1
Rae
The cable is loose. It’s fucking irritating. What kind of club doesn’t have the right gear?
The kind I used to play when I was hustling to get where I am.
Where I was until last month.
This is the best of the three gigs I’ve played since returning to LA. The caliber of clubs I’ve booked has gone down since the article released featuring the photo of Harrison and me backstage at Debajo.
My renewed infamy has created a new roadblock. Now I’m not just the woman who might publicly call out a club on their bullshit.
I’m also a hypocrite.
Still, we’re in LA, and this venue is full of beautiful people in various stages of intoxication.
A small film crew occupies one side. Beck’s in the center, security watching him and the crew surrounding him.
The entire set, the loose cable bugs me. Every minute, I expect the music to cut out and a bunch of partiers to throw their designer vodka drinks in my face.
But hey, at least I get to do what I love.
A month after what happened with Mischa, I still get tense during the changeover, doing a scan of the crowd before I unplug and give up the stage to descend into the throng of partiers.
Tonight, there’s a college-aged kid who leans too close, trying to look down the loose black shirt that’s sticking to me with sweat.
A duo of guys flanks me, making God knows what symbol over my head while they snap a pic.
A young, platinum-blond woman drags her friends over. They shift from one deadly high heel to the other while she squeals.
“Girl, I’m a huge fan! Will you be at Wild Fest next year?”
I fix on a “we’re all having fun here” smile I learned from Beck. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
“Ohmigod. It’s going to be the biggest thing.” She makes a duck face next to me as she wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I want life lessons from anyone who can land Harrison King. He’s loaded and gorgeous and that accent… I bet he fucks like an animal.”
As the flash goes off, I’m not seeing the camera or the woman.
All I can remember are the memories I’ve tried to shove down. Harrison King, body straining and damp with sweat, me clinging to him and gasping as he drove into me until we both collapsed.
But it was all a lie. It meant nothing.
“Dammit, one more?” the girl asks, but I’m already pushing away.
“Hey!” A whistle cuts through the noise, and I wait for Beck to catch up. “Heading out early?”
My friend is Hollywood-leading-man handsome, with dark hair and darker eyes that see more than they let on. His looks might’ve helped land him his primetime show, but his shrewdness got him the reality series he’s filming now.
“Yeah. Thanks for bringing the crew here,” I say.
The club made a few extra bucks, plus free publicity, for allowing Beck’s crew to film an episode of the reality show here. If they didn’t already want me back on the strength of my set, they will now.
“How many selfies did you take before someone brought your boy up?”
I shake my head. “It’s been a month. He’s living his life. I’m living mine.” I eye his crew. “You should get back to the girl you were sucking face with. She’s already bailed on her friends.”
He glances back that way, where a beautiful, fresh-faced woman stands next to his security.