James Bartlett Bonham Jr. never told anyone his real name. When he was a kid, everyone called him "Trip." Only his parents called him by his given name—James. It was never Jim or Jimmy or Junior. It was always "James". His parents had been formal in his upbringing, and were quite certain that nobody named Jim could be a real Bonham. He couldn't remember how he came by the name "Trip," but he thought it may have come from classmates in grade school saying things like, "he's a trip", and they didn't mean it in a nice way. He had always been a loner, but he was also a great listener. It wasn't that he found other people particularly interesting or their stories irresistibly compelling ... it was more that he found himself completely boring and hopelessly unable to articulate a funny, or even vaguely interesting, account of virtually anything. So he learned to listen.

It wasn't that Trip lacked an education. He had attended a private high school, and with the help of tutors, managed to make good grades. His parents insisted he attend the University of Southern California. He didn't much care where he went, so he agreed. His mother had filled out all the paperwork and dad made a very nice contribution to the general scholarship fund. They both liked to remind him that they had attended Ivy League colleges, but they knew he would never make it at any of them. USC was about as good as it would get for him. Dad wanted him to major in business, maybe work with him someday. Trip majored in History. He remembered his dad confronting him after he'd announced his choice.

"Who in the world majors in history, James? Are you going to teach? What else can you do with a history degree?"

Trip shrugged his shoulders. He had no answer for his industrialist father. The captain of industry finally gave up his questioning on the subject, but that wasn't until the end of his freshman year. James Sr. had moved on to more pressing issues than his son's major.

If you looked at young James Bartlett Bonham, you would never guess this was a person who lived inside himself. He was tall and well built. He had inherited his mother's good looks and his father's strong chin and blue eyes. He had a pleasant smile, when he chose to show it, and his dark brown hair completed a package that said he was sure of himself. But on the inside, there was really no one there.

It was during his junior year at USC that he discovered drinking. It began innocently enough, and Trip would have never guessed the impact it would have on his life. One of the few friends he had made at school asked him to go to a bar he'd had heard of in Hollywood. Trip had nothing better to do than watch TV that night, so he decided to go.

Hollywood had never held much interest for him. Trip thought of it as a place for down-and-outers, drug addicts and male prostitutes. It had lost its interest for locals long before Trip was born. Now it was a place where people from Iowa or Kansas thought they might run into a movie star walking down the street. Fat chance, he thought.

The bar was off Sunset and his friend was sure that the hottest babes in the area "hung out" there. They had arrived at about ten, and the place was just starting to fill up. Trip sat at the bar while his friend walked around surveying the available women. The bartender was a young woman who couldn't have been much over the legal age of 21. She was blond and had a bored stare that said she was somewhere else. Trip was sure he must convey the same image most of the time. She asked for his ID and then only glanced briefly at it.

"So what will it be?" she asked after handing him back his driver's license.

"I don't know, what do you recommend?" Trip asked hoping for some conversation.

"I make a mean martini, but you look like a shot of tequila and a beer chaser to me."

Trip agreed and she brought a shot of clear liquid with a slice of lemon and a salt shaker. A mug of draft beer followed. He knew there was a ceremony that went along with the shot of tequila, but he wasn't sure of the order. He had never drunk straight tequila before, so he just stared at the shot glass for a minute, not sure exactly what to do.

The bartender stared at him and finally a smile crossed her face. "First lick the space between your thumb and index finger." She quickly licked her own hand then poured some salt on the now wet spot. "Like this." She picked up his shot of tequila, licked the salt then downed the drink. She followed this by biting into the wedge of lemon. All in all Trip thought it looked pretty sexy.

"Your turn," she said setting up another round. "I'm really not supposed to be drinking, but we sneak in a couple once in a while."

Trip followed her example and downed the shot of tequila. His whole body rumbled as he swallowed Mexico's national drink. After the initial shock to his system, Trip felt pretty good ... relaxed, for the first time in a long while. After the second round, he was finding the bartender very attractive. He hadn't yet noticed the older woman who'd been sitting next to him.

"Pardon me, would you please pass the salt?" she asked. "I think I might try one of those myself."

Trip turned toward the sound of the earthy, low voice. She had to be at least 40, maybe more he imagined, and she was definitely overdressed for this place. The knit suit must have been expensive. Her legs were crossed, showing off what looked like expensive shoes. A simple gold chain hung from her neck, and a diamond and gold Rolex flashed in front of his face, as she reached for the salt. In an old Bogart movie she would have asked him to light her cigarette, he thought. Now days, you couldn't smoke in bars if you wanted to.

Trip reached quickly for the salt shaker and handed it to her. Her eyes never left his and it made him uncomfortable. She was staring into his brain. Either that or the tequila was really getting to him. Her fingers lingered on his before she slipped the shaker from his hand. In that short second, Trip knew that she was in charge. Even with the tequila, his mouth went dry. He had an instantaneous vision of Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate. He waited for her to talk, but she slid forward in the bar stool and turned to face the bar. The cute bartender scurried over for her order. It was then that Trip realized Mrs. Robinson didn't really need the salt; she ordered a martini!

She took a couple sips of the clear liquid; Trip watched as she checked her reflection in the bar-length mirror. She quickly glanced over at his reflection and caught his stare. He looked down at his now empty shot of tequila and prayed for the bartender to walk up so he could order another. Why was he feeling so uncomfortable? He already knew the answer. He was attracted to her and she was probably his mother's age.

Maybe some of the old movie stars still did come down here, because that's what she looked like. He saw no wrinkles on her face. Maybe Botox, he couldn't tell. She had large intense brown eyes and, unlike many of his mother's friends, she had gone light on the make-up. She didn't need it, he thought. Her body could have rivaled any 20 year old. That made him nervous. He ordered another drink from the bartender and tried to look cool. She turned back towards him as she lifted her drink to her lips. She swallowed and set the drink down on the bar.

"I've never seen you here before. Did you just discover my little hideout?" She asked in the same low, inviting...