Her sister was not one of the world’s great sages, but Kitty thought this was good advice. She intended to heed it, too, yet found herself, just two days later, sitting in the passenger seat of Luke’s Caliber, en route to Fairfax. She’d told Luke she was meeting a friend for drinks, but was in fact going to collect six thousand dollars’ worth of crystal meth from the trunk of a parked Cadillac.

The first several blocks were tense. Kitty sat rigidly, her skateboard across her lap, one hand on her phone’s screen, ready to dial 911. But it wasn’t long before she started to loosen up. Luke was relaxed and engaging. He asked where she was from, what she did for work (she told him she was a courier), then shared a few showbiz anecdotes that made her snort with laughter—physically snort, so that she had to cover her mouth and nose.

Kitty had debated getting into the car with him, and asked herself later why she did. Maybe she was drawn to his celebrity, such as it was. Or maybe—and this was more likely—after saving his life, she felt he needed someone in his corner.

He’d dropped her at the intersection of Third and Fairfax. As she skateboarded to the Caddy, she thought how strange it was that, four and a half months into her life in L.A., Luke was perhaps the closest thing she had to a friend.

Time drummed along. Kitty’s days were spent chatting with family and friends back home, going to the gym, fluttering through her socials, and attending her yoga classes. Her nights were spent making drops for Sly Boy, hating herself every time she put her hand into a garbage can.

The Viking was right. She deserved better.

On her night off, seven weeks after thwarting Luke’s suicide attempt, she joined him for a cold beer, both lazing across the hood of his Caliber, propped against the windshield. It was warm, the heat rising from below after spending the whole day beating down. Crickets chirruped in the weeds along the sides of Luke’s house. A neighbor’s sprinkler made a tranquil whispering sound.

“I don’t care how many industry awards he’s won,” Luke said, concluding another of his Hollywood anecdotes. “He’s still an asshole.”

Kitty smiled, guzzled her beer. She stared at the hazy night sky for a beat or two, then turned to Luke. He was looking better. The hotter days had bronzed his skin. He’d trimmed his beard and put on weight.

“You have an agent?” she asked. The question surprised her—her mouth in motion before her brain was in gear. A trait of the exuberant.