by Frankie Love
At that, I laugh too. I may be a country girl at heart, small-town girl in the big city, but I can hold my own when it comes to having fun. I just need to get acclimated to the kind of fun these girls are used to.
And I may be out of my comfort zone, but I won’t let these girls, or Danny, down tonight.
____
Two hours later, the three of us are in tiny pieces of fabric that barely cover our asses, our hair sleek and shiny, and our makeup is done so perfectly it’s as if we don’t have any on it all.
And when we slide into the Uber EX toward the A-List, I listen as Gretchen explains exactly what corner we are to be dropped off on.
After the ride, we make our way through an industrial neighborhood, definitely not where I was expecting to go. It’s pretty empty out here, but street lamps light the way, and Gretchen tells us she knows exactly where we’re going.
“Danny told me Sawyer Bennett was going to be here tonight,” she says. “Now that is one man I’d be okay with sinking my teeth into.”
“No way, not me,” I say. “He’s so not my type.”
This apparently is enough of a comment to get a reaction from my two roommates.
“What is your type then? If not the hottest man in Hollywood at the moment?” Colette asks.
I shake my head, not wanting to explain. But Gretchen nudges me with her elbow and, knowing that I want to stay in their good graces, I decide to be more open with them.
“Sawyer seems a little... fake? Like he’s trying too hard. I’d like, I mean, if I were to have a guy, I would want him to be a little bit more rugged. You know, a man’s man?”
“When you say if you were to have a man, what do you mean by that, exactly?” Gretchen asks, having no shame in prying into my personal business.
Actually, neither of them do. They are identical hyenas. Amazonian bombshells, and, I guess I am too. They’re both blonde, and I’m dark haired with darker lashes—but all of us tower at 5 foot 10, though Colette and Gretchen have a little bit more of a plastic look to them. Their noses have been shaped perfectly, their cheekbones have an almost sculptured sheen, and their hair swishes as they move. Literally, it swishes. They have swishing hair.
“I don’t know, I just haven’t ever really dated.” I try to brush them off, looking for a sign that tells me that we’ve arrived at the A-List Fuck Club. Can you even make a sign that says the word ‘fuck’ on it?
I really feel out of my depth at the moment.
“What do you mean, haven’t really dated?” Colette presses. “Like haven’t really dated or haven’t dated at all?”
“I don’t know, I mean, I dated someone in high school. His name was Todd. He had braces and played Pokémon.”
“So, you’re telling us five years ago you dated an awkward boy with metal teeth?”
“He wasn’t awkward, it was me that was awkward. You know how it is, long legs and super skinny. It’s hard to ever feel like you’re in your own skin. I could never find pants that fit me, everything was too short or too big. It took me a long time before I felt... like myself?”
“Yeah, so,” Gretchen says slowly, “I can’t actually relate, I’ve always used my body as an asset. These legs literally got me where I am today.”
Colette agrees, with a slight variation. Her family always had money, so she had designer everything— meaning, she had clothes that actually fit. Apparently, my thrift store cast-offs weren’t exactly doing me any favors.
“Well, this is shocking,” Gretchen says as if she is literally shocked. “You are a supermodel for one of the oldest talent agencies in the country. You’re drop dead gorgeous, haven’t had a lick of plastic surgery, and I saw you eat a cheeseburger yesterday. An entire cheeseburger. You’re pretty much the epitome of everything the world hates. Perfect without trying.”
I throw my hands up in defeat. “Sorry, I don’t mean... Look, it’s not as if there are dozens of possible suitors in Resting.”
“Your first problem, darling,” Colette starts, “is using words like suitors. People say ‘hookup’ or ‘hottie’ or ‘let’s go to the boneyard.’”
“Nobody says ‘let’s go to the boneyard,’” Gretchen laughs. “But, honey, I think it’s time you started spreading your proverbial wings.”
“Not her wings,” Colette says, cracking up. “Spreading her thighs.”
“I know, I know,” I tell them. It’s not that I’m opposed to it, the opportunity has just never presented itself.”
“So, what you’re saying is,” Colette begins, “that if a ready and willing, not too perfect, but ruggedly handsome man—were to ask for your V-card you would give it?”
“First of all, I wouldn’t call it my V-card because this isn’t 1964, but if a man wanted to sleep with me—a man I was highly attracted to and who I wanted inside of my body—then yes, I’m not morally opposed to sex. It’s just... never happened.”
“Well, we’re all virgins tonight,” Gretchen says, pointing to a nondescript door. “Because tonight we’re all going to the Fuck Club for the first time in our lives.”
I shake my head, loving these girls, while simultaneously feeling like I should run away from them forever.
“To the Fuck Club,” I say, laughing. I throw my hand in front of me, and they press theirs down on top of mine. “On the count of three,” I say, grinning. “One, two, three—Fuck Club!”
As if we unknowingly shouted the magic word, the door opens, and the three of us enter, with absolutely no idea what is going to happen next.
