Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“After dinner,” Dad decrees. “I’ve been working on this pork all day.”
The plane ride is uneventful, but once I land, I’m not sure where to go, and I have several hours until the show tonight. But when I walk out, there’s a guy holding a sign that says my name.
“Um, I think that’s me?” I say, pointing to the sign.
“Baggage claim?” he answers. When I shake my head, gesturing to my rolling carry-on bag, he seems surprised. Should I have brought more? I have no idea. But he takes it from my hand and starts walking. Unsure what else to do, I follow him.
“I don’t know where I’m going.”
“I’ve got your itinerary, Miss Barlowe.”
Apparently, Sean’s thought of everything, because the driver drops me off at a hotel, informing me that he’ll return at exactly eight thirty. I approach the front desk hesitantly, but the clerk efficiently checks me in for the reservation I apparently have. Key card in hand, I go to the eighth floor and find my room. It’s nice, nothing fancy, but at LA prices, I can only imagine how expensive it is.
I’ve never been to a club like the Cobra Room, and certainly never to a concert like this, so I take my time getting ready—showering, fixing my hair and makeup, and ordering room service on what I’m assuming is Sean’s card. I pull on Ben’s Midnight Destruction T-shirt, freshly washed so it doesn’t smell like I’ve been sleeping in it for two weeks straight, a pair of black jeans, and low-heeled black booties. I stare at myself in the mirror. “Okay, girl, let’s do this. You’ve got some groveling to do. But so does he.”
I nod to my reflection and head down to the lobby, my key card securely tucked away inside one back pocket and my phone in the other. The driver’s returned as promised, and he drops me off directly in front of the club, which has an awning emblazoned with a gold cobra. “I’ll see you later?” I ask him.
“No, I don’t have a scheduled pickup for you. Would you like to arrange that?”
I blink. “Uh, no? That’s okay. I’m gonna trust there’s another plan for after the concert, I guess.”
The driver looks at me, truly seeing me for the first time—I think. “Here,” he says, handing me his card. “Call if you need a ride.”
When I get out, I suddenly feel very out of place. I join the line of people waiting to get in, scanning my surroundings. There are people in suits and fancy cocktail dresses and others in all black, with chains, piercings, fishnet tights, and platformed heavy boots with dozens of buckles. There’s quantifiably more black eyeliner here than in an entire Sephora store. Yet here I stand, in my cute little booties, unripped jeans, and pink lip gloss.
Which one of these is not like the others?
“Cool shirt,” someone calls out, and I scan the line to see who spoke. I find a woman a few people ahead of me with neon-red hair and chains going from her nose piercings to her ears, effectively framing her high cheekbones. She points at me.
I hold it out, looking down at it. “Thanks. A friend gave it to me.”
“Last tour, yeah? I think that one sold out halfway through,” she says with a friendly smile, “so you’re a lucky bitch.”
Okay, this isn’t so scary. I’m alone in a strange city, about to go into a club for a concert, but I’ve already made a friend in line. I smile back. “I didn’t know that. Guess that makes it even more special that he gave it to me.”
“He?” she says, wiggling her brows, which are both precisely done with matching slits. “Come, gimme all the tea.” She waves me forward. Normally, I would never cut the line, but everyone’s invited, so it’s not like I’m taking someone’s place. When I join her, she hooks her elbow through mine. “I’m Nightingale,” she says.
“Hope.”
The line moves quickly, and before long, we’re inside. I’ve been to clubs before, but this is different from anything back home. There’s music playing already, loud and thumping so hard that I can feel it in my chest. The stage is dark, the walls are draped with purple curtains, the black floor is filling with people, and the bar is backlit to show off a wide variety of liquor bottles. It feels wild, like anything’s possible here, and nothing’s actually even happened yet.
“You want to be up front?” Nightingale asks, shouting in my ear and then pointing toward the stage. I nod, grinning wide. Like a pro, she works us through the crowd, and we get close to the stage, just off to the right side a bit. “Good?”
I flash her a thumbs-up and she starts dancing, swaying with her arms in front of her. Her movements are soft and flowy like a bird in flight, in contrast with the DJ’s music, which is hard and fast. I wonder if that’s how she got her name as I copy her, letting the beat guide me.