White Space Season 1

“As enticing as that offer is, I’ll have to decline. Something tells me you’ll just wind up regretting it once the ladies see what I’m packing, and leave you sitting in the corner pulling your own pud while I rock all their worlds.”
    “Remind me to fire you tomorrow,” Jon said, laughing as he took another drink. “Oh wait, you just found my daughter. Guess I have to keep you on a bit, right? By the way, thank you for that, man. I owe you.”
    Jon felt like he was getting to that emotional drunk stage where he started telling people how much he loved them.
    Maybe I should slow it down.
    “I’m just glad we found her,” Houser said. “But back to your question — I think you should ask your brother. No one’s gonna know his vibe better than you. Stare him in the eye and don’t let him look away. You’ll be able to grab the lie if it’s there. I’ll ask around, too, see what I can dig up. Sound good?”
    Jon stared at the pair of pigtails bouncing against the waitress’s shoulders as she made her way back to their table. “You looked like you wanted two,” she said, setting a set of shot glasses on the table, the coconut decal nearly faded from one, and brand new on the other. “If you didn’t, well then the second one’s on the house.” She smiled.
    Well, fuck slowing down.
    He laughed, downed the first shot, then said, “Are you kidding me? I feel like saying ‘I love you.’” Jon flashed the waitress the same magic smile that had won him box office dollars and more than his share of critical praise. “In fact, why don’t you bring me the bottle.”
    “Sure thing,” she said, then disappeared.
    “Might want to watch it there, cowboy,” Houser said when she left.
    “Thanks, Mommy,” Jon poured the second shot down his throat.
    “You can drink the whole bottle, asshole. I don’t give a shit. At least I’m at the same table tonight, so I know I won’t get a phone call at 3-A-FUCKING-M that will send me driving from Orillas to the top of OC.”
    “Here ya’ go, gentleman.” The waitress stepped awkwardly into their exchange, smiling as she set the bottle on the table, then slipped off toward the back of the bar.
    Jon’s head started to swim. He burst into laughter at the matching set of blurry Housers, both trying to make him feel bad. “I think these onion rings are the only things I’ve eaten all day,” he said, a half-second after his sudden realization.
    Houser was right, and the logical side of Jon knew it. But most of him was drunk and getting drunker.
    Jon had grown reasonably skilled at staying on the shallow side of the drunk pool, and while he wasn’t quite trashed yet, he’d already decided to dive, and was now just seconds from hitting the water. He tried to remember the last time he’d been so drunk, then couldn’t help but feel a soured smile spreading his face at the memory — a seemingly endless night of bacchanal at the infamous Chateau Marmont.
    The Chateau rose above the Sunset Strip like a leviathan of gothic glamour, and was one of the more famous places in the world where writers, actors, musicians, and the affluent elite had been known to squirrel away in its paparazzi-free palatial environment.
    Harry Cohn, founder of Columbia Pictures, said, “If you’re gonna get in trouble, do it at Chateau Marmont.” And Harry was right. Generations thought so. James Dean had jumped through a window, Led Zeppelin rode their hogs into the lobby, and Jon had beat a few demons into the dirt himself. But getting into trouble at the Chateau was reasonably safe. Unlike Hamilton Island, where Jon was terrified of what he might say, or even do.
    He was glad Houser was there. Jon felt safe beside him, knowing Houser wouldn’t let things get too far out of hand, no matter what sorta shit fell from his mouth. Houser usually had the words, even when he said nothing.
    Two shots of Jack later, and the first tear fell from Jon’s eye. Jon didn’t bother to wipe. “I’m such a fucking asshole,” he said.
    “I’ve known an Army base worth of assholes, Hollywood. And you wouldn’t have even cleared boot camp. A rich prick, sure, but only on accident. And yeah, you’re a little bitch about your weight,” Houser smiled. “But you’re not an asshole.”
    Jon choked through his laughter, then said, “No, man. I am.” He sipped his Jack, the first time he hadn’t gulped, then added, “I think I knew Emma was my daughter, deep down. Just didn’t want to