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tired.”
    I don’t wait for an answer. If Dad isn’t going to be home
    —he usual y isn’t—I have no idea how she’l spend the evening, besides having another cocktail or three.

    ***
    “I stil can’t believe you destroyed your 911, man.” John downshifts his Jaguar XJ to take a curve. “It sucks ass, seriously.”
    My one week old Porsche 911 GT2 RS was sweet. I don’t even remember getting into it that night. Guess I should be glad I hadn’t taken anyone home from that club—
    the whole right side was crushed in.
    Man, that’s a more sobering thought than I want to be having tonight.
    “Gonna replace it?”
    “No point right now—my license is suspended for six months anyway.” Six months. Damn . The judge didn’t even count the time from the accident to my court date against it
    —he started the sentence from the court date, leaving five months, two weeks and four days to go.
    John frowns, confused. “So?”
    I should know better than to expect my best friend to get why I won’t be driving on a suspended license. He has no concept of consequences. He’s the luckiest bastard I hang out with—he never gets caught doing anything. It’s bizarre.
    Not to mention unfair as hel .
    “I’ve gotta lay low for a bit. First getting busted at that party, and now this DUI and community service crap.”
    “But they dropped the charges on the weed, right?”
    “Yeah. But standing there in front of a judge, you can’t help feeling like he knows everything you’ve ever done.”
    “Whoa.” John is one of those guys who frequently comes across as stoned off his ass. He’s brighter than he seems
    —unless he’s actual y stoned, in which case he’s practical y brain dead.
    We’re heading into the Hil s for a party some girl is having. John says she’s an heiress who’s struggling to make it as an actress in Hol ywood. The houses we’re passing on the way are as posh as my parents’ place.
    Yeah, she’s real y struggling.
    “So about this party—any decent prospects for hookups?” I want nothing more than to get total y wasted, grab some hot, legal y-aged, equal y wasted girl and find a room. No brown hair, no brown eyes. No supervision, direction or advice. No sarcasm. No talking .
    “Yeah, man. Ample possibilities.”
    “Sweet.” I’m thinking a tal , leggy, blue-eyed blonde with huge tits.
    This is LA—I can’t throw a rock and not hit one of those.

    *** *** ***
    Dori
    Day three has not gone as I’d envisioned it. Of course, neither did day two.
    First, he showed up an hour late and hungover. He thought he was hiding it (with sunglasses—real y?), but just because I’m personal y naïve when it comes to getting drunk or doing drugs doesn’t mean I don’t know it when I see it. The neighborhoods where I work are rife with the ways and means people use to cope through their disappointing lives—and those coping mechanisms sometimes include substances that don’t do any more than mask the real problems and valid issues.
    Frankly, his slightly bloodshot eyes and lack of energy—
    coupled with the tardiness and an even more contrary coupled with the tardiness and an even more contrary attitude than the previous day—almost pushed me over the edge. I wanted to bundle him right back into the backseat of his fancy car and send him home. I’m supposed to be above such reactions. Some social worker I’l make, if I can’t keep a more even keel. I’l have clients with bigger personality limitations than he’s got, as difficult as that is to imagine at the moment.
    He was a walking safety liability. There was no way I could leave him alone with a paint rol er, not to mention what paint fumes might do to him in his already taxed physical condition. Anything with tools, especial y power tools, was out. The only task I could imagine assigning to him was helping to lay sod in the back yard. I thought I was doing him a favor—he could wear the sunglasses and be out in the fresh air (such as