Bad Babe

The Doers Club

Doers Nightclub is the most extravagant club I've ever been to.

The outside is lit with spot lights that rove back and forth over the long, paved entryway, illuminating the glittering sign hanging over the front entrance. The sign towers over the rest of the building, nearly a story high, so there's no doubt where you've just arrived.

There's a velvet rope wrapped in golden chains draped from pillar to pillar along the red carpet that leads to the entrance, and already there are a few people moving down it, toward the bouncer at the front.

I trail after a man in a black suit and tie, and a woman in a sparkly silver mini skirt, thankful that I'd parked the battered Toyota a few blocks from here. Somehow I was sure that pulling up to the front in that, alongside the sleek limousines and town cars, would be a surefire way to get myself kicked out before I even got in.

This place reeks of wealth and privilege.

I take a deep breath and shake my curls back, straightening my spine. When I get to the line at the front it's short, and moving fairly fast. The bouncer, a mountain of a man in a crisp black suit and honest-to-god bowtie, waves the man and his date through with barely a glance at the pair of them.

When I walk up next he flicks the lock on his phone off and says, in bored monotone, "Name?"

"Uh, there's a list. Right." I try to push the flutter of panic down. "Uh, Jones. Party of...three."

Oh god, this was a stupid idea, I'd just spit out the first thing that had come to mind. I bite the inside of cheek hard, but the bouncer doesn't even look at me.

"Says here it's a party of four."

Holy shit, that worked.

I try to mask my incredulity, clearing my throat a couple times before I answer. "I...he, one of us can't make it."

He looks up for the first time, eyes searching my face. He must see something there because he gives me a sympathetic smile. "Aah, boy trouble?"

"You could say that." It takes everything in me not to smile at that.

Boy trouble. You have no idea.

Instead I put on a dejected face, and the bouncer leans back, unhooking the chain for me, waving me onwards. "Sorry to hear that, I hope your night gets better, darling."

Still unable to believe this actually worked, I give him a bright smile and glide past with a quick thank you, making my way up the front entrance, where the doors are held open by two more burly men in black suits. They both look straight ahead as I walk through. I tuck my little handbag beneath my arm, take a deep breath and stride over the threshold like I belong here.

Like I'm totally comfortable walking into a place with a red carpet and thousand dollar bottle service.

The inside of the club is dimly light by circular orange lights hanging from the ceiling, suspended in silver globes. The effect is surreal and beautiful, like multiple suns hanging over the bar. The walls are a muted gray, patterned stone panels that look as though they were ripped from castle walls.

There are low mahogany tables surrounded by chocolatey leather seats, and each table flickers with light, decorated with a single red candle.

Instead of a door behind the bar there's a pair of black curtains hanging there, drawn almost closed, the promise of more interesting—perhaps less legal things—lingers behind them.