"That didn't stop you from pounding that little punk rock chick in New York," Matt said.
"I didn't say I was stopping anything," Jake said. "I just said I'm not up for it tonight. I'll see you guys."
They said their goodbyes and Jake climbed into his car. He headed toward a little restaurant he'd discovered last year while rehearsing the Balance Of Power tunes.
The Brannigan Station Café was on Wilshire Boulevard at Gayley Avenue in the Los Angeles district of Westwood. It was just a few blocks south of the sprawling UCLA campus but the UCLA students rarely patronized the establishment. Instead, the target clientele were workers from the huge Veterans Administration complex just across the San Diego Freeway and from the Federal Building just two blocks west. Both of these groups routinely trooped to Brannigan Station for breakfast, lunch, and, to a lesser degree, dinner as they headed home for the day.
Jake had discovered the place one day after leaving the rehearsal warehouse on nearby Olympic Boulevard in Sawtelle. He had wanted to stop for a bite to eat before heading to a bar frequented by UCLA students where picking up a nineteen year old slut willing to do anything for Jake Kingsley would be easy to accomplish. The restaurant was everything he looked for in an eating establishment. First of all, it was family owned and run and not a chain restaurant. Second of all, the time he tended to be there — around four o'clock in the afternoon — was the slowest time of the day for Brannigan Station since lunch had ended and dinner had yet to begin. Often he was the only customer in the place at this hour. The most significant reason — the reason that kept him coming back — was that even if there were customers in the place, they tended to be older people in their late-thirties to mid-sixties which meant that very few of them even knew who Jake Kingsley was and had no desire to talk to him if they did know who he was. It was a place where he could eat good food in peace without constantly having to make small talk with fans or sign autographs or deal with religious freaks wanting to tell him he was going to hell for his corruption of America's youth.
He pulled his Corvette into the parking lot at 4:16 PM and walked in the front door. The restaurant was completely empty of customers except for an elderly couple in their seventies — probably patrons of the VA Hospital — sitting in one of the booths near the front. They looked up as he came in, gave him a distasteful look when they saw his long hair and tattered jeans, but otherwise showed no signs of recognition.
Jo Ann Brannigan, the owner of the restaurant, was manning the hostess podium. She smiled delightfully when he walked in.
"Jake," she said, beaming, walking up to give him a hug. "Welcome back. We haven't seen you in ages."
He hugged her, feeling her large, surgery-enhanced breasts pushing into his chest. Jo Ann was quite attractive, appearing to be in her late twenties or early thirties instead of the forty-four years of age she actually was. She was an astute businesswoman who had leased the building and opened the restaurant ten years before using money from her second divorce settlement. She ran it like a well-oiled machine, taking advantage of her location and catering to her projected clientele by hiring well-schooled and well-skilled cooks and friendly, eye-pleasing but non-slutty looking waitresses and waiters. This had allowed her to be financially stable in the upper-middle class when the alimony payments and child support finally ran out.
"It's good to see you, Jo," he told her as their embrace broke. "You're looking hot, as usual."
She blushed in a way that was quite erotic. "Oh you," she said, slapping at his shoulder. "That's nice of you to say but after all those young things you hook up with out on tour I'm sure I look like a sack of old bones."
"Not at all," he said. "You look like a sack of young bones. I promise."
She giggled like a schoolgirl. "It's good to see you, Jake. You up for a little dinner?"
"Do you still have the Philly cheese steak on the menu?"
"You know it," she said. "We wouldn't get rid of our most popular item."
"Then I'm here for some dinner," he said. "You think you can squeeze me in?"
She looked around at the empty dining room. "I think a table just opened up," she said. "Go pick your spot and I'll send Rachel over to take your order. Anything to drink?"
"Corona with a lime," he said. "And keep 'em coming."
"You got it," she said.
He sat down in a booth near the back of the room, the place where he would receive the least amount of notice if a crowd suddenly showed up unexpectedly. Soon Rachel Madison, Jo Ann's daughter from her first marriage, came over carrying a bottle of Corona with a lime in it. A student majoring in English at UCLA, Rachel worked afternoons and evenings at her mother's business. She was nothing but a younger version of her mother. She was naturally blonde (so it appeared anyway), petite, quite cute, and looked considerably younger than the twenty-two years of age she actually was. She could have easily passed for a high school student had she wished. She was wearing the standard uniform of Brannigan's waitresses — a simple pair of tight jeans and a bright red T-shirt that was tucked into the waist. Her medium breasts bulged quite alluring beneath the restaurant's logo.
"Hi, Jake," she said, setting his beer down on the table. She then leaned down and gave him a big hug, pushing those breasts into his shoulder, and a short kiss on his cheek. "It's good to have you back. I was starting to think we'd never see you again."
"I just couldn't stay away," Jake said. "Ever since the tour ended I've been craving a good Philly cheese steak sandwich and a gander of you in your Brannigan's T-shirt."
She blushed in a manner very similar to the way her mother had just minutes before.
"How was the tour?" she asked. "I saw what happened in Cincinnati. What a horrible place that must be."
"I don't think I'll be moving there anytime soon," Jake said. "The freakin' villagers would probably show up at my house with battering rams and torches."
She giggled. "I saw on the news the other day that the judge dismissed the charges against you. At least someone there has some sense."
"I'm sure he didn't like dismissing the charges," Jake said. "He just knew that the first court I appealed to would overturn him and probably issue a reprimand."
"So the system works?" she asked.
"Well, I've been arrested three times now for a variety of charges and so far... yes, I'll have to say that the system works. At least if you're rich and have expensive lawyers like I do."
"Justice for money," she said with a smile. "What can you say? We all know it's the American way."
He laughed. "Styx," he said, impressed with her musical knowledge of an obscure tune and her ability to quote it in correct context. "Half-Penny, Two-Penny. A good lyric."
"Not as good as yours are," she said. "You never did tell me if you really did it or not."
"Did what?" he asked, although he knew what she was talking about.
"You know? Did you really snort coke out of that girl's butt?"
"That would be a total violation of the health code if I'd done something like that," he said.
She slapped at his shoulder again. "You," she said. "I bet you actually did it. You seem all nice and sweet but I bet you have a wild side."
"I'll have to plead the Fifth here, hon," he told her. "That's what my lawyers suggested."
"Someday you'll tell me," she vowed. "So anyway, what can I get you? Mom already said you want the Philly. Anything with it? You want a salad or some soup maybe?"
"Naw," he said, "just the sandwich. That'll hold me until I get to my next coke sniffing from the butt-crack session."
She disappeared long enough for Jake to drink a third of his beer and light a cigarette. When she came back she had a glass of diet soda in her hands. She sat down next to him, uninvited, knowing that Jake liked chatting with her when he was in.