CALIFORNIA GOTHIC #4
The Black Security Guard
Chapter 4: You're in the Jungle, Baby
The day with Girlee Chayne Ganggg and Lil Big Mukk had been the kind of assignment that made me count all the tiles on the wall. Twelve hours of mediating arguments about British snack foods while Girlee's bodyguard—a brick wall of a man named Clive—kept muttering about how Americans didn't understand proper crisps.
When my phone buzzed with Abel's name, I nearly dropped it in my diner coffee.
Meet me at 1OAK. Midnight.
That was it. No explanation. Just the address pulsing on my screen like a bad decision waiting to happen.
————
The bassline from the club's speakers vibrated up through the soles of my shoes as I flashed my security pass at the bouncer. Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the kind of perfume that costs more per ounce than my Glock.
Abel sat in a shadowy corner booth, swirling a glass of something amber. He looked like a vampire who'd just finished a photo shoot—black silk shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, a single silver chain glinting in the low light.
"You're late," he said without looking up.
"You're cryptic," I shot back, sliding in across from him.
He smirked. "And you're working for Lana Del Rey."
I froze. "How the fuck—"
"Relax." He took a slow sip. "She told me. We're... friends." The pause was just a beat too long.
Before I could press, the energy in the room shifted. Across the club, Kanye West's entourage poured into VIP like a black-clad tidal wave. Bodyguards. Producers. A rapper or two I vaguely recognized from magazine covers.
And then Kanye himself—sunglasses indoors, leather joggers, that thousand-yard stare like he was seeing equations in the air the rest of us couldn't.
One of Abel's guys nudged him. "Ain't that your cue to go network?"
Abel smirked. "What am I, a fuckin' intern?"
But then Kanye's head tilted—just slightly—in our direction. A beat passed. Two. Then he was cutting through the crowd, his security parting the sea of bottle-service girls and hangers-on.
Up close, he smelled like jet fuel and Santal 33. "You." A finger pointed at Abel's chest. "You're the one who sounds like sex in a haunted house."
Abel blinked. "...Thanks?"
"Nah, nah—that's a compliment. Ghosts got the best stories." Kanye slid into the booth uninvited, his knee bouncing like a live wire. "You ever think about how Michael Jackson's ghost is probably mad as hell right now? Like, 'Y'all motherfuckers ain't even doing moonwalks at parties no more.'"
Abel sipped his drink. "Can't say I have."
"That's your problem." Kanye leaned in. "You're all vibe, no villainy. You need to scare people a little."
"Pretty sure my last album scared my mom."
Kanye snorted. "I'm serious. You ever wanna make some real demon shit, come find me." He dropped a napkin on the table—no number, just a doodle of what might've been a spaceship or a really ambitious shoe. "I'll show you how to haunt a track."
Then Kanye turned to me. "They say I need meds. What do you think about this psych med business?"
The non sequitur hung in the air like a challenge.
I took a breath. "My brother smoked three packs a day. Started when they put him on psyche meds at seventeen. Said it was the only thing that made him feel real after the pills turned him into a ghost." I swirled my drink, watching the ice cubes clink. "By the time the cancer took him, he'd been gone for years."
Kanye listened, really listened, in that way famous people rarely do. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the table. When I finished, he nodded. "Appreciate that." Then he stood, adjusting his sunglasses. "Stay dangerous."
And just like that, he was gone, swallowed back into the chaos of his own orbit.
Abel stared at the napkin. His manager materialized over his shoulder. "Holy shit. What did he say?"
"Either a collab offer or a threat." Abel crumpled the napkin into his pocket. "With him, it's probably the same thing."
————
I was leaning against my car outside a 24-hour Subway, waiting for Girlee to finish what was either a bathroom break or an impromptu nap, when my phone buzzed with a YouTubenotification: "Lana Del Rey on Howard Stern - FULL INTERVIEW."
"So, Valentine's Day just passed," Howard's voice crackled through my speakers. "What'd you do? You got a special someone?"
Lana's laugh was honey over gravel. "Oh, you know... just kept it low-key."
"Low-key? C'mon, Lana. You're telling me a woman who sings about tragic romance spent Valentine's Day alone? I don't buy it."
"Well, I am single now, so..."
My grip tightened on the steering wheel.
Howard (leaning in): "Wait, what? Single? Since when?"
Lana (shrugs): "A little while now."
Howard: "Ohhh, so that’s why you’re here—you’re on the market! Who’s next? Who’s Lana Del Rey into these days?"
Lana (laughing): "Howard, I don’t know what you’re getting at."
Howard: "I’ll tell you what I’m getting at. I got a tip—a very good tip—that you were at Chateau Marmont with a certain rock legend recently."
Lana (raising an eyebrow): "Oh really?"
Howard: "Yeah, really. And this guy… well, let’s just say he knows a thing or two about Sweet Child O’ Mine."
Lana (bursts out laughing): "Oh my God, Howard. You’re not serious."
Howard: "Dead serious! You and Axl Rose. You’re in the jungle, baby!"
Lana (still laughing): "That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard."
Howard: "Is it? Because my sources say you two were very cozy."
Lana (shaking her head): "Your sources need better intel. Axl’s a sweet guy, but no, we’re not dating."
Howard: "Sweet guy? So you do know him!"
Lana (smiling): "I mean, I’ve met him. He’s a legend. But no, Howard, I’m not secretly dating Axl Rose."
Howard (mock disappointment): "Damn. I was ready to call TMZ with this one."
Lana (playfully): "I’m sure you were."
Howard: "Alright, fine. But if you were gonna date a rock star, who would it be?"
