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would be totally gross in actuality.”
    “What about you? Give me the rest of the rundown.”
    Lana tore off a small section of her burrito and shoved it into her mouth. “Let’s see…one brother…James. He lives on the East Coast, and we’re really close. He’s only a few years older, but he already has a wife and two kids, and I can barely decide between a side salad and French fries most days. Um, a few years ago, I gave college two tries—once in San Diego and then in Oregon—before quitting for good after sophomore year, and then blowing through most of the college fund my parents created for me at birth. I salvaged a little bit to live on for a while. Now, I split my time as a server at Vices Hollywood and teaching BarMethod to Bel-Air housewives.”
    Wes’ eyebrows came together in confusion. “ Bar Method? I’m assuming you aren’t showing them how to drink liquor all day—I mean, I could do that for free and I would—so I have no idea what that is…”
    Lana laughed. “It’s a kind of fitness mixed with some elements of ballet. I teach a class, and I make house calls too.” Well, that explained her legs. And God bless her for wanting to give them to other women. “Let’s go back in,” she said as she stood up, shaking her hips to echoing salsa music from the taco truck. There was that tone again, the one that made him almost forget that he had to be up in a few hours. He nodded and went to toss their plates, and he slowed his walk back to watch her dancing alone to the taco truck’s upbeat music, like she was the only one out there.
    When he reached her, she twirled around him a few times before she slung his arm over her shoulders, and she hugged his torso all the way into the bar, straight to the jukebox. It was a modernized version with a screen that flashed a digital flipbook of the available songs.
    “Pick.” He plucked a ten from his pocket and handed it to her.
    “You want me to go get change?” He shook his head. “Do you know how many songs this is worth? You’re pretty trusting, Wes. You don’t even know my music tastes,” she said as she slid it into the slot.
    “I just doubt anything about you could be bad enough for me to dislike.” Wes shifted his gaze from the illuminated screen to Lana’s face, which was partially obscured now that she had let her dark brown hair loose over her shoulders. 
    She squeezed his arm. “Much better than your parking lot line. In fact, all of you is better right now. ”
    Hooking his arm around her neck, Wes pressed his lips to her ear. “Girl, you haven’t seen better yet.” Better would be his performance with her on her back. But he always tempered his come-ons and sexual assertiveness by taking cues from whichever woman he was with. Wes never understood domineering and aggressive guys. They always felt like they needed to convince women to sleep with them, whereas he just played it cool because they always figured it out on their own later, anyway.
    She stayed silent but her dimple indented as her finger hovered over an album cover, before she reached around and placed her hand over his eyes. “Don’t look…since you’re so trusting.” He heard the jukebox beep several times, and then she spun him and led him out to the dance floor. As the chords of the intro to the first song played, Wes smiled, recognizing it as The Cure’s “Lovesong.” Definitely in his top ten best, and he had pegged her for a pop enthusiast. He nodded, impressed.
    Lana locked her fingers behind his neck, and he held her at the hips. He had always thought dancing like this was for proms and old people—he preferred an ass against his crotch—but holding her this way was nice, too. And he really liked seeing her smile at him. “Wait until you hear the rest… Deuce . Why do they call you that, anyway? Is it because you’re Mr. Second Place? That’s what else they call you these days, too, right? You know, you’re lucky you even got that final wave