Chapter 2, Scene 3

Michael Dalton turned off Sunset onto Cahuenga, straight into the morass of Hollywood nightlife. The bars and nightclubs were disgorging their final patrons, bodies spilling into the street as dilated eyes adjusted to the ride-share headlights.

Traffic stood still.

He counted at least five other black Toyota Priuses around him before the dam broke and cars lurched forward in fits and starts. He stalled again near the Phoenix Lounge and flashed his beams, scanning the crowd.

Friday night. Last fare—finally.

This part of the gig—weekends after last call—broke him every time. The patience and forced politeness required to protect his five-star rating from passengers who talked through him as if he wasn’t there.

And vomit. There was almost always vomit.

Should switch back to days.

He hadn’t planned on driving strangers around Los Angeles at two in the morning when he’d published his first novel. Or the second. What did he have to show for it?

Two respectable reviews in Publishers Weekly. A modest advance, long gone. A frustrated agent dropping hints. The next one better catch fire.

He had nothing. No—worse. Too many ideas and none worth writing.

Up ahead, three young women were squinting at their phones and scanning the cars. They looked his way. He flashed his brights again and caught their attention.

The men spilling from the bars wore a variety of styles—blazers, button-down shirts flashing gold, leather jackets, dark denim. The women, though—almost without exception—wore their own version of the same thing.

The little black dress.

The three walking toward his car each cut a distinct silhouette, which sparked a story idea in him. But it was gone before he could capture it. Too many ideas, not enough output.

One was tall and bony, with glasses. Another short and heavy. The third—quite proportional—wobbled on her heels.

Michael had no eye for women.

Instead, he watched a muscular man in a tight black t-shirt cross in front of his car and wondered, briefly, if Chris might be somewhere out here tonight.

Do people still go to clubs at our age?

The tall one collapsed into the front seat. The other two dropped into the back, the car rocking. Laughter filled the cabin immediately—loud and chaotic.

“Music up!” the girl next to him demanded in a baby voice, reaching for the console.

Michael gently but firmly nudged her hand away and increased the volume. Following the app, he eased free of the crush and turned onto Franklin.

They were merging onto the freeway when his phone rang, slicing through the pop music the girls sang along to. He kept his eyes on the road, but glanced down just long enough to see the name.

ROBERT BROOKS.

At two in the morning?

He had no intention of answering.

The girl in the passenger seat pressed the green button before he could stop her.

“HIIII, ROBERT!” she yelled. Laughter erupted from the back seat.

“Hello? Mikey?” Bobby said, confused.

“Bobby—” Michael tried, but—

“YOU SOUND HOT!” she screamed into the speaker. “HOW BIG IS YOUR DICK?”

More squeals. Hysterical laughter.

“Bobby, I’ll have to call you back,” Michael shouted, stabbing at the screen to end the call.

He focused on the road, breathing deeply, mindful of his rating. The Prius exited toward Burbank.

Then the girl in the passenger seat leaned forward.

Michael saw it coming.

She vomited across the console and all over the floor of the passenger side.

Michael lowered the windows all the way down. The smell had already filled the car.

The girl slumped forward.

He considered stopping, but chose speed instead.

They were coasting down Barham when a text alert popped up on his phone.

From Bobby.

CODE RED