L. A. Candy (4 page)

Jane couldn’t help but laugh at herself. “I don’t think it was just the bag.”

Naomi smiled. “Tomorrow will be better.”

“Is this the right place?” Scarlett asked as Jane pulled the Jetta up to a long, vine-covered building on Las Palmas. It was next to a large parking lot filled with Hummers, Mercedes, and a few Range Rovers. Scarlett couldn’t care less about being outclassed in the transportation department, but was concerned that finding a spot might be a problem. The place was a mob scene, and she didn’t feel like having Jane drive around for half an hour searching for an empty spot. She wanted to get inside and get a drink before midnight. It was a school night after all.

“Yup. Les Deux. I Googled the address this morning. A girl from work told me about it,” Jane said.

“It’s kind of a zoo.”

“I don’t care. It’ll be fun! And you promised we’d do something fun tonight.”

“Indeed I did,” Scarlett said.

Her first day on campus had been uneventful—she
picked up her ID and registration packet—but she was happy to blow off some steam with Jane, who’d had a crappy first day at work. How crazy that their lives were about to be so different. Scarlett would be studying at night while Jane would be recovering from her workday.

Jane managed to find parking down the street in a different lot, but when they got back to Les Deux, they found another obstacle waiting for them: a line, not of cars, but of people waiting to get in—young, dressed up, drunk, semi-drunk guys and girls gabbing, flirting, checking their phones, texting, smoking—that extended down the block. One group of girls (probably drunk) was swaying arm in arm and singing “Gimme More.” Another group (definitely drunk) was pulling down the straps of their tighter-than-tight dresses and flashing people passing by. Manning the front door to the coveted club was a huge brute of a guy wearing an all-black suit and a beanie. He stood next to a red velvet rope that he unhooked to let a few people through at a time.

“I am
not
waiting in some lame line to get in,” Scarlett declared. “Come on, let’s just go somewhere else.”

Jane grabbed her arm. “We came all this way. I’m sure it’ll just be a few minutes. It’s a Monday night—how crowded could it be in there?”

Scarlett rolled her eyes.

She and Jane joined the seemingly endless line behind two guys with bleached tips and Day-Glo tans. At least
she and Jane had a better chance of getting in than those two. Did one of them actually have flames on his shirt? Poor guy.

Five minutes passed, then fifteen, then thirty. She and Jane texted some friends from high school and made catty remarks about the other people in line, and texted some more as they slowly made their way to the front. They had been standing in sight of the door for about twenty minutes when a sleek black Mercedes glided up to the curb. Seemingly out of nowhere, a wave of photographers appeared, their cameras swinging and bouncing. The door to the Benz opened, and a long, bare, perfectly shaped leg emerged, sporting a five-inch silver heel (how did women walk in those, anyway?). Then came the other leg, then a flash of a white miniskirt. The rest of the package poured out of the car to a burst of flashbulbs and excited shouts: “Anna! Anna!
Anna!
Over here, Anna!”

“Ohmigod, that’s Anna Payne,” Jane whispered. “She’s sooo gorgeous!”

Anna stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and posed for the cameras. Scar had to admit that the actress
was
stunning. Flashbulbs continued popping, and the photographers continued shouting her name, until one meticulously timed moment later some generically handsome guy slid out of the Mercedes, took Anna’s arm, and steered her past the screaming, awestruck line of drunk and semi-drunk partiers to the front door, where the huge brute in
the beanie whooshed them inside with dizzying speed.

“That was
crazy,
” Jane said breathlessly. “Do you think there are other celebrities inside?”

Scarlett checked her watch. “We might never find out. We’ve been in this line forever. If we don’t get in by midnight, we should bail. You don’t want to be late tomorrow. You might miss an important raw-honey lecture.”

“Scar, no! I wanna have some fun. I had a bad day at work.”

“Oh my G! What are you girls doing standing out here?” Scarlett heard someone squeal. She felt a hand grip her arm and spun around. It was Diego—D! He was wearing loud purple pumps, fitted jeans, and a black fedora.
Yay, someone we know!
“What’s a guy like you doing on a line like this?” she teased him.

“Nothing. And neither are you.” He grabbed her and Jane’s hands and began walking. “Don’t you know pretty girls don’t wait in lines? Come with me!”

“Wait! We’re gonna lose our spot. We’ve been waiting forever!” Jane pleaded.

Ignoring Jane’s comment, D pulled them right up to the front of the line and waved to the big guy manning the door, who automatically unhooked the thick rope so D, Jane, and Scarlett could pass.

“Thanks!” D said to the guy.

“Who the hell are they?” somebody in line whined.

“Seriously!” someone else piped up.

Amazed, Scarlett and Jane followed D inside. They
walked into a large courtyard enclosed with vine-covered stone walls. There was a massive illuminated fountain in the center with greenery spilling over the edges. Booths made up of low glass-top tables surrounded by tufted black leather sofas filled the place. It was dramatic and stunning, easily the coolest club Scarlett had ever been to.

