“It’s more than that,” Kurt said, scratching the shelf of his jaw. His designer stubble rasped. “If it was just another focus enhancer, you’d have it approved by the FDA, and I wouldn’t need to buy it off you like some fucking street kid buying crank.”

Johan smiled. “Kurt, I like you. You have a solid career and always do good work. You should be proud of your accomplishments.”

“I can’t work out,” Kurt said, “if that was an insult or a compliment.”

“Hollywood needs actors like you, and actors like you don’t need my product.” Johan nodded at Xander. They stepped away from the giant robot. “I’ll be here a couple more hours. Don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

Kurt did say goodbye, not thirty minutes later. His parting gift was two $5,000 straps in a royal blue deposit bag. Xander checked the money, then handed Kurt a little something in return.

“Fuck ethics,” the actor said to Johan. His breath smelled of whiskey where it hadn’t before. “In this town, that’s like clutching a rosary in hell.”

1:40 a.m. The live band had wrapped, the caterers were packing up, there were several guests dotted around the garden, finishing their drinks, their joints. Johan kicked off his shoes, peeled off his shirt and jeans, and dove into the pool wearing only his underwear. The water was a cool remedy.

He glided across the bottom, sleek as a ray, coming up for air and then diving again. Kitty had taken a seat poolside, watching him, smoking the joint she’d tucked into her pocket earlier. She exhaled a ribbon of smoke and smiled.

“Shouldn’t swim with a new tattoo,” she warned when he stepped out a moment later. “That’s what I heard.”

“It’s mostly healed,” Johan said. He gave his head a little shake to get the water out of his ears. “Besides, I couldn’t resist.”

He grabbed a thick white towel from a caddy, dabbed his new tattoo first, then dried his upper body, working slowly, flexing every exposed muscle. When he’d finished, he wrapped the towel around his waist and took a seat next to Kitty.

She offered her joint. He declined. She took another hit and gestured through squinted eyes at his torso.

“Got some ink, son.”

“Yeah.” Johan squeezed water from his beard, feeling it flood the gaps between his fingers. “They’re a part of me. Part of my heritage.”

“So this whole Viking thing . . . it’s real?”

“Absolutely. I’m twenty-eight years old, the first Fly to be born in North America, but my lineage is one hundred percent Danish.” Johan peeled wet hair from his forehead and smiled. “You just have to look at me to see that.”

“Fly.” Kitty blew smoke as she said this. “Is that a common Danish surname?”