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.
Mirrors along the wall stretch and warp my reflection as I walk further in, and light bounces off them, bathing the crowded bar in stripes of rainbow light here and there.
It's more crowded than I thought it would be, considering how early is still is, and I weave my way through expensively dressed patrons, men in suites and women in short glittering gowns. My stomach unclenches a little when I notice the women are dressed very similarly to me. I was afraid I might not have dressed up well enough, classy enough that is.
But apparently money doesn't have to mean class, not with the way some of these women are dressed. One of them swans past me, on the arm of a tall Armenian looking man. She laughs loudly at something he's saying, her red lips stick bright against her pale skin. Her dress draws the eye first though, a tight red affair with a low plunging neckline. On top of that all her movements are extravagant and loud, she wants to be seen. She wants people to watch her.
She and the man head for the bar, but they don't stop there, they go around, the man with his hand splayed on the woman's lower back, ushering her around the bar. I watch as they vanish through the curtain in the back, and my heart picks up.
What if my target is already back there? What if I missed my chance?
There's no way I'm going to lie my way into that VIP room, if that's what it is. I'd seen the way the bartender flicked his fingers at the man in a two-fingered salute. They know one another.
I can't just stand there like an idiot in the middle of the bar, people will notice, so I make my way over to the bar and slide onto one of the stools. When the bar tender turns I give him what I hope is a charming smile.
"Mojito please. Single."
"You got it, darling." He winks, and my smile wavers for a moment before I fix it in place. Just the type of guy William Walker would hang out with. My skin is already crawling.
When the bar tender slides the drink across the table I smile and took it from him though, and I deliberately let my fingers brush his. "So," I lift one brow, hoping it looks seductive rather than critical. "Is there a wizard behind that curtain or what?"
I realize how much like innuendo it sounds a second later, as the bar tender stares at me with his brows raised, his lips twitching at the corners.
"Is there a what now?"
I laugh. Maybe he isn't so bad. "I meant the literal curtain, I swear that wasn't the world's worst pick up line."
"I'm Brad." He holds out one hand and I surprise myself by taking it. He's got a firm handshake. "And the curtain is a mystery. You'll hear rumours if you stick around long enough though."
I fake an insulted look. "You can't just tell me? Do you even know what's behind your own curtain?"
He grins "I'm contractually not allowed to tell you."
"For real?"
"For real." He reaches beneath the bar and starts mixing another drink. "I feel bad I can't tell you, next drink is on me." His gaze flicks back over my shoulder as more people come in. "You waiting for friends?"
For some reason I don't feel the need to lie this time. "No, just wanted to check the place out. I heard it's fancy."
He looks amused. "You heard right."
Brad the bartender has to turn away as new guests arrive, and he gives me another wink before bustling away to assemble their orders. I sip my drink and check William Walker's social media sites. He's been on Instagram most recently, and there's a picture of him and his two buddies standing on a sunbaked driveway in front of an enormous house. They're leaning on a shiny yellow Porsche and the caption beneath reads,
Brews in the sunshine, then on to Doers when the sun goes down.
I look over my shoulder, out the window. It's completely dark outside, lit only by the street lights of LA. He's got to be on his way at least.
I wonder if I'll recognize him when he comes in. Or if his internet persona looks completely different than real life, like so many other people. Facebook pictures lie, it's all about angles and soft lighting. None of it's real.
I'm getting to the dregs of my mojito when it happens.
There's a commotion from the front door, a burst of laughter, several people talking loudly at the same time. The group that comes in is large, about eight people, and they're all done up in suites and dresses. They practically radiate wealth and vitality.
And there he is. William Walker in the flesh.