Like the night we went to The Viper Room.
Trip decided that I couldn’t come all the way out to Los Angeles without experiencing at least a taste of the famed Sunset Strip. He chose that place not only because he was friendly with the owners, but because it was practically pitch black inside. I could barely see my hand in front of my face, much less would gawking fans be able to recognize him in order to swarm him all night.
He kept ordering Tanqueray and tonics for me, and after about three of them, I suddenly decided I felt like dancing. There was a great band playing, and we abandoned our private booth in order to make our way closer to the stage. It wasn’t the smartest move on either of our parts, because the lighting was a bit brighter near that part of the club.
People noticed.
A group of girls that were dancing nearby started nudging each other and looking our way before I realized our mistake. They were young—in their early twenties—and I immediately felt like The Old Lady at the Bar. I’d already come to the conclusion that the Sunset Strip was a younger person’s game, and I’d most likely missed my window for optimal clubbing a few years before. I was hoping that maybe since I was there with a celebrity that it shaved a couple years off my tally.
One of the girls finally mustered up enough bravery to walk right up to Trip and ask, “You’re Trip Wiley, right?”
I could see the hint of white powder along the edge of her nose. God. Coke was so eighties. Wasn’t ecstasy or meth all the rage nowadays? I didn’t even know. That’s how uncool I was when it came to the club scene.
Him made his appearance as he smiled and answered, “That I am.”
Fangirl shot over her shoulder, “Told ya!” as her girlfriends started giggling and closed in around him. I was unceremoniously shoved out of the way as they asked for his autograph and tried to buy him a drink. Trip just ate it up. He shot me an apologetic look as he signed their scraps of paper, gave hugs, posed for pictures. I wanted to just get the hell off the dance floor before more people recognized him.
At one point, Fangirl gave me the once-over and said to Trip, “Why are you here with her?”
Ummm, excuse me, Cokey McWhoreslut?
She should’ve used daddy’s credit card to invest in some etiquette lessons instead of blowing it up her nose. I put my hands at my hips and got right up in her face to respond, “Maybe because I have more class than to say something like that?”
She stood there, speechless. She might have had youth over me, but she sure as hell didn’t have my years of cultivated wit. Or my boyfriend. Fuck her.
Trip grabbed my hand and led us back to our booth. He looked pretty pissed. I was, too. I mean, who the hell did that coked-out bitch think she was, right?
But when we got back to the booth, Trip said, “Layla. You can’t say stuff like that!”
“What? You’re kidding, right? I’m pretty sure she had it coming.”
“Those are my fans, Lay. They’re the ones who’ll actually buy a ticket to my next movie. You can’t ream every one of them out every time one of them says something stupid.”
I looked at him in astonishment. “Well, maybe if you had put her in her place first, I wouldn’t have had to. But you didn’t say anything!”
His eyebrow quirked at that. “I would have. You jumped in before I could.”
Crap. He was right.
I started laughing. “Well, okay, Mr. Cool. How would you have handled it?”
He slid along the pleather bench seat, close enough to rub a hand along my bare thigh. “I would have asked her kindly to treat my girlfriend with a little more respect. That’s all it would have taken. She’s young and catty; she was showing off for her friends. A simple reminder that she was acting out of line would have done the trick. But now….”
“Now what?”
He raised my chin to face him and smirked out, “Well, now she has a story to sell. You’re the one that gets all bent out of shape about the tabloids, and now you know how these stories happen, Lay-Lay. She could call up any of those damned magazines and those bloodsuckers would be able to pull an entire article out of a two-minute incident.”
“I highly doubt she even knows how to read.”
That made him laugh. “You’re right. I’m sure it won’t turn into anything. But please just let me handle this stuff from now on, okay?”
I snuggled in a little closer against his side. “Fine. You’re the boss, Chester.”
He just chuckled and shook his head.
Then his hand rose a little higher as his mouth came down on mine.
“Oh my God! I’m kissing Trip Wiley!” I busted, as I ran my hands through his hair and opened my lips, right there in our darkened booth. The music was pumping through my body; Trip’s tongue was invading my mouth.
We were totally making out.