates. “Yes.”
    I exit on Esplanade Avenue and head up to Frenchman. Angelina compliments me on knowing my way around. That’s when I tell her that if I’ve been somewhere before, then I never forget how to navigate the area. She’s impressed. I’m lucky to find a parking space along the main drag in front of a tattoo parlor. I take my hand from her thigh and immediately can’t wait to touch her again.  
    Some of the small cafés are open. Hunger has finally caught up with me. The smell of coffee and fried pastries makes my stomach grumble. Angelina mumbles the address on the front of the envelope. The sun is beaming down on us. The humidity makes it feel hotter than it is.  
    “This is it,” Angelina says.
    I look through the window. “It’s a bar.”  
    “That’s what it looks like.” Angelina seems just as confused as I am.
    I step back and look up. “Maybe it’s up there?” There’s a second level.
    “Maybe.”  
    “It looks empty though,” I say after closer examination.  
    “I should just open it.” She lifts the flap on the envelope.
    “I think so.” The sooner we get this over with the better.
    Angelina takes the slip of paper out of the wrapper and reads. “What the…” she whispers.  
    I move close to look over her shoulder. “It’s an invitation.”
    “From seven o’clock until whenever, the Real Deal Down Dirty Jamboree, invite only,” she reads. “Why would she send us to a party?” Angelina shakes her head as she ponders.
    “I don’t know, but we have four hours until we can find out.” I raise my eyebrows suggestively.
    “Of course,” she says.
    I wrap my arm around her waist without even thinking about it. “Let’s eat.”
    We walk over to Cafe Rose Nicaud for a late breakfast made complete by alligator sausage. Angelina names friends she has in the area as we eat, and we discover that we have three in common, one of whom is always playing with an ensemble on a stage around Jazz Park.
    “So Charlie Lord knows Chuck Moon?”
    “How good of friends are you?” I ask, hoping like hell they never slept together.
    “Pretty good. He drives out to Karina’s parties every now and then. He doesn’t go as much as he used to since he started