"Do you want a drink or something?"
I nod, assuming he knows I'm underage. I'm distracted by his sprawling Hollywood home built in the seventies, remodeled to give it a more modern, simplistic look, but with all the same odd angles. It's up in the Hills, tucked away in a grotto of thick trees. There's an enormous pool out back as well as a veranda under the stars. This is the British musicians home away from home. His real flat is in London.
I watch him pour us both a glass of scotch over ice. He swirls it before handing it over to me. The white-washed walls are nearly bare except for large art pieces of varying styles, with lighting installed to illuminate the art in just the right way. He has expensive and abstract taste, and it shows.
"Do you like them?" His boyish face is serene, only slightly intoxicated, as he admires all of the works displayed around his home. His accent is thick and his words are a bit harder to understand because of it, as well as the slurring from the drinks he'd had at the club. "My friends think I'm frivolous," he confides.