3
The club’s packed and it’s nights like these I need to keep my focus on the crowds. Especially with all the bullshit of those fucking gangsters showing up here last week, standing outside the door and threatening our bouncers—demanding to speak with the owner.
The bouncers, though, don’t know who I really am. They don’t know my role here. In their mind I work the bar, that’s it. Jordan’s the manager, and everyone knows he’s accountable to an anonymous owner.
There are plenty of celebrities that wouldn’t want to be outed, who want a night to themselves—and if the thugs show, Jordan knows what to do-- call in back up. Our bouncers know their responsibility is to our guests, above all else.
As I scan the crowd, I see Sawyer and Sondra making their way through the club, but there’s no trouble in sight. Well, no trouble with the mob—there is always trouble brewing between those two.
I focus on making drinks, filling trays for the waitresses and keeping the bar clean. No one comes to the club to hang out with the bartender and that’s fine by me. I’ve got no interest in a high-profile relationship. In fact, I want the opposite. I want someone who’s above the bullshit, the fucking charades. I want a woman who knows how to have fun but doesn’t need to be in front of the camera to have it.
Which is fucking hard to find in this town. Every woman arrives in LA looking for a leg up—the guys too. All anyone wants is a connection to a bigger and better name. So, when a girl finds out that I pour shots for a living, I’m not exactly the guy they want to bring with them on the red carpet.
Not that I’d go on a red carpet anyway. Heading down a red carpet would be a walking trigger, so, for now, the only mention of a red carpet is making fun of Sawyer, my oldest friend, for being such a sellout—for strutting his stuff at some ridiculous award show owned by a studio.
Even now, at the club, he’s here with his arm candy Sondra—a woman pretty much assigned to him. I watch as he makes his way to the bar, no doubt wanting to talk to someone who doesn’t buy the bullshit he’s usually selling.
I’m guessing they’ve been fighting because Sondra’s arms are crossed and she turns away from him, headed for a table. Good. I have no interest in dealing with her bitchy attitude tonight. Sawyer greets me with a fist bump and a shake of his head.
“Did you see that?” Sawyer asks. “She literally pitched a fit because I refused to go to one of the rooms with her.”
“And, why won’t
you?” I fill three martini glasses for a waitress who is on stand-by. She takes them and Sawyer leans back to answer. “No one is in the two-way mirror room right now.”
“Because last time we went she just closed the fucking door and took a nap for ninety minutes. And look, I get this relationship is staged, but she could at least play nice.”
I laugh. “And playing nice means a BJ?”
“Hell, I’d reciprocate. It’s just been a long ass time.”
I frown. “You really don’t have anyone on the side?”
Sawyer shakes his head, reminding me why we’ve stayed thick as blood for so long. Even if he is a Hollywood puppet, he’s still a good guy, through and through.
“Naw,” he says. “Though I’d be lying if I haven’t considered it. I just don’t want any shit to blow up in our faces—the studio put so much money into this movie.”
“Maybe you should seduce her then. I mean, if she’s your girl for the next what, month? That’s a long ass time not to have any pussy.” I’m only half joking. The relationship is all coordinated by their agents, it’s a staged partnership centered around the recent blockbuster release.
“Fuck, right? Thought you would be the one who knows all about that. Hell, you haven’t had a woman in a real long time, bro.”
“Haven’t seen anyone worth my time.”
“Fair enough. But truly, I couldn’t sleep with Sondra. She’s everything wrong about this town. Fake, forced and tired.” Sawyer shakes his arms as if he has the heebie-jeebies.
I laugh. “Dude, she can’t be that bad. She’s gorgeous for starters, not my type—but she is beautiful,” I say. Sondra is a Hollywood beauty, black hair, dark eyes, an ass even the Kardashians would die for.
“Gorgeous sure, she was made for this city,” Sawyer says. “But the girl has no sense of humor. Talking to her is like talking to a robot,” Sawyer says, looking around.
“Maybe you should cut yourselves some slack, the two of you should have a real conversation about the relationship and then come here and have some fun, no strings attached.”
Sawyer smirks. “That’s the whole point of this place, isn’t it?”
Just then I see a group of women enter. I watch as Jordan introduces himself then leads them through the room toward a table. About that time, I see Danny Bruneau stand from the couch he’s been sitting on.
“Those must be the new girls he signed,” I say.
Sawyer’s eyes travel around the room and land on the trio of tall women I’ve already detected. Two are blonde and look like carbon copies of one another... and every other woman in this town. But the other woman is different. She’s looking around with wide eyes, not scanning the room for the people who are here like her friends. No, she’s taking in the club—and it’s clear she doesn’t like what she sees.
Not in a mean way... she just looks uncomfortable... but she’s also take-my-breath-away beautiful. Her long dark hair falls over her shoulders, her breasts are pushed up high in the skin-tight dress she wears. My cock twitches just thinking about taking her to one of the rooms upstairs.
I watch as Danny hands her a flute of champagne and she offers him a smile as she takes it. But without taking a single sip, she sