L.A. Is My Lady

Jeff's got that smooth Frank Sinatra vibe, belting out the classics, but the recession hit New York hard, squeezing gigs like a cheap suit. Nights dried up, so he packed his bags and headed west to LA, chasing brighter lights. Now? He's killing it out here—crowds eating up every croon, finally padding his wallet after scraping by. After four straight nights of pouring his soul into the mic, muscles screaming from the grind, he figures it's time to unwind. A killer massage sounds perfect to keep this old crooner primed and purring. He rings up Rayve's parlor, struts in with that cocky wink, ready to let loose.