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“How can you know for sure?” she asks. She gazes at me, her eyes searching my face.
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.
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 mea
sly 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?
“I just want to say, he’s not worth it, Sutton!” the DJ screams.
And then a tall guy lurches toward me and spins me around. “I’ll totally go out with you,” he mumbles. He grabs me around the waist and dips me to the ground, prompting another round of cheering. Shrieking, actually. And maybe . . . laughter?
I untangle myself from my dance partner, confused. The music rises again. I glance around and see that Laurel is doubled over, laughing so hard her midnight-blue mascara is beginning to run.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand. “What was that all about?”
Laurel wipes her eyes. “You should have seen your face, Sutton. That was amazing. ” She cascades into another round of giggles.
“What was amazing?” I demand.
Laurel beckons my friends close. She leans in, straining to be heard over the music. “You’re gonna love this, guys,” she says, more to them than to me. “I told everyone Sutton was stood up at the altar. ” She looks at me. “The reason the bouncer let us in was because he felt sorry for you, Sutton!”