He could remember when sex was hot.

Some young, small-time actress would be on set to spit out her line. He would slide up next to her at craft services and in minutes they would be in an empty set, fumbling in the dark. Hot breath and wet skin covering every inch of their furious entanglement.

Now, sex was comfortable, gentle, human contact. It came in the form of women who make up the backdrop of Hollywood Boulevard.

Felicia was no starlet but her skin glowed in the yellow streetlight that filtered through the fabric covering the window. She smiled as she used her body to make him feel human again.

Why did she care? Maybe he was the closest thing to a celebrity she had met. Who was she? Was she another Burbank casualty? Just another pretty girl who sold her soul on Hollywood Boulevard for “The Dreamâ€??

Unexpectedly, his back and legs spasmed uncontrollably. She folded off of him smiling. “Feeling better?â€?

“Yeah. You?â€? he tilted his head toward her. She passed him a cigarette and nodded, “For now.â€?