PIZZA PAPARAZZI
We finish our poke bowls and pack up everything from the rooftop. I love the way you can walk right over the skylight; the floor is completely see-through, and you can see the displays on the ground floor. Miranda and Florence arrive just as we get back downstairs. Miles and Cece collect them through the side door.
"Hi Brooks," Miranda says, removing the camera from around her neck.
"Hi Randa," I say, laughing at her eyeroll. She hates when I call her Randa, my own personal nickname/form of torture for her.
"Hi guys," Florence addresses everyone.
"Hi," I respond.
I met Randa about two weeks after I started dating Cece. They're as close to inseparable as two girlfriends can be. Cece is all spotlight and Randa is more behind the scenes –a nice combo that I think works to their friendships' advantage.
Florence is newer to the mini quasi-famous group they've cultivated for themselves. She's an indie singer who debuted her first album last fall; Randa took the cover photo for her album –a black and white closeup that showed off Florence's pale skin, hooded eyes, and dark as night hair. One single did manage to place on the Top 100.
"Just wanted to pop in and say hey," Randa says. "We've got to hit the studio and then shower before we go out. Oh, that reminds me," Randa says, turning to Cece. "Did you see that screenshot Pez sent? Oh, my SHIT. I couldn't believe–"
I low key tune them out as I fall into step beside Miles, who is just ogling Florence.
"Damn, your girl has got the hottest friends," he groans.
"Ya think?" I ask, casual.
Randa is cute and good-looking in a sort of everyday kind of way. Her hair is always down and straight and she barely wears make up. It all works for her. Right down to the fancy way-too-big for her camera that she always wears as a necklace.
Florence is certainly striking. Her thick black hair and dark hooded eyes are quite pleasant features on her. Still, I always joke with Cece that I've never met anyone who is more her opposite than Florence. Right down to Florence's somber disposition compared to Cece's sunshining outlook on life.
"Babe. Babe? Hello!" Cece shouts from across the room, flipping her honey-colored hair over her shoulder.
"I'm going to head out with them. Meet you back at your place like 5 ish?"
"Sounds good," I nod.
"Miss you. Kiss you." Cece blows me a kiss from across the room.
...
11:37 PM
Oh, good old fucking Hollywood.
I walk down the brightly lit street, staring at palm tree silhouettes, with Cece's arm snaked around mine. We walk straight into a cloud of cherry vape excess from the person a block in front of us.
"Babe, I didn't know it was going to be a bust," Cece pouts, leaning her whole weight into me. "I didn't know people were going to swarm us."
"I know. It's cool. Loved waiting 40 minutes for a drink and paying $67 for two we didn't even get," I tease her. "Really, it's okay."
"I hate when I'm recognized. It ruins everything," she says, whining at her own stardom.
"You're always recognized," I remind her, bemused at how she pretends to hate her fabulous life.
"Not always," she says. "Still can't believe Pez and Banko ditched."
Pez and Banko are two majorly hipster DJ bestie bros, who I am 100% not surprised ditched the glamorous opening of the organic-only West Hollywood bar.
"Again, it's cool," I say. "Night out with my best girl."
"I promise to make it up to you," Cece says, eyes narrowed in a playful way.
"I have a strange feeling you'll be forgiven." I squeeze her hand.
"I'm still starving. Do we pass anything? Food truck or–"
"Pizza?" I ask, raising my eyebrow.
Cece follows my eyes to a shabby-chic pizza parlor with a neon sign out front. Only Hollywood can make a pizza joint seem boujee.
"Yes, lets." She nods.
Cece opens her bag, fishes out her oversized sunnies, and places them on her face. She undoes her wavy pony to try and cover up her face the best she can.
"What?" She asks, frowning.
"Nothing," I laugh, shaking my head. "I just think it's cute that you think that helps."
"It doesn't not help," she tells me, swatting at my arm.
"Fair. Maybe. But really who is going to be at Groovy Guy's Sip n' Slice at midnight on a Tuesday?" I insist.