Lana (thinking): "Hmm… maybe someone a little less chaotic."
Howard: "So… not Axl."
Lana (grinning): "Not Axl."
Howard: "Well, there you have it, folks. Lana Del Rey is not dating Axl Rose. But if that changes, you’ll hear it here first."
Lana (laughing): "Sure, Howard. Whatever you say."
Howard Stern (grinning): "Alright Lana, since you're single and clearly have a type—mysterious, dangerous, probably owns at least one leather trench coat—let me play matchmaker here."
Lana (laughing): "Oh God, what are you about to do?"
Howard: "I'm just saying... if not Axl, what about Marilyn Manson? That's a vibe! You two could duet on some haunted carnival version of 'Summertime Sadness'!"
Lana (mock horrified): "Howard, no."
Robin Quivers (chiming in): "They'd look good together though! Pale, poetic, probably both cry during thunderstorms."
Lana (covering her face): "This is getting out of hand."
Howard: "Fine, fine. Too goth? Let's go classic. Robert Pattinson. Brooding, British, you could write a whole album about his cheekbones."
Lana (deadpan): "I think he's busy being a vampire."
Howard: "Damn it. Okay, last try—Kanye West. You're both melancholic geniuses! He'd sample your sighs!"
Lana (standing up, laughing): "I think that's my cue to leave."
Howard (yelling after her): "Wait! Just tell me if you'd date everyone’s favorite wack packer Beetlejuice!"
DOOR SLAMS. LAUGHTER.
Howard: "Lana, always a pleasure. Go put out another heartbreaking album so I can cry in my car to it."
Girlee finally emerged, reeking of cheap weed and cheaper cologne. "Who pissed in your cereal?" she asked, eyeing my expression.
"Howard Stern."
"Fuckin' yanks," she muttered, flopping into the backseat.
————
Abel's second text came as I was dropping Girlee at her hotel: Change of plans. Meet us at the Nobu patio.
Us? I typed back.
The reply took five minutes: Bring your sunglasses.
Nobu was empty except for a lone figure at the far end of the patio—Lana, backlit by the first hints of dawn, her hair catching the light like spun copper. Abel stood beside her, dressed in what could only be described as "post-apocalyptic jazz musician"—black kimono jacket, leather pants, sunglasses at 4 AM.
"You stood me up," Abel said as I approached.
"He had prior commitments," Lana purred, her smile slow and knowing.
The tension between them was palpable—not romantic, but something more complicated. Like two chess players mid-gambit.
Abel exhaled sharply. "Look, I need—"
"What Kevin needs," Lana interrupted, "is a weekend away from all this." Her fingers brushed my wrist. "I was thinking Big Sur. Endless beaches, no people. You in?"
Abel groaned.
I looked between them—the brooding R&B vampire and the queen of melancholic glamour—and knew this was either the best or worst idea I'd ever agreed to.
"Sure," I said. "But I'm driving."
Lana's laugh carried us into the violet dawn.
————
The valet had abandoned his post hours ago. Abel’s sudden exit left his Maybach crooked in the fire lane, driver’s door yawning open like an invitation to trouble. Lana stared at it, her chiffon dress fluttering in the salt wind, looking more like a ghost than a woman.
"Christ," she murmured. "He left the damn car running."
I guided her toward my Audi. "Geniuses don’t worry about gas prices."
We didn’t make it five steps before they materialized from the darkness—two men and a woman, their eyes too bright, their clothes too clean for this hour. The taller man clutched a battered copy of Born to Die against his chest like a hymnal.
"Lana," the woman breathed, as if speaking a prayer. "We knew you’d come."
Lana’s fingers found my sleeve. Her nails bit into my wrist.
The shorter man stepped forward, his smile cracked at the edges. "We drove from Bakersfield. Just to see you. Just to—"
"Not tonight," I said, steering Lana left.
They followed. Always following.
The woman produced a Polaroid from her back pocket—a grainy shot of Lana outside the Chateau Marmont, mid-sneeze. "You signed this for me in 2012. Don’t you remember?"
Lana’s voice was frayed silk. "I don’t."
The tall man’s face collapsed. "But you looked right at me."
I felt it before I saw it—the shift in the air, the moment devotion curdled into something sharper. The woman’s hand darted out, grabbing Lana’s wrist. "You have to remember!"
Something in me snapped.
I broke her grip, shoved her back into her companions. They stumbled like bowling pins. The album skidded across the asphalt, landing at the feet of a stray cat that had been licking Nobu’s discarded tuna scraps.
"You don’t touch her." My voice surprised me—low and guttural, a sound dragged up from some primal place.
The tall man’s lips trembled. "She’s ours." He lunged.
The cat hissed as I stepped forward. One punch—just one, a short right cross—and the man folded like a bad hand of cards. The woman screamed. The other man dropped to his knees, scrambling for the album.
Of course there were paparazzi.
They came slithering out of the ice plants and Range Rover backseats the moment the first punch landed—three of them, lenses glinting like insect eyes in the predawn gloom. Their shutters clicked in hungry bursts, capturing every flinch and snarl.
Lana stood frozen, her eyes wide and wet. The ocean roared behind us, a sound like the world ending in slow motion.
I didn’t look back as I led her to the car. The believers stayed where they’d fallen, whispering her name into the dirt.
Inside the Audi, Lana pressed her forehead to the window. "They love me," she said softly. "That’s the worst part."
The engine growled to life. Somewhere behind us, the cat began tearing the album cover to shreds.
"Love’s just possession with better PR," I said, and pointed us toward the dawn.
———
ATILA
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