Free Love on the Rocks (with Salt) by Charlene Ross Page A

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celebrities who want an original couture dress but can’t afford
Vera Wang or Dior,” I say hoping to show them just how hip I
am.
    “ That’s cool,” she says, though it
doesn’t sound like she means it.
    “ Looks like we need to break you
in to West Hollywood clubbing, Laney. It’s time for you to dance
with a gay man.” Holden pulls me onto the dance floor. “Just don’t
fall in love with me when you see how skilled I am. You are
gorgeous, girlfriend, but my hips only swing your way on the dance
floor.”
    I laugh as we’re dancing and am actually
starting to have fun when I look up and see Pearl Snaps Tom and
Black Bart Bill heading toward the door. Tom catches my eye and
tips his hat. I give him a little wave, and Holden looks over his
shoulder to see where I’ve turned my attention.
    He pulls me close and says, “Stay away from
that one, honey. He’s a bad, bad boy. A nice girl like you is
better off on the dance floor with a gay boy like me.”
    Almost as if he’d heard what Holden said, Tom
shrugs, gives me a smile and walks out the door.
    After many more turns on the dance
floor—and my fourth Frosted Cowboy—we head to an all-night coffee
bar, where I see one of the Baldwin brothers buying a watch out of
a briefcase and Toby Maguire taking turns playing backgammon with
two guys who look like computer programmers. I order a decaf and
try to sound intelligent and maybe even a little bit feisty, all
the while wondering what it would have been like to go home with a
bad boy like Tom with the pearl snaps instead.

Chapter 2
    Late Sunday morning, I grab
the LA Times and
head down to Mel’s Diner on Sunset. Nothing like a little chorizo
and eggs to nurse a hangover. As I walk in the door, I see Mr.
Pearl Snaps himself. Before I can avoid him, he catches my eye so I
walk over to him. “Oh my God, aren’t you Chris
Pine?”
    He smiles. “Aren’t you
that Sports Illustrated model?”
    “ I can’t believe you recognized me
without my bikini.”
    “ Are you meeting someone
here?”
    “ Nope, just me
and the Times .”
    “ Care to join me?”
    “ Sure,” I say, and sit down across
from him.
    “ It looked like you were having
fun on the dance floor last night.”
    “ You know what?
I did have a lot
of fun. I haven’t been dancing in years. We closed the place down
and then went out for coffee because that’s what I need at two
a.m., a big shot of caffeine. I didn’t get home until almost
four.”
    “ And you’re actually out in the
daylight before noon. I thought you were a rookie at the whole
nightlife scene.”
    “ I am a rookie. I’m just
not used to sleeping in. I don’t think I’ve slept past eleven
o’clock since college.” I suddenly become aware of my appearance.
I’m wearing ripped jeans and my favorite ratty Henley shirt, and my
hair is pulled into a sloppy ponytail. Did I remember to brush my
teeth and put on mascara? Think, Laney, think. Yes to both. Nothing
to conceal the zit I feel coming in big and strong on my
chin.
    “ Is it really OK if I sit here?” I
ask, shifting in my seat a bit, my confidence suddenly
plummeting.
    “ Only if you let me read the book
reviews.”
    “ Do you read a lot?”
    “ Does that surprise you?” he
asks.
    I shrug. “You look like you spend more time at
the gym than the library.” Crap. Did I say that out
loud?
    “ Ouch,” he says to me.
    Yep, said it out loud. I’ve really got to
learn to control that.
    The waitress comes to my rescue and takes our
order. “Elvis scramble, coffee, large orange juice and a water
please.” He orders an egg white omelet with spinach and feta. Oh
brother. He’s probably used to breakfasting with girls who eat half
a grapefruit for breakfast, not chorizo.
    “ So what kind of books do you
read?” I ask when the waitress leaves us.
    “ Mostly books about
bodybuilding.”
    “ Are you always this
sarcastic?”
    “ I could say the same thing to
you,” he says.
    “ Sorry. Defense mechanism. I