"Fair," she repeats my word.
We cross the street and walk through the near-empty parking lot. The neon pizza slice buzzes with electricity above us. I pull Cece along by the hand and turn back to kiss her once or twice. We both get very handsy the closer to midnight it gets.
I pull her up and set her down on the parking lot cement block, so we are almost eye-level. She snakes her hands around my neck and presses her front side into mine. My hands drop from her hair and down her back, over her ass, and stop right at the hem of her incredibly short dress. I can feel the warmth of her thighs right at my fingertips. She tosses her head back in a laugh and steps down from the block, pulling my hand behind her.
"Pizza awaits," she giggles.
I've never been to Sip n' Slice, and usually Cece and I are healthy, organic, and way better eaters than this, but as I pull open the door and catch a whiff of groovy ass pizza, my mouth starts watering.
It's a lot more crowded inside than the parking lot would lead you to believe. Every booth is occupied by hipsters, drunkards, and even some teenies that look way too young to be out right now.
We are second in line at the counter, and I can hear the 17 year-old behind the counter talking about today's special slices.
"Place is packed for midnight," I say to Cece.
"Who is going to be at Groovy Guy's Sip n' Slice at midnight on a Tuesday?" Cece says in a mock voice.
"What was that? Was that supposed to be me?" I laugh, tickling her, feeling her sculpted abs through the red silky dress.
"People need their pizza." I shrug, defeated.
"A groovy welcome to Sip n' Slice, what can I get you, man?" The kid asks.
"Just a plain slice for me," I answer. "And..." I turn to Cece, waiting for her to tell the prepubescent kid what she wants.
"Hawaiian, but oh, no pineapple please," she answers, smiling blindly at the kid. He looks way too excited to be taking her order.
"So, plain," he repeats, barely looking at me, "And then Hawaiian but no pineapple. So, ham pizza?"
"Exactly," Cece nods wistfully.
Goddamn, she's good at that. At making every single person she talks to feel like they're changing her life in the most profound way.
We sit at the only open table in the center of the room. The linoleum tabletop and mini lava lamp salt and pepper shakers are a vibe and a half.
Cece's phone goes off, ringing with some poppy song. The group of girls in the nearest booth shoot us dirty looks. Cece quickly shuts it off, but then I notice her phone lights up with text after text.
"All good?" I ask, chewing a bite of my slice.
"Yea, I'm sure. Just Miranda–" She trails off, her jaw dropping to the 1970s linoleum. "Oh my God!"
"What? What is it?"
"Damn, damn. Just more fucking pap."
Pap was Cece's name for the paparazzi, whom she always hated. She didn't mind being famous, but she certainly minded the candid and (often times) way too personal shots they managed to get of her.
"Where'd they get you this time?" I ask.
"Us, you mean." Cece frowns, scrunching up her little button nose.
"Us?" I drop my slice and reach for the phone she's handing out.
Instagram, of course. I recognize the glowing neon pizza slice that's just out front. But as my eyes focus, I notice the outline of two people locked in arms. I see my own hands grabbing her thighs beneath her dress.
"Shit," I laugh.
"No one was even out there!" Cece whines.
"They're really getting sneaky. Ridiculous, but sneaky."
"Ugh, hope my mother doesn't see this one. I've still not lived down the one of us on Venice Beach –You know the one."
"Oh, I do."
I smile fondly, thinking of the memory that accompanies the Venice Beach snapshot. There may have been a volleyball game. May have been a wardrobe malfunction. A steamy one.
"This might be record timing," Cece says, looking cautiously around.
"Live time," I add.
My neck swivels, glancing quickly around the room. The nearest people start whispering, also pointing to their phones and starting to eye us curiously. Apparently the tabloid outlet that posted our photo felt the need to tag Sip n' Slice.
"Come on," Cece says, pushing her pizza away from her. "Let's bounce before anyone else notices."
I stand up just as she does and let her pass me towards the door.
"After you."