Jenna tossed her backpack onto the faded comforter of her bed and sat on the end of the mattress. The bed gave out a loud squeak, old springs bending under her weight, and she knew she’d have a terrible crick in her neck when she woke up the next morning. Of course, the bed was the least of her problems. This place was an absolute dump. The walls were dotted with suspicious discolorations. The TV looked older than Jenna. The table in the corner was lopsided, and its single chair had uneven legs. She shuddered at the thought of what the bathroom must look like.

It’s only three days, she reminded herself. You’ll live.

Assuming she didn’t contract any fatal illnesses hiding in the showerhead.

Sighing, she kicked off her kitten heels and unzipped her backpack, revealing the two changes of clothes she had tucked inside. One outfit was another business suit, and the other was a set of casual clothes: a pair of skinny jeans, a green T-shirt, and a ratty pair of sneakers. She didn’t have any of her nightclothes with her, so she figured she’d be sleeping in the casual stuff, seeing as she needed her other suit for the meet-and-greet with the conference staff tomorrow. Hopefully, her checked bag really did come in tomorrow, or else she’d have to find a Laundromat and waste even more money.

She stripped off her blouse and skirt, folded them neatly, and sat them on the table, then redressed herself in the T-shirt and jeans. Her sneakers, she noticed as she put them on, had developed a new hole sometime in the last few weeks, and since they were already falling apart, that meant she’d have to replace them soon. The rest of her shoes—what four pairs she owned—were for work. (Though she also had two pairs of old flip-flops. But those didn’t count as actual shoes when you lived in Chicago for most of the year.)

Bravely venturing over to the bathroom, she flipped on the lights and checked herself in the mirror. She steadfastly ignored all the alarming stains and cracks and rust spots in the cramped room and carefully dabbed at her makeup with a tissue plundered from the bottom of her purse, which she sat on the sink counter. Her mascara had started to run earlier, leaving dark smudges around her eyes that made it look as if she’d come close to crying.

Great. That brooding asshole she’d run into probably thought she was coming off a bad breakup or something, had labeled her emotional and weepy, or worse, “hormonal.” He was probably making fun of her even now. That comment about walking into traffic…Honestly, who says things like that to a random stranger they just met?

She hoped he’d climbed onto his motorcycle and growled off into the ether, never to be seen or heard from again. It was bad enough that she was stuck in this pitiful excuse for a living arrangement, bad enough most of her luggage was stuck in the wrong state—she didn’t need to make an enemy on day one of her stay in Los Angeles. Especially an enemy who was living only two rooms down from her. If she never came into contact with biker guy again, it would make her month, if not her year. She needed this LA trip to start going right.

“I have to make everything perfect before Marvin gets here,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “I can’t screw this up.”

She slapped her palm against the mirror, a high-five to herself, a technique she’d used to instill a brief burst of confidence in her chest for years. Since she didn’t really have any friends to help bolster her mood.

She didn’t have time for friends. Not anymore.

God, she thought as she exited the bathroom, I barely even remember the people I was friends with in high school. I wonder where they are now.

Not anywhere near LA, she was sure.

Purse in hand, room key in purse, she surveyed the motel room to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Seeing nothing but a largely empty room disturbed only by her pink backpack and dirty clothes—signs of a rather sad existence—she left to go find something to eat.

Jenna recalled the list of restaurants within a five-block radius of the motel, which she’d looked up on the Uber ride over here. There weren’t any fine-dining establishments in this neighborhood, but that was okay. She couldn’t afford fine dining unless Marvin was paying, and he only brought her along on dinner meetings at fancy French restaurants, with creepy businessmen over fifty who didn’t try to hide the fact they were staring at her breasts. Marvin really had no shame using her like an ornament. The day I hit my savings goal, so help me god, I’m going to give that bastard an earful.

She picked the closest restaurant on her list, the little bar that was only three blocks down, because she didn’t feel entirely comfortable exploring this rather dingy neighborhood full of narrow alleys and dilapidated buildings by herself, on foot. She usually carried mace in her purse, but that didn’t fly in a carry-on bag, so her can was in her missing checked bag. Thankfully, it was still midday, and the sun over LA shined hot and bright, so she wasn’t overly concerned as she power-walked along the street toward the bar.

The bar was exactly where Google Maps had said it would be, and she crossed the street when there was a break in the traffic and jogged up to the front door. An OPEN sign hung in the window, secured by a suction cup, and when Jenna peered through the tinted glass of the door, she saw a bar staffed by a female bartender and a reassuring dearth of rowdy drunks.

She hauled the door open with a jingle of bells and stepped inside. Cool air washed over her, drying the sweat on her skin, and she basked in it for a moment before moving over to the bar. The bartender, named Holly, watched her approach with her brows furrowed, like she was struggling to figure out why Jenna of all people would walk into this bar of all places. Jenna threw up her usual PR smile and asked, “Can I get a cheeseburger, some fries, and a Coke?”

Holly scanned her from head to toe, then shrugged. “Sure thing, sweetie.”

“Can I sit wherever?”

Holly nodded.

“Great.”

Jenna made a slow turn and examined all the available seating and all the patrons near that seating. Scratch the booth behind the three burly men chugging beers. Scratch the table across from the guy with a slasher smile on his face staring off into the distance. Scratch the booth with biker guy…

She did a double-take. Sitting directly across from the bar, in a booth with cracked faux-leather seats, was the brooding biker from her motel. He was holding a burger in his hands, but had halted its trip toward his mouth, which was stuck open as part of a skewed expression Jenna could only describe as a sneer.

Jenna had the urge to turn tail and run away. But it was too late. Holly had disappeared into the kitchen to give her order to the chef.

So she shuffled over to another booth, far away from biker guy’s, so he couldn’t see the embarrassment bleeding onto her face that liked to blush at the drop of a hat.

This is fate, she thought as she slammed her purse onto the table. No good, very bad, horrible fate. Los Angeles isn’t the City of Angels. It’s the city of shitty luck.