“What?! Who?”
“Whocares?”
“Harper!”
“Oh, whatever, I’m nearly positive it was that snooty girl fromThe Werewolf Chronicleswho broke Damian’s heart last season.”
“You do realize she’s playing a character, reading lines she has no control over?”
“Tell that to Damian!” Harper folds her arms across her chest. “He spent six episodes moping.”
“Again… he is afictional character,” I remind her, to no avail.
A snort echoes from Masters’ direction.
“Oh!” Her eyes are swirling with possibilities. “Maybe I should try to name-drop our way into J-Lo’s fitness class. I’ve wanted to know how she maintains that booty since I was six and she was still Jenny from the Block…”
“First of all, you should be a little embarrassed right now. Secondly, you’re deluded if you think anyone in the industry would believe I’d willingly participate in a fitness class.”
“Fine. No booty-camp.” She pauses. “But what about Gwyneth Paltrow’s ZenCycle class? It’s full at the moment but I have a feeling if I leaned on them, there might be aconscious uncouplingbetween two current attendees and their reserved bikes…”
“Keep it up and I’ll have to take away your name-dropping privileges. For your own good.”
Harper glares. “You’re dead to me.”
“And you’re drunk on power.”
“So very true.” She double-checks her small clutch purse, making sure she’s got the essentials — ID, petty cash, cellphone, and, naturally, a full makeup kit in miniature. “All right, let’s go make everyone hate us.”
I sigh deeply but don’t argue. When we turn for the door, we find Masters waiting there, staring at us with an indecipherable expression.
“What?” Harper asks.
He stares at us another beat, then turns and walks outside, muttering something that sounds like “batshit crazy” under his breath.
“What was that, honey?” Harper calls after him.
“I said I’ll be in the car!”
“Uh huh.” She catches my eye. “He loves that I’m crazy. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
We both break into giggles. Linking her arm with mine, she tugs me outside.
“Come on. You’ve been suffering all the shitty side effects of fame. I think it’s time you enjoy a few of the perks.”
* * *
Ispent nearlya year slinging drinks and supplying bottle service to VIPs at an exclusive LA nightclub. It would be an understatement to say being on the opposite side of that equation is extremely strange.
When we get toLimbo, there’s a line wrapping all the way around the block. Girls are shivering in their stilettos and short dresses, excitement palpable; their male companions are standing stoically, waiting to be admitted with all the eagerness of a death row inmate on his way to the chair. I’m not a huge fan of clubs, but even I can’t deny there’s a certain kind of thrill that rushes through me when Masters pulls up to the designated VIP drop-off area, throws his keys to a waiting valet, and pulls open the door for us.
The quiet of the SUV backseat explodes in an instant.
People at the front of the line scream and snap photos on their camera phones.
Look!
That’s Kat Firestone! Did you see her?