Finn had spent most of the two months he’d been in Los Angeles not at the complex, despite its many amenities. Granted, he loved the pool, and the gym was great, not to mention a tattoo studio that made it entirely perfect – but this was Los Angeles. It was like going to Rome and staying in your hotel the entire trip; Finn refused to. He’d needed no guides, no information, his full intention for his ventures into the city were always with one goal: get lost.
And he did get lost. Had gotten lost, actually, so lost that he’d found himself in the less glamorous side of the city, the side they didn’t show you in Hollywood movies or fancy TV series. And he loved it. But as it was with walking miles upon miles, at some point his feet had started to ache, and there were two choices: the boring one, which was calling an Uber to take him back to the Oasis, or the not boring one, which was finding a local to ask them about any place he could sit down and have a drink.
It took him about fifteen minutes to get to the place a young gentleman with more piercings than there were holes on his body and a brightly coloured mohawk told him the place to be was. And it was a place to be, that was for sure. “Figures,” Finn said to himself with a little grin, looking around the pub (or was it bar, since it was American?) and locating the bar within seconds. He felt like the odd one out, with his white shirt and flannel, rolled up to his elbows. At least his worn, faded jeans and equally used combat boots looked the parts. “’Ey, mate, you got any of the black stuff on ya?” he asked as he stepped up to the bar, eyes on an older gentleman. He tilted his head as he raised an eyebrow. “And your phone number?”
