Chapter 4: City Of Angels

The trip to Los Angeles was nothing short of comfort: a business-class ticket, a good and decent meal at the airport lounge, First-class treatment, and a good view to behold the beautiful creations of God. Daniel has never experienced this parade of comforting riches, not in this lifetime.

The first thing Daniel noticed about Los Angeles was the light.  

It wasn't like Brooklyn's muted glow, filtered through smog and skyscrapers. This light was relentless—pouring through the escalade's tinted windows like liquid gold, bleaching the sidewalks bone-white, making everything look like an overexposed photograph.  

Daniel squinted against it as the car pulled up to The Peninsula. His fingers tightened around his duffel bag—the same one he'd carried through three moves in two years, its stitching fraying at the seams.  

"Home sweet home," Luca said, flashing teeth that probably cost more than Daniel's student loans.  

The suite smelled like money. Not the stale-dollar-bill stench of bodegas and subway stations, but something crisp and foreign—like citrus and new leather. Daniel's boots sank into a carpet thicker than his mattress back in Brooklyn.  

A fruit basket sat on the coffee table. The card read: Don't fuck this up. - Jordan.

Luca flopped onto the couch as if he belonged there, which, of course, he did. "You gonna stand there all day?"  

Daniel set his bag down carefully as if the floor might bite. "How much does this place cost per night?"  

"Does it matter?" Luca stretched, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders.  

"Not to you, apparently."  

Luca's smile didn't waver, but something flickered behind his eyes. He flexed his hands—rough, calloused things that didn't match his Rolex or his perfect hair. Daniel stared like a fool. Those hands represented what he had chosen to do with his life.

"Jordan's meeting us at Nobu at seven," Luca said, tucking those discordant hands into his pockets. "Try not to piss him off before the appetizers."  

Nobu Malibu was the kind of place Daniel had only seen in movies. The Pacific glittered beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, all those crashing waves muted behind soundproof glass. The waiter knew Luca's name, his favourite spot, and his allergy to shellfish.  

Jordan Keating arrived ten minutes late, smelling like expensive cologne and entitlement. He was handsome in a sharp, soulless way—like a knife that had never been used for anything but display, all charm and white teeth smile.

"Daniel Reyes," Jordan said, not offering his hand. "Luca tells me you're... unconventional."  

Daniel sipped his water. "And Luca tells me you're his babysitter."  

Luca choked on his drink. Jordan's smile stayed perfectly in place.  

"I'm his manager," Jordan corrected, ordering the table without consulting them. "Which means I decide what's best for his career. Your job is to make that vision shine."  

The way he said it made Daniel's skin crawl. Like Luca was a product to be packaged, not a person.  

Luca was uncharacteristically quiet through dinner, pushing food around his plate. Daniel watched as Jordan leaned in to adjust Luca's collar, his fingers lingering just a second too long. Luca didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.  

Later, Daniel found Luca on the hotel balcony, chain-smoking American Spirits like they had personally wronged him. Up close, the circles under his eyes were darker than they'd looked under restaurant lighting.  

"You don't seem like the trust-fund type," Daniel said, leaning against the railing.  

Luca exhaled smoke through his nose. "My dad was a mechanic. We lived in a double-wide house outside Bakersfield." He held up his hands—those damned callouses. "These are from holding flashlights while he worked on shitty cars until 2AM."  

Daniel blinked. That wasn't in any of the press kits.  

"Why tell me that?"  

"Because you're the only one who'd believe it," Luca said, stubbing out his cigarette.  

Daniel's phone buzzed. Unknown number.  

*Ask him about June 12th. See how honest he really is.*

His blood turned to ice. June 12th—the date on the incriminating photo.  

Luca frowned. "What?"  

"Nothing." Daniel pocketed his phone. "Just my editor."  

But Luca was already reaching for another cigarette, his hands steadier than his voice. "Jordan's throwing a party tomorrow night. Wear something nice."  

Luca's Beverly Hills mansion looked like a magazine spread—all cold marble and abstract art that probably cost more than Daniel would make in a lifetime. He wandered the halls, running fingers along framed gold records, trying to reconcile this place with the trailer park Luca had described.  

A muffled argument drew him to a closed door.  

"—can't trust him, Luca." Jordan's voice was sharp as broken glass. "He's a hack looking for a paycheck."  

"I need someone who doesn't work for you!" Luca snapped back.  

A pause. Then Jordan, quieter: "Remember what happened last time you went scoundrel."  

The threat hung in the air like smoke. Daniel's phone buzzed again.  

* Now you see. Jordan owns him.*

Footsteps approached the door. Daniel barely had time to duck into an alcove before Jordan stormed past, his perfect hair slightly mussed, his knuckles white around his phone.  

Inside the room, something shattered against a wall.  

Daniel exhaled slowly. The pieces were starting to fit together—the bruises on Luca's hands, the way Jordan touched him like property, that photo of Luca and the unknown man burning a hole in Daniel's phone.  

And now, what exactly happened that night? Who was the mysterious man? Why was his wrist bruised?

His phone buzzed a third time. This time, there was an attachment—a clearer video file. The preview showed Luca exchanging words with an opponent at the award party that night.

Daniel didn't open it. Not yet. He was confused.

Some truths, he suspected, couldn't be unseen.  

But he is willing to find out regardless.