SLEAZE: A Hollywood Comeback Story (Book #1)

Chapter 8

Ripples of excitement coursed through me as I inched forward in line, nodding along to the pounding bass that spilled out of the club and echoed over Hollywood Boulevard. I counted thirty people standing in front of me and watched as the mountainous man guarding the door took a scrawny girl’s ID and scanned it, first with a flashlight, and then with a card reader that he kept clipped to his belt. He looked blankly between the girl before him and the plastic square in his hand. Still expressionless, the bouncer nodded and the girl eagerly stepped forward, only to let out a cry of protest as he slid the ID into his back pocket. She grabbed for it, and instantly another bouncer appeared, escorting her from the line. A chorus of groans erupted as her group of obviously underage friends followed her in dispersing onto the sidewalk.

            Only twenty-five to go, I thought happily to myself before saying aloud, “Remember when you got your fake taken away our freshman year?”

            Scott turned to glower at me, his usually upbeat expression replaced with one of sullen betrayal. “Remember how that was entirely your fault?”

            “Woah,” I said, raising a hand. “What’s your problem?”

            “You tricked me!” Scott said miserably. “You said this place was solid.”

            “It is,” I replied but Scott shook his head.

            “In the,” he paused to look at his watch, “forty-five minutes that we’ve been standing here, we’ve literally heard this track sample four times.”

            “Yeah, but this version is different,” I promised, remembering the build up to the hook. “You’ll hear it when it gets to the drop.”

            Rubbing his eyes, Scott let out a dramatic sigh. “Maybe I’ll just stand in front of the speakers all night, you know, to blow out my eardrums. If I’m deaf I’ll have an excuse to ignore the dumb crap that comes out of your mouth.”

            I elbowed him good-naturedly and he shoved me back, his mouth twitching as he fought a grin. Scott always complained about going to shows with me, but I knew that after a few drinks, he’d start flirting with some girl and pretend to enjoy the music just as much as she did.

            “IDs, guys?”

            The bouncer who’d lead away the girl was back, an impatient look on his face as he waited for us to produce our matching Massachusetts driver’s licenses. He peered at mine suspiciously and demanded, “Zip code?”

            “02482,” I rattled off, unfazed by the questioning.

            The bouncer grunted and handed my ID back before asking Scott, “What’s your sign?”

            Scott looked bewildered by the question. “Are you serious? Dude, I’m not a girl, why the hell would I know that? Uh…” Scott grimaced as he racked his brain and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Bouncers rarely trusted my out of state ID, but I was carded so infrequently that it didn’t matter. Despite almost being twenty-two, Scott and his perpetual baby face were a different story. “Ah, I don’t know. Aquarius?” he guessed hopefully and the hulking bald man looked doubtful as he passed Scott his license.

            “How many girls are you with tonight?”

            “None,” I admitted and the guy let out a low, irritating whistle.

            “Good luck. We’re not supposed to let anymore guys in on their own; the ratio’s off.”

            “Too bad,” Scott piped up with false disappointment dripping from his voice.