The secret to getting into a club was acting as if you couldn't care less, no matter what. You couldn't beg or plead or make up some story about knowing someone inside—the guys at the door had built-in bullshit radar. You just had to stand there and expect to get in.
"Sorry, we're closed for a private party." The bouncer at the door was a big guy—they were always big guys who stood there with their arms crossed, making their pecs and biceps stand out even more. Of course, they weren't really closed for a private party. That was just what they said when they didn't want to let someone in. We'd heard it before.
"Who's this, Sailor Moon and her lesbian lover?"
I looked over at Lil and almost laughed—he was right on. She looked just like a dark-haired Sailor Moon with the short navy pleated skirt and white blouse and red bows. I told her with my eyes, don't say anything. She raised an eyebrow but she kept her mouth shut.
We both just stood there, not even looking at the bouncer. I took my phone out to glance at it. It wasn't ringing and I didn't have a text—I just wanted to look like I had something to do. Lil took a stick of gum out of her purse and put it into her mouth.
"Go on," he said, waving us through. I saw him look at my legs first, though, and I was glad I was wearing heels that made me a good four inches taller. Lil snuck a triumphant squeeze to my hand as we walked past him.
"Damn, you weren't kidding when you said your skirt was invisible!" She had to yell to be heard, and this was the first chance we'd had to talk. She came from West Chelsea, and TJ and Ronnie's house was all the way out in Douglaston, a place that always had Ronnie saying, "There's nothing wrong with living in Queens!" Of course, you couldn't tell that to the Upper West Siders.
"Like it?" I yelled back, flipping the hem. I couldn't flip it much—it was one of my shortest, cream-colored, a halter dress, if you could call so little material a dress, with a plunging neckline, completely backless. I wore a silver armband with it and my hair was up—it was too hot to dance with my hair down.
Lil gave me two thumbs up and then grabbed my hand. We checked our wraps before heading toward the dance floor. We'd dance until we got thirsty—and by that time, we could take advantage of some guy trying to pick one of us up and offering to buy us drinks. Even a gin and tonic was eighteen bucks!
The music was so loud I could barely think—it was fantastic. We waded to the center of the sea of writhing bodies, our hips already moving, driven by the beat. For me, dancing was almost as good as sex—hell, it was sex—hips grinding, bodies swaying, adrenaline pumping. It was like an all-night orgasm, a constant throb. I lost myself dancing, and in that, Lil and I were just alike.
Of course, it was all dependent on the music. The DJ was important, and when we got one that was into the rap and hip-hop thing, or someone who was just crazy bi-polar, picking one good song followed by a dud, we usually called it a night early, because we were all about the dancing. Unless one of us—usually Lil—found someone to go home with. That was a given.
I'd only done it twice, myself. Once it was some male model—and oh my god he was beautiful, but the sex was boring as hell. He loved being worshipped but didn't want to do any of the work. Another was a woman, Catherine. She said she had an "arrangement" with her husband, an open marriage. Well, I knew all about that, didn't I? The sex that night had been incredible. I saw her here sometimes, still, and she made it pretty clear I could go home with her again anytime I wanted.
"Look!" Lil was pointing and I followed her finger toward the upper deck.
"Is that—?" I squinted, shading my eyes against the strobe, but I was sure. "Jim Carrey?"
Lil grinned, bobbing her head and bumping me with her hip. I didn't get as star struck as I used to, when I first came to New York, but it still stunned me when I ran into one. I'd even seen Kate Hudson jogging in Central Park—of course, I only knew her because TMZ was following and snapping pictures. Otherwise, she just would have been another blond woman running in sweats and a baseball cap.
"I gotta pee!" I pointed to my bladder and then toward the bathrooms downstairs. Lil nodded, following me. We didn't like to get split up.
"Hey! Lil!" The voice came from behind us and Lil turned. Inwardly, I groaned, knowing the night was pretty much over. He was gorgeous, I'd give her that—but aside from the perfect hair, perfect teeth and perfect body, I didn't understand what she saw in him.
"Alek!" Her whole face lit up. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried not to roll my eyes. "What are you doing here?"
He nodded toward the bar. "Buy you a drink?"
She looked back at me and I waved her away. "Go on! I'll meet you!"
"I'll be right here!" she yelled, grabbing a stool. Alek was already ordering their drinks.
I nodded, weaving through the crowd and deciding to take a detour upstairs first. Jim Carrey was one of my little brother, Henry's, absolute favorites. It was worth a shot, right? He was still standing there near the railing, talking to someone I didn't recognize—a short, balding guy in a suit.
