The sidewalk outside The Poison Tongue spilled out onto a busy stretch of West Hollywood.
The strip was packed with all kinds of venues—hip-hop joints, dive bars, late-night clubs—and plenty of shady characters hanging around the street corners.
Alex tossed the keys in his hand and turned to the blonde woman as she pulled a baseball cap low over her forehead and adjusted her oversized sunglasses.
“Can you actually drive this thing?” she asked, gesturing toward the sleek black convertible idling near the curb.
Alex pulled the door open.
“I can handle it.
Why’d you bail me out back there?”
“I told you—you ruined my exit plan,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat.
“And since you managed to handle three guys without sweating, I figured you were useful.
I’m Meg, by the way.
Meg Ryan.”
In L.A., there was a simple rule: if someone wore sunglasses and a cap after midnight, they were either selling something illegal or trying to avoid the paparazzi.
“Meg Ryan,” Alex repeated, turning the key in the ignition and pulling out into traffic.
“As in When Harry Met Sally?”
“You’ve seen it?” A small smile cut through her sharp posture.
“Hard to miss it.
Good movie.”
“Thanks,” she said, leaning back against the leather seat.
“Now, show a little British manners and drive me home, will you?”
“Where to?”
Meg tilted her head, glancing over at him.
“Do you actually think I’m attractive?”
Alex raised an eyebrow, keeping his eyes on the road.
“You’re America’s Sweetheart.
I think most of the country agrees on that.”
“Right,” she muttered, a dry edge in her tone.
“So why would someone leave a woman like me sitting around while he runs off to some sleazy club for cheap dancers?”
Alex caught the anger in her voice instantly.
Hollywood hadn’t changed much between 1991 and 2026—relationship drama, bruised egos, and public scandals were the currency of the town.
Since she had just dropped five hundred bucks on his mess, he decided to play along.
“Look, Meg—”
“Call me Mary,” she corrected softly.
“Alright, Mary,” Alex said, his tone casual and detached.
“If I had to guess, the guy you’re talking about is in the business too.
Out here, talent and fidelity don’t usually live in the same house.
People get bored, people get stupid.”
Meg went quiet for a moment.
She reached up, pulling off her sunglasses to reveal tired, frustrated eyes.
“You’re not wrong.
Anyway…
I didn’t get your name.”
“Alex Shawn,” he said, adjusting his grip on the wheel.
“From Manchester.”
“Well, Mr.
Shawn, let’s just focus on getting out of West Hollywood.”
Alex stepped on the gas.
Streetlights flickered past as they navigated the boulevard.
The city felt tense tonight.
Ever since the Rodney King incident back in March, friction between local street groups and the LAPD had been rising, making late-night L.A.
feel unpredictable.
Outside of the main commercial strips, small groups of people lingered near gas stations and dark alleys.
As the car cruised down the highway, Alex took the quiet moment to process everything.
The drop from the stunt rig, waking up on a bathroom floor, the bar brawl, and now driving a top-tier movie star across town—it had all happened in less than twelve hours.
Beside him, Meg leaned her chin on her hand, staring out the side window.
She was clearly stuck in her own head over whatever actor she had been arguing with.
“So, Alex,” Meg finally spoke up as they entered the northern stretch of the city.
“Are you just gigging around dive bars for now?”
“Pretty much,” Alex said with a shrug.
“I haven’t been in L.A.
very long.
Just taking whatever gigs pay cash.”
“Sounds familiar.
That was my life when I first moved out here from Connecticut.” She turned toward him.
“You look like a rock musician.
Do you write your own material?”
“Some of it.”
“Sing me something,” she said, settling into her seat.
“Anything.”
The original Alex Shawn had written plenty of songs, but most of them were generic grunge riffs with clumsy lyrics.
Levi, however, had spent decades listening to music history play out.
The melodies were crystal clear in his mind, locked in perfect sync with Alex’s vocal range.
He tapped a steady rhythm on the steering wheel with his thumb, cleared his throat, and started in a low, gravelly rasp:
“I think about that day…
I left him at a Greyhound station, west of Santa Fe…”
He only sang a few bars, letting his natural British vocal rasp carry the melody before tapering off into the hum of the engine.
Meg clapped her hands together, a genuine smile breaking across her face.
“That was great!
Did you write that?”
“Yeah,” Alex lied smoothly.
It would be another twenty-four years before the song was ever composed anyway.
“What’s it called?”
“‘Another Day of Sun,'” Alex said.
“Just a thought about what brings everyone to this city.”
“You’re wasting your time singing in places like The Poison Tongue,” Meg said, looking at him with fresh interest.
“You’ve got real talent.”
“Talent doesn’t pay for studio time,” Alex replied dryly.
“And I don’t have an agent or connections.”
Meg nodded slowly as Alex pulled the convertible up to a quiet apartment complex in North Hollywood.
“It’s late,” Meg said, looking up at the dark windows of the building.
“Where are you staying tonight?”
“Broke motel down on 5th.”
“You’re not going back there at two in the morning,” she said, opening her door.
“Come upstairs for a bit.”
Alex didn’t argue.
He killed the engine and followed her up the exterior stairwell.
“I haven’t lived here full-time in a couple of years,” Meg said, unlocking the door to a small, clean apartment.
“But I kept paying the lease.
Sometimes you just need a place to drop out of sight for a day.”
She flicked on the overhead light.
The space was simple—a small living room, a kitchen nook with a Panasonic TV on the counter, a single bedroom, and a bathroom.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Meg said, tossing her keys on the counter.
“There’s probably nothing in the fridge.
I’m going to run down to the 24-hour market on the corner.”
“I can walk down with you,” Alex offered.
“It’s fine, it’s two doors down,” she said, grabbing her coat.
“Just sit down and relax.”
A few minutes later, Meg returned carrying a heavy brown paper bag.
She set it on the counter and pulled out a couple of drinks.
“Water?” she asked, holding up a bottle.
“Yeah, thanks,” Alex said, taking a seat on the couch.
“Whiskey’s still wearing off.”
Meg popped the cap off a bottle of beer for herself and handed him the water.
“To weird nights,” she said, raising her glass.
Alex tapped his bottle against hers.
“To weird nights.”