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pumped up. One of the things I missed most about my old apartment was listening to anything I wanted at any volume that I wanted. My neighbors were either deaf, stoned, or never at home, so no one complained. No one ever noticed my presence, as a matter of fact, unless rent was late. Then the landlord noticed plenty. Working for a struggling gossip rag and writing freelance articles is no way to earn a living in this gasping-for-life town.
    Growing up here, I knew the area by heart and had no trouble navigating my way into West Hollywood. My intended destination was Scott & Sons Electrical, and I hoped it still existed. The ad had caught my attention and jogged my memory. I’d attended high school with a boy named Noah Scott, until I changed districts in the middle of my junior year. I vaguely recalled him saying his parents ownedan electric supply store. If I was going to trust our sanctuary to anyone, my first choice was someone I had a quasihistory with—as long as his parents hadn’t sold the shop to someone else, or closed down along with hundreds of other businesses during the post–Meta War years.
    I turned onto Vine and spotted the colorful storefront situated between two discount liquor stores, each advertising the lowest prices in town. The walls were relatively free of graffiti and seemed freshly painted. The red-and-white sign over the glass-and-iron doors announced Scott & Sons Electrical.
    The windows were papered over, as was the front door, giving the place an air of disuse. But a plastic sign said Open and listed the business hours. I pulled the handle; an interior bell chimed.
    Nerves settled into my stomach like a cloud of butterflies. I pulled harder and the door squealed as it opened. To my immediate left, a long row of fixtures dangled from the ceiling, each one apparently connected. On the wall was a bank of switches, each labeled with a code, probably for the individual chandeliers and lanterns. All shapes and sizes, from gaudy jeweled monstrosities to simple curved bamboo balloons.
    On the right was a wall of inset shelving, and dozens of lamp displays. Most of them were the kind you attach directly to the wall, but several were table lamps.
    Two more steps in and a warm vanilla-sugar scent sent the nervous butterflies packing. It could have been incense, or a crock of scented oil. At the far end of the narrow room,an empty sales counter stared back at me. A door stood open behind it, a gaping black hole. No music, only the gentle squeaks of my sneakers on the polished wood floor.
    “Hello?” I said, too softly. I cleared my throat, making a point of it. “Is someone here?”
    A thud directly above my head promptly preceded the sound of footsteps thundering down a flight of stairs. I watched the door behind the counter, waiting halfway between it and the door. My fight or flight reflex was starting to kick in, and flight was winning.
    Dirty sneakers descended from the darkness, followed by tight, ripped jeans and a T-shirt clad torso. An unbuttoned flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, flapped in the wind he created as he charged forward. I looked up, past a narrow jaw, and into the brightest green eyes I had ever seen on a human being (except for Marco, but his eyes weren’t quite natural).
    If he wasn’t Noah Scott, he was definitely related. He was about my age, with spiky auburn hair and a light smattering of freckles on his sharp nose. He stood about my height, thinwaisted, muscles rippling beneath his tight T-shirt. A runner, maybe, or a swimmer. Nothing like the skinny, gangly boy I remembered from high school. That boy had enjoyed loose clothes, kept his hair shaggy and long, and he couldn’t possibly have been so handsome. Even his eyes seemed a brighter green than before.
    Of course, a distance of eight years can change your perception of a person.
    Slim eyebrows arched as he studied me back. Wide lipspuckered into a silent question, and he tilted his head to one side.
    “Can I help