I open my mouth to reply but don’t know what to say. Before I can figure it out, Charlotte signals from up ahead. “Come on, guys!”
I pat Madeline’s shoulder. “Thayer’s okay. I can just feel it. Come on.”
Madeline nods and runs toward Char and Laurel. I watch her hair bouncing against her back, getting another pang. When I hear from Thayer again—if I hear from Thayer again—I’m going to tell him he has to get in touch with Madeline and let her know he’s okay.
We turn a corner to a side street, and instantly the steady pulse of deep bass echoes in my ears. Up ahead is a length of wine-colored velvet rope in front of a door. A long line snakes down the sidewalk. There’s no name over the door, though. No indication of where we are.
Charlotte stops and takes in the scene. “What do you think that is?”
We all stop to consider. A horde of girls huddle, smiling widely, like MTV is holding an open casting for a new reality show. They’re all model-gorgeous and clad in sky-high heels and sparkling minidresses, with curtains of smooth, shiny hair swinging in perfectly flat-ironed sheets down their backs. Next to them stand lacquered men in creaseless button-down shirts and gleaming Prada loafers.
From around the opposite corner, a tall African American woman with a killer body and close-cropped hair appears. She wears a black fedora, an electric-blue leather jumpsuit that fits like a second skin, and a pair of violet-studded peep-toe platforms that I know from last month’s Vogue are limited-edition Louboutins. She’s flocked by three burly men, the tallest of whom wears an earpiece and scowls menacingly at anyone who happens to catch his eye. The men push through the sea of eager club-hoppers. The throng fans out in two directions, revealing a small staircase to a glowing blue grotto one level down.
Leather Jumpsuit tips her fedora down over one eye and sweeps out of sight. The model wannabes chatter excitedly in her wake.
“Guys, do you know who that was?” Charlotte’s eyes are wide. “Rihanna!”
“Really?” Laurel looks awed.
Char nods. “Which means that club”—she points to the descending staircase—“must be Saucy!”
Laurel fixes her with a blank expression. “What’s Saucy?”
I burst out laughing. To my relief, Mads does, too. “Um, were you not listening to me the whole car ride here?” she asks haughtily. “Saucy. The most exclusive club in Vegas? It just opened. Jay-Z owns it, I think.”
“God, Laurel.” I can’t resist getting in a jab. “How could you not know that?”
“I did know that,” Laurel says quickly. “I just forgot.”
Madeline pirouettes so that the slight A-line of her pewter silk slip dress sways against her legs. A sly look crosses her face. “If Channing Tatum is in town this weekend, I bet he’s in there.” She glances meaningfully at Charlotte.
Charlotte arches her eyebrows. It’s like a lightbulb switches on over her head. She turns to Laurel with authority. “You’re up. Get us in.”
Laurel swallows hard. Her eyes dart to the crowd of people waiting to get in. For a minute, I feel another flicker of pity for her. Laurel is perfectly cute, and her Alice and Olivia minidress flatters her toned, athletic body, but the people on line for Saucy are practically inhuman, like aliens from Planet Gorgeousness or something.
But a determined spark comes into Laurel’s eyes. “You got it.”
We exchange a glance as she walks down the sidewalk. Mads looks at me. “Do you think she can do it?”
I shrug. “It’s Laurel. No way.”
Laurel heads to the front of the line and shoulders her way up to the bouncer.
Everyone waiting glares at her. A couple of people call out for her to go to the back of the line where she belongs. My stomach swirls. Laurel’s in for the rejection of a lifetime; they’re going to laugh her back to Tucson.
Laurel reaches the bouncer, stands on tiptoe, and cups her mouth as she whispers something into his ear. The clubbers in line catcall and complain. After a moment, the bouncer’s eyes flicker over Madeline, Charlotte, and me.
Laurel looks up, catches our eyes, and winks slowly. At the same time, the bouncer glances our way again and beckons us in.
What?
Charlotte squeezes Madeline’s arm. “She did it!” she squeals in disbelief.
“Oh my God, I’m losing it!” Madeline cries, clutching her chest.
She grabs my arm and hauls me toward the entrance. I plaster a tight smile on my face as the three of us stagger forward, ignoring the other clubbers’ protests. As soon as Mads and Char reach Laurel, they engulf her in a squealing, giggling, excited, dance-y hug. I stand at the fringes, my arms crossed over my chest, pretending I’m too cool for such displays, but inside, I feel like I’m sinking. It’s like I don’t even exist.