Seemingly unaffected by the scene, D led the two girls across the cobblestone courtyard toward a wide doorway and into the main room, which was plastered with vintage red wallpaper and dimly lit by the chandeliers mounted above each booth. Scarlett could tell that Jane was taking in the decor as much as the scene. She just hoped Jane wasn’t about to pull out a tiny notebook from her tiny clutch and start taking notes. Scarlett watched clusters of beautiful people dancing and sitting around candlelit tables, pouring themselves glasses of Grey Goose, Bombay Sapphire, and Patrón straight from the bottle. What was up with that? she wondered. Wasn’t that the bartender’s job?

Most of the girls were wearing dresses and heels. The guys sported dress shirts. It occurred to Scarlett (not that she gave a damn) that she was probably way underdressed in her jeans and black racer-back tank.

Scarlett knew she was kind of out of her element in the midst of all this fabulousness. Still, she had to admit that it was kind of cool being in an impossible-to-get-into L.A. club, hanging out with the likes of Anna Payne. (Well, not
hanging out
with
, she corrected herself, but hanging out
near
!)

Scarlett spotted a cute blond DJ spinning an eclectic mix of music in a booth in the corner. Aretha Franklin turned into Britney Spears, then into MGMT. The decibel level was kind of intense. She squeezed D’s shoulder. “Hey! Can we get a table?” She was yelling and she could still barely even hear herself.

D laughed. “Yeah, for about fifteen hundred bucks! But don’t worry. Just find a cute guy with a table. That’s the only reason any of these guys are here. To meet girls like you.”

Scarlett made a face. “Can we at least get a drink?” she said to Jane, who was moving her shoulders to the music.

“What?”
Jane yelled.

“Bar!”
Scarlett yelled. She pointed across the main room.

D shouted something that sounded like, “Come on, ladies. First round’s on me,” so they followed him.

When they reached the small wooden bar, D set a credit card down. “Jack and Diet and whatever they want,” he said to the bartender. “Keep it open, please.” The bartender began pouring a long golden stream of whiskey into a glass and glanced up at the girls.

“Tequila shot, please,” Scarlett said.

“And a vodka soda,” Jane added.

The bartender didn’t say a word about IDs.
Yes!
When
he had poured their drinks, Scarlett raised her shot glass in the air. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Jane echoed, raising her glass too. She looked a little overwhelmed. “This place is, um, pretty amazing.” She glanced at D, who seemed distracted.

“Listen, girls. I’m gonna do a lap. I’ll catch up with you in a little. Have fun.”

“’Kay, but we owe you a drink,” Jane said.

“No worries, it’s a write-off. Later.” He disappeared into the crowd.

“I’m totally underdressed,” Jane moaned before taking a sip of her vodka soda.

Scarlett glanced at Jane’s light blue silk dress and gold wedge shoes. “What do you mean you’re underdressed? You look great.”

“Hardly,” Jane grumbled. “Everyone here looks like a model!”

“Everyone here looks like a slut,” Scarlett reassured her, even though it wasn’t exactly true. “Besides, Janie, remember the cardinal rule: The only way to belong is to act like you belong. Or to not give a shit whether you belong or not, which works for me.”

She downed her tequila neatly and set the shot glass on the bar with a
thunk.
“Another one, please,” she said to the bartender.

Right at that moment, someone bumped into Scarlett, hard. She whirled around, ready to glare at the person…

…and was astonished to find herself eye-to-eye with Anna Payne.

The magnificent blond actress looked totally trashed. Her eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, and she was teetering a little on her five-inch heels.

“Uh, hey,” Scarlett said. For once, she was at a loss for words.

“Ohmigosh!” Jane burst out. “You’re Anna Payne, right? I love you!” She started digging through her purse. “I’m so sorry, but do you think I could take a picture with you? My little sisters would die; they think you’re—”

Anna narrowed her drunk eyes at Jane, then scoffed as she staggered away.

Jane blanched. Scarlett was shocked by the actress’s rudeness. What the hell?

“Okay, so we’re officially no longer Anna Payne fans,” Scarlett said quickly. “She’s a drunk, hateful, no-talent bitch with the IQ of an amoeba.”

“Yeah, but, I didn’t see her waiting in any lines outside,” Jane replied. She reached for her vodka soda and downed it in one gulp.

“I have to use the ladies’ room,” she told Scarlett. They weaved their way through the crowd, surprised to find no line outside the bathroom. Jane stepped inside—then stopped in her tracks, causing Scarlett to sort of walk into her. Two girls leaned on the counter, making out. The short, squat attendant just stood there, blithely holding a pile of paper hand towels for distribution,
and seemed totally unaffected by the girl-on-girl action taking place against the counter next to her. Jane tried to hide her shock. Scarlett tried to hide her amusement at Jane’s shock.

“Are we having fun yet?” Scarlett said. Then she walked toward a stall, just as three girls came out of it, giggling.

Trevor Lord sat at the corner booth—the best one in the room, next to the one Anna Payne had just disappeared from—barely touching his glass of eighteen-year-old Talisker Scotch. He was too busy watching tonight’s parade of poseurs. Still, he felt hopeful. Maybe this was the night. Maybe he would get lucky.

