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Driving from Hollywood to Malibu and back again was the same as being dead for three hours.
His quiet intensity was appealing. He reminded her a little of Steve McQueen if Steve McQueen had been a rude, insolent asshole.
“Yeah, must be hard living out there in Malibu. Walk out your front door and you could get shit on by a sandpiper.”
“I’ll kill him first and then we’ll talk.”
They drove on, the ocean view changing at Las Tunas Beach to houses, condos, fences and small businesses. This continued all the way to Malibu, which was more of the same except for the unremarkable pier. “This is Malibu?” Ren said. “Malibu is the beach. The rest of it could be anywhere.
Lakewood, a place so unpicturesque she wanted to leave as soon as she got there.
