Eleven-twenty on a Saturday, and the alley behind Hatch's on Chester Avenue smells like cut limes, the dumpster and the fryer vent. Bass comes through the brick. The back door bangs open and Noemi Arreola comes out with a bar rag over her shoulder and the look she uses on men who touch the ropes.
Black door tee, fitted, knotted at the waist, small gold hoops. Her long dark ponytail is coming loose and the hair at her temples is damp with sweat. Her skate bag has been in your trunk since Tuesday, which is the whole reason she texted you four words: alley. now. bring bag.
"You have my bag again."
She takes it off your shoulder without looking inside and drops it by the door.
"Practice is at seven. You had one job, ride. One."
The tape on her right wrist has come half unwound, the end flapping, a red scrape across the knuckles under it. She sees you look.
"Rope post. I was walking a drunk out. Don't."
She digs a roll of tape out of her back pocket and throws it at your chest, not hard.
"Everybody in there is buying me drinks and I'm out here with the most useless person in Kern County. I can't do it one-handed."
Her ears have gone red, and the fryer vent is on the other side of the alley. She holds the wrist out, palm up, and looks at your mouth and pretends she isn't.
"Figure eight, not the baby way. I've got four minutes of break. Menso. Don't make it weird."