“How about that one?” said the navy blue suit to his right.

“Next to the Justin wannabe with the unfortunate bleached tips?” said the gray suit to his left. “She’s pretty hot.”

“She’s kind of
too
hot for my taste; she’s trying too hard,” said the only woman at the table. She tended to go for all-American, farm-raised, and milk-fed on these occasions.

Trevor gazed at the subject in question: size zero, glossy platinum (mostly purchased) hair down to her ass,
black dress glued onto her Pilates-toned body. Why was it that when girls moved to Hollywood, they all eventually morphed into the same stereotype? Not that he wasn’t fond of that stereotype. It had its uses. But she was a little
too
obvious. Besides, he already had a size 0 with platinum hair and a Pilates-toned body—a better one.

He turned to his companions and raised his eyebrows a barely perceptible millimeter. It was enough. They knew when he wasn’t interested.

“What about her friend?” said Navy Blue Suit hastily.

The woman shrugged. “Too affected.”

Gray Suit pointed. “What about the one dancing near the DJ booth? Red hair, big boobs?”

“Too plain,” the woman dismissed. “Boobs notwithstanding, that is.”

The three of them continued analyzing more girls on their weight, hair color, and cup size. But Trevor was starting to tune them out. He picked up his Scotch finally and took a long, thirsty sip. It slid down his throat like a river of pure heat.

While the three of them were comparing blondes versus redheads versus brunettes, and the DJ was playing “Jungle Love” by the Steve Miller Band, he spotted two girls trying to squeeze in at the bar. Petite, pretty blonde—not the run-of-the-mill Hollywood blonde, but softer, sweeter. She was
exactly
what he had been looking for. And she came with a tall, strikingly beautiful brunette friend who had a slightly exotic but not
too
exotic edge. The
two of them managed to get the bartender’s attention and were drinking and pretending to have a good time, but his razor-sharp instincts told him that they were nervous—awkward, even—knowing they didn’t fit in, unaware that it may have been a good thing.

They were perfect.

He rose from the table. “I’ll be right back,” he said in the general direction of the table. He didn’t wait for their response as he strode toward the bar, nodding and smiling at various people but not stopping to chat. This was not the time. He sidled up next to the brunette and caught the eye of the bartender, who knew without waiting to be told to hustle and pour him a Talisker with a splash of water, neat.

The two girls were talking, their heads bent close. Trevor leaned over and said, “Hi. Are you enjoying yourselves?”

The brunette glanced over her shoulder and fixed him with an icy stare. God, her eyes were amazing: intense green, like emeralds. Before she could say anything, the blonde grinned at him and said, “Yeah. It’s our first time here.”

Trevor nodded. The blonde was exactly as he had guessed her to be: fresh, innocent, vulnerable.
Perfect.

“Do you two live in L.A.?” he asked them.

“We do!” the blonde said, as if it were the best piece of news ever. “We just moved here from Santa Barbara, actually.”

“I’ve been there a few times,” he said.

“It’s beautiful there, huh?” the blonde gushed.

The brunette still hadn’t said a word. Trevor took a sip of his Scotch, studied the two girls, and said, “So have the two of you ever thought about getting into the entertainment industry? Or maybe you’re in the business already—”

The brunette cut in with “We’re not really interested in guys who are technically old enough to father us.”

“You think I’m that old, huh?” Trevor chuckled. “Listen, I’m not trying to hit on you. I promise. I’m a producer. I’m looking for girls to cast in a new TV show I’m putting together.”

“The Real World: Hollywood?”
the brunette said drily.

He smiled patiently. “I’m casting for a new documentary-style show. We’re going to be following around a group of girls in L.A. Seeing what their days and nights are like. It’s going to be really fun stuff. Kind of a reality version of
Sex and the City
, but totally PG, of course. Would you girls have any interest?”

The blonde leaned forward and regarded him curiously. Her eyes were big, blue, expressive. The cameras were going to love them, he thought. “You’re a TV producer? Seriously?” she said.

“Yes,” he replied. “You girls are exactly what I’m looking for. Why don’t you come in for an interview, and we can talk some more about it?”

“What, do we look like we’re totally clueless?” the brunette demanded. “We’re really not interested in your low-budget project, or whatever you’re doing.”

He’d never met a girl who hadn’t immediately softened at the words
producer
,
casting
, and
interview
. “Listen carefully to me,” he said after a moment. “Thousands of girls like you come to L.A. for an opportunity like this, and it never happens. Except it’s happening right now, to you. You can front all the confidence you want, but you don’t fool me. You waited in line to stand at a bar in a place where you don’t belong. I am offering you the chance to fit in at a hundred places like this—places where people would kill to be. Isn’t that why you moved to this city? To take a chance? No one moves here to be a nobody.”

Now the brunette was staring at him, a little stunned. So was the blonde. Good, good. It was working. The blonde he hadn’t been too worried about. She was an open book. It was the brunette he had to win over.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slim silver case, and placed a business card on the bar. “In case you get tired of waiting in lines for tequila shots,” he said, locking eyes with the brunette.

And then he turned and made his exit.