We teeter down the staircase to the club. I tug Laurel’s bare arm. “What did you do to get us in?” I snap, unable to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “Offer him improbable sums of cash? Extravagant favors? Because if you did anything illegal, you totally have to forfeit.”
Laurel smiles mysteriously. “I didn’t do anything illegal, I promise. But it’s for me to know and you to wonder about!”
Mads and Char give me excited “Isn’t she amazing?” glances, and I just shrug. But I have to wonder: Could I have done it?
We step into the club. It’s got sunken velvet banquettes with votives on every table. Drum and bass thrum through the air, and even annoyed-little-me can’t resist the urge to dance. A hostess in a dress that barely covers her butt appears and announces she’s our escort. She leads us across the main club, which has a huge dance floor and girls swinging from trapezes, past a Gothic-style arched doorway, and into a small, smoky back room. People are tucked into private banquettes. Gorgeous creatures lean against the bar, sipping cocktails. I look right and left, certain that everyone is famous.
“Here you go, ladies.” The hostess smiles and gestures to the intimate little space around us. “The VIP room.”
Mads and Char exchange another blown-away glance. “The VIP room?” Char mouths. I’m so angry I can’t even look Laurel in the eye. How the hell did she score this?
The hostess seats us at a banquette and passes us a small leather booklet. “This is our list of signature cocktails,” she says. “But if there’s anything you’d like that you don’t see on the menu, I’m sure your waiter can arrange that for you.” Then she turns on her heel and glides away, the curves of her bare back flawless in her filmy cocktail dress.
“Um, she knows we don’t have IDs, right?” I ask, surly.
Charlotte snorts. “Oh, please. Like it matters.”
A beanpole-thin waiter in dark-framed hipster glasses arrives at our table. “The gentleman at the next table would like to buy your first round,” he says, pointing to a cute, tall guy with shockingly white teeth. He’s already sitting with four tall women who certainly must be models but, apparently, figures the more, the merrier.
The waiter hovers while we decide. “Four vodka cranberries,” Laurel orders for us. I snap to attention. That’s our favorite drink. It’s what I would have ordered for us. How did she know that?
Moments later our drinks arrive, beads of condensation running down the sides of the tumblers. I study the glasses, then frown. “You didn’t ask for lime wedges, Laurel,” I say primly. “We always get our drinks with lime.”
“Oh.” Laurel looks cowed, then swivels around for the waiter. “Maybe I can ask him. . . .”
“Forget it.” Madeline catches her arm. “Sutton’s just being grouchy.”
“And a sore loser.” Char holds up her glass. “C’mon, Sutton. Be happy! We’re in Vegas!”
I begrudgingly hold up my glass to toast. As the tart liquid hits my lips, I begin to calm down. Maybe I am making too big a deal out of this. Besides, Laurel is up one measly challenge. I’ll certainly win the rest.
The music turns over, the DJ smoothly mixing Lady Gaga in, and the mood in the room shifts, becoming more frenetic and upbeat. The guy at the table next to us raises his glass in our direction, and we nod a quick—but not overly encouraging—thank-you. I take another sip. The alcohol is warming my stomach as it hits my system, and I sway sexily to the beat. Come to think of it, Saucy is pretty amazing.
Laurel jumps up and grabs my wrist. “Let’s dance. I love this song.”
Admittedly, I do, too. I take another gulp of my drink, surprised to find more than half of it gone by now. Then I follow Laurel out to the dance floor, with Madeline and Charlotte not far behind. Laurel shines like a disco ball as she moves, and all at once, I’m almost . . . proud of her. She did get us in here, after all. She catches me smiling at her and grins back like she knows what I’m thinking.
Suddenly, the music stops and the room falls quiet. The DJ’s voice blares over the mike. “Is there a Sutton in the house?”
I stop. What does the DJ want with me?
Madeline and Charlotte jump in, pointing at me and calling out. Suddenly, a spotlight floods over me, practically blinding me. All sorts of fantasies flicker in my mind. Maybe a model scout has just discovered me. Maybe a director wants to bring me to Hollywood. Maybe someone just wants to give a shout-out that I’m super-awesome. Or maybe my friends arranged this, a sign that I’m still their favorite, that Laurel can’t compare.
The DJ’s voice booms through the microphone. “This one’s for you, honey!” he calls. He drops a record onto his turntable, and a remix of “I Will Survive” kicks in. Drunken, ebullient cheers erupt, and every head in the room swivels to look at my reaction. I bob back and forth for a few beats, but I’m confused. This isn’t my favorite song. I don’t even know it that well. And isn’t it about a pissed-off woman who got kicked around by a jerky guy?