I had every intention of writing this on my trip back from LA, but after missed flights, 8 hour layovers, and a hospital stay, I didn’t get the chance. I’m also trying to figure out how to write this story without oversharing.
I’m going to tell it anyway, because I want to, and I need to.
I moved to LA with hopes and dreams, knowing California was my home and where my heart belonged. I took whatever I could fit in my 5-series BMW, and $2000. I already had a roommate in an amazing penthouse in the heart of Hollywood; a hometown friend of mine who found success as a professional wrestler. My mother was in prison, my son was with his dad for the summer while I got settled, and I had nothing to lose. I was thrilled.
When I got to Hollywood, reality instantly slapped me in the face. No parking. I drove for blocks, and over an hour, with no luck. I asked the concierge at my new building for help. He shrugged his shoulders and told me to keep looking. I eventually found a spot.
A few weeks later, my car broke down, on one of the infamous hills of Hollywood, and I had to leave it parked where it was. I racked up 7 parking tickets within the next week. I had no money for a tow, or a mechanic. I went to check on the car the next day, and it was gone. I called the number on the “No Parking” sign. I eventually had to forfeit the car to the towing company because I couldn’t pay the bill to get it out. My friend helped me remove all my belongings from the car. I felt defeated.
I was now completely alone, without a car, in Hollywood. I’m not sure which spiraled out of control first, the drinking or the drugs, but I soon lost myself in the nightlife. On the list to every exclusive afterparty, bumping elbows and exchanging numbers with celebrities—it was fast, and it was dangerous. Sure-I was working-bartending, and a few modeling gigs here and there, but I was too hungover to even attempt to write music much less sing. I lost myself completely.
The problem with losing yourself is that someone else will find you. When you are weak, you become prey. And I was the perfect victim. Completely alone, inebriated, and void of self worth.
He found me at a nightclub in Hollywood called Le Jardin. Beautiful French club, exclusive, and reminiscent of a garden in a fairytale. He was also French, gorgeous, and wearing a leather jacket, surrounded by a table of women. But he approached ME. His accent was thick, and there was something mischievous about his smile. When I look back on it, it sends chills up my spine because now I know that it was just the look of pure evil.