Tommy peered past the bouncer at the two punks he knew from Farrington’s. He’d been called to the door to deal with them, and all he could think was, How the hell did they find me?
“We need to be on that list, bro!” one of them shouted. Was it Ethan? Tommy could never remember their names. Much less tell them apart.
He gazed past them. The line was long, filled with more important, age-appropriate gets.
“You know them?” The bouncer shot Tommy an impatient look.
He nodded reluctantly, knowing if he didn’t, they’d make the kind of scene he couldn’t afford.
“They eighteen?”
“Twenty-one, yo!” Ethan added a fist pump to go with it that made him look anything but.
“Eighteen.” Tommy shot the kids a look of warning, knowing even that was a stretch.
“You say so.” The bouncer was dubious, but lifted the rope anyway and granted them access.
“Suh-weet!” They burst into the darkened club, nodding their heads as they took in the graffiti-covered walls, the large stage, the crowded bar, and all the good-looking girls.
“What the hell is this? You guys stalking me?” Tommy grabbed them each by the sleeve and hauled them back toward him. He’d always been fonder of them than he liked to admit, but at the moment, he was pretty annoyed they had shown up.
“You wish.” Ethan sneered and jerked out of his grasp. “This is so much better than your last gig,” he said. “Glad we kept in touch.”
“We didn’t.” Tommy shook his head, trying not to laugh. He didn’t want to encourage them any more than he had.
“So when you gonna set us up with some of those black wristbands so we can get this party started?” This came from the other one, crap, what was his name? Colpher. That was it—some kind of last-name-as-first-name kind of thing.
Tommy stared between them. “How’d you hear about that?”
“Word’s out, bro.” They grinned in anticipation, as Tommy ran a hand over his chin, trying to decide if that was good news or bad.
It was only the second night of the trial, and apparently news had already spread to guitar stores and skate parks. His liberal use of the black wristbands, usually reserved for the twenty-one-and-over crowd, had given his numbers an even bigger bump than he’d anticipated. While he saw no harm in aging up certain eighteen-year-olds eager to get a three-year jump on the party, these two couldn’t be more than fourteen tops, and Tommy refused to corrupt them any more than they already were.
“Listen—” He swiped a hand through his hair and looked toward the door, watching more of his gets filing in. “Hang out as long as you want. But don’t cause any trouble, and don’t even think about swiping a wristband.”
Tommy watched as their faces fell in the kind of disappointment that was almost comical to watch. “You are the worst club promoter ever,” Colpher said.
“Why you dissing us like that?” Ethan scowled.
“Yeah, yeah.” Tommy laughed and ushered them to a spot near the stage he normally saved for VIPs. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” he told them. “And pay attention to this next band—you might learn something. But remember, I’m watching you.” He illustrated the point by aiming V fingers from his eyes to theirs. “You act like idiots, I won’t hesitate to call your parents and tell them to come get you.”
He watched them settle in, clearly pleased with themselves; then, ensuring the rest of his team wasn’t looking, he slipped out the side door and made his way down the boulevard.
EIGHTEEN
THE POLITICS OF DANCING
In less than two hours the first week of competition would officially end. In less than twelve, Layla would be the first to get cut. She could only imagine the look on Queen Bitch Aster’s face when Ira inevitably called Layla’s name. She’d toss her glossy hair over her shoulder and cock a haughty brow in knowing disdain, watching from the plush seat of her throne as Layla left in disgrace, a metaphorical tail tucked between her legs.
The things that made her a su
ccessful blogger worked against her as a promoter. She might be whip smart, but she was a cynical loner at heart—more used to poking fun at celebrity culture than courting it. Her embarrassing attempts to lure people to Jewel—lame social media shout-outs and invites—had left her feeling like the world’s biggest poseur.
Relying on her blog seemed sleazy and unprofessional, something that would ultimately work against her. But if by chance she got another week, she’d waste no time doing everything short of bribing her readers to get them to Jewel. Otherwise, there was no point continuing. Trying to balance her work at the club and her relationship with Mateo was stressing her out. While he didn’t hold a grudge, he didn’t exactly support her either. It felt like her world was split into two not-quite-equal jagged bits, neither one of them willing to adapt to the other.
Karly and Brandon walked by, slowing long enough to give her the stink eye, which she probably deserved, but it wasn’t like it was her fault she lacked the right friends to succeed at this stuff. It was high school all over again. She was out of her element, didn’t fit in. Only back then, she’d been a lot better at pretending not to care.
Screw it. Screw them. Screw Ira. Screw all of it. She headed for the bar, slipped around to the other side, and helped herself to a shot of top-shelf tequila. She’d failed in the most spectacular way—the least she could do was numb some of the pain.