March 24.
Shunned, they were now settled along the west coast of Los Angeles. The warm air from the beach blew gently, refreshing yet heavy with the presence of the famous and the glamorous—where stars were easily recognized, and the popular voice had become a mantra whispered through hallway conversations. Yet much of it didn't belong to her, not to the rest of the population that clung to daily life, simply surviving whatever each day left behind.
Those who did so much, and those who did so little.
Billy ran a small metal plate across his chest, using it only to soothe his anxiety. So many foreign memories now passed through his mind like a film—memories he feared to forget completely. What remained was as secret as his own fears, half scandalous and half buried within the silence of his life.
Oh, Agustina! What a painful life it was.
Scarlett's desperate gaze wandered in ignorance, for she didn't know that Billy's heart refused to stay silent about the truths and quiet intimacies that haunted him. The restraint in his actions held only one truth—his weakness as a man could never be exposed, for everything became confused when something real was involved, something far from primitive.
-Well, I think we should get ready.-
A family van stopped at the traffic light, while the endless horns of impatient drivers filled the air, transforming the silence around them. How poetic it seemed when two people stirred something like sympathy in Billy, calling forth a quiet sense of resilience—that was exactly what he admired in people of that kind.
-They're our friends,- Billy said to Scarlett. Her fingers were slender, smooth, and clean—graceful in their own way, almost old-fashioned, never rushed or intrusive. She was his shield, his quiet companion.
-I already know them,- Scarlett replied.
-In passing, yes. But now you'll truly meet them. They're good musicians. On the West Coast, they'll play for us—they're what we call real artists, not those rookies who helped us before. These live musicians are in their own way. They're the real contenders for an exclusive kind of life. When you dare to do what you love, and it isn't rewarded with the basic comforts of living, that's when it becomes hard. Those are the true artists—the intricate dreamers of majesty and translucent vision,- Billy replied, almost savoring the comfort of the thought, wrapped in the dim glow of starlight above people unseen or worn by the weight of reality and the deep instinct that drove humankind—happiness.
-I've never stopped thinking about that restaurant you used to go to with your mother,- Scarlett said.
-That's a secret. Who knows if it even still exists,- Billy replied, almost charmed by the memory. He had checked the week before—they were still open—but he wouldn't go. That would only taint the memory.
-What a shame. It would've been wonderful to visit.-
They both stepped out of the truck. The pavement shimmered with heat, the road dust rising like a desert mirage turned paradise. It was perfect for the nights, perfect for the ideal of fantasy—but not so kind when the sun forced them to breathe through life's uncomfortable weight.
-Billy! What a pleasure to see you,- said Spencer, dressed in his usual teacher's attire: a white shirt stained with blue and green chalk dust, his calm demeanor more saintly than anything else.
-I'm the happiest one to see you. I'm hoping for those famous homemade meals,- Billy replied, thinking of Spencer's grandmother's cooking—time itself seemed to stretch when her food was on the table.
-She's expecting us tomorrow, once we finish the concert. I'll have your room ready, Spencer said.
-Scarlett will stay at the Hilton,- Billy added, catching her completely off guard. She hadn't been invited, but he simply winked.
-How many do we have at the bar?- Billy asked.
-Around 400 of our loyal fans, and two VIPs. Just promise you'll sing something wonderful,- Spencer replied, knowing how crowded those events could get. Two nights at Spencer and Connor's jazz bar, and one in Las Vegas, where hotels nearly begged for his shows—with audiences between 1,000 and 5,000 people every night. If he did three or four rounds at those hotels, he needed nothing more than to let the crowd buy everything they wanted.
-In Arizona, there'll be 5,000 people. Seven shows in total. We'll be paid well, especially if you sing. And as always, they'll give you a free suite—just for tonight, king of bets,- Spencer added, with a tone of certainty and satisfaction for the week ahead.
-You can keep it,- Billy replied. He earned more through sponsorships than from any concert with 5,000 people—unless it was a private investment party where magnates invited exclusive guests. Unlike ordinary galas, those events were funded by investors, the wealthy, and even the state. Billy didn't deny it—it was all part of the game. A million-dollar party every night, with a new face each time, the so-called rising stars.
-I'll keep it,- Spencer said, knowing it was enough to buy three or four full kits of instruments in every color—gifts for schools and universities where children dreamed of turning art into a real way of sharing hope.
-Whoever stays, or whoever wants to,- Connor added with a shrug. His money was in the bank, and that was all he needed to know.
-Gratitude for people, and gratitude for the souls hungry for wealth,- Billy replied, half-remembering his own lessons on wanting and having.
Scarlett felt trapped in their conversation, thinking only about the fact that she'd be staying in a hotel. Unlike the others, the idea of being apart made her uneasy.
-Let's grab a drink,- Billy said.
-Come, I'll tell you everything later,- he added, unsure whether to mention that Spencer's grandmother was a deeply religious woman—everything she did carried meaning, steeped in values and human tradition. From an older time, when the radio was still the heart of life.
....