“Thank you.” She takes both the coffees, the guy grins, and I fight the eye roll. I don’t want to be a jerk, but… come on, does he really think a girl like Cher would be interested in him?

“Why do you do that?” I demand as I take my coffee, praying my mother has sent Maria, or better yet has forgotten, and I can take an Uber.

“What? Be a pleasant person?” She smiles at me as we walk.

“Um, no. Be a phony and lead guys on.” I mimic her smile.

“Wow.” She shakes her head, then says, “You need to get fucked, Raven. Hard. I don’t care if it’s Brody or someone else. At this point, anyone with a hard dick will do. Get your V-card punched and maybe you can go back to being the best friend I know and love.” She wraps her tan arm around my shoulder as if giving me support. Which only bugs me, because she’s right. I do need to have sex. It’s all I can think about lately.

“You’re gonna spill our coffees,” I grumble, trying to shake off her arm.

Cher is beyond gorgeous: a cliché California girl. Long blond hair, big brown eyes, and tall, with a body to die for. We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. My mom is Cher’s father’s PR person.

“Look, it’s all gonna work out. I’ll be back before you know it. And, we can escape back to New York if it’s not copacetic at your new daddy’s house.” She says this looking straight ahead as she bites her lower lip trying not to laugh.

“I’m not participating in this conversation,” I snip.

We step out into the mayhem of LAX and I take a deep breath. Besides the slight smell of smoke and exhaust, it feels good to be home, or whatever Los Angeles is to me. I mean, I despise that I miss it, because my mom loves it so much. Hence why I picked New York for college. The farther I’m away from her poison, the better.

“Los Angeles, I love you.” Cher dramatically tilts her head back and closes her eyes as a bunch of people maneuver around her. They stare but stay quiet, unlike people in Manhattan, where they’d curse and plow into her.

“Really?” I grab her arm, causing her eyes to pop open and her coffee to spill, and jerk us over to a metal bench so I can get my phone out of my large handbag and figure out a plan.

“Watch my boots,” she whines and dramatically pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Cher’s decided that she’s now a smoker. Whatever, they’re her lungs, not mine. I look around at the never-ending lines of cars and the drivers being told to keep circling. For them, it’s loading and unloading only.