I dug a receipt out of my purse and climbed the stairs, hoping he wouldn't disappear before I got to the top.
"Mr. Carrey?" God, this was embarrassing. Was I really doing this? It's for Henry, I reminded myself, imagining his shock and awe when I gave it to him and told him the story—embellished, of course.
He glanced at me and then did a double-take, his eyes moving first to the plunge in my neckline and then to the hem of my skirt.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," I said, holding out the receipt and a pen. It was one of TJ's—it had his name, followed by his title, 'financial consultant,' along with his business phone number. That was when I noticed my hands were actually shaking! "But could you sign this?"
He blinked at me for a moment, as if he was considering, and then he smiled brightly, that same smile you see on screen, too big and wide and a little bit fake. "What's your name, sweetie?"
"It's for my brother," I explained as he took the pen and paper, looking around for a hard surface to write on. "His name is Henry."
"Turn around," he told his friend, and the balding guy hesitated for a moment, looking at me—he was staring, really. Then he sighed and turned, leaning over the railing slightly.
"Agents." Jim grinned at me and it was real this time. "They'll do anything."
"Thanks a lot!" the guy mumbled, glancing over his shoulder as Carrey used his back to put the receipt on. "Just because I'll bend over a railing for you..."
"Ha! It's usually the other way around, pal." Carrey scribbled his name with a flourish and then looked at me. "Let me tell you something—agents smell money like sharks smell blood." Carrey winked as he handed me both the receipt and the pen. "Nice dress. What's your name?"
"Jane." I felt more flushed now than I had on the dance floor.
"Oh no, not you!" He was just as smooth and dramatic in person as he was on screen. "You give plain Janes a bad name, sweetheart."
"Thank you." I tucked the autograph and pen away in my little purse. "And thank you again, for this."
"My pleasure." He grabbed my hand and actually bowed, leaning it to kiss it. People around us were watching and he waggled his eyebrows at me. "And a very nice view, I might add."
Now I was sure I was bright red.
"Jim." The agent saved me, clearing his throat.
"Right. Back to business." Carrey straightened and tipped me a dismissing wave. "Nice meeting you, Jane."
"You, too." I didn't even hear my name being called until I got to the stairs. If I hadn't detoured on my way to the bathroom that night to get Jim Carrey's autograph for my little brother, things would have gone very differently later, but Catherine found me again because I had, grabbing my arm and pulling me into a hug.
"It's so good to see you!" she exclaimed. I returned her affection, still flushed from dancing and my encounter with a real celebrity. I hadn't had the guts to actually go up to any of the stars I'd seen in New York since I'd been there, and probably wouldn't have this time, if it weren't for Henry. He'd seen Bruce Almighty fifteen times!
"You look gorgeous," she gushed in my ear, still holding me close. Catherine was a leggy redhead with a temperament as fiery as her hair. Even in my heels I felt short and dumpy next to her. The night she'd taken me home from 1 Oak, I felt like I was going home with a goddess.
"So do you." My returned compliment was genuine. She looked fantastic in a black mini-dress—her legs went on forever!
"You alone?" Her smile was suggestive as we parted, still standing close and practically blocking the stairway. People squeezed by us, both coming up and going down.
I shook my head. "I'm here with my friend Lil."
She looked disappointed and, for a minute, I was, too. I wondered if she was remembering the night we spent in her posh Manhattan apartment. I'd been pretty drunk—Lil's Alec had bought drinks for us all night long in hopes that she would go home with him and I had taken full advantage of his generosity. He'd taken advantage of Lil later, she said, so I guess it was a win-win for everyone that night. I couldn't help remembering what it felt like to kiss Catherine, how full and sweet her lips were, and thinking about kissing her reminded me of the taste of her pussy, completely shaved below with a fine landing strip of red hair at the top to prove, she said, that she was a real redhead.
"Listen, I have to pee." I smiled apologetically, remembering Lil waiting for me at the bar.
"I'll go with you."
And that's how we ended up downstairs in the bathroom, which looked like the Starship Enterprise and made me feel like I was peeing in outer space. It was crowded, as usual, as we pushed our way to the sinks to wash our hands. Catherine touched up her make-up, blinking fast to dry her mascara. Her eyes were big and blue, gorgeous, probably contacts—they were too bright not to be. But she was stunning.
"If you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to be forced to take you home with me again." She didn't look away from the mirror as she said the words, but her smile was slow and mischievous.
"Don't throw me in the briar patch," I quipped, adjusting the top of my dress—it really was too low-cut for someone with my cup size. I felt like I was falling out of it constantly, but at least it had gotten us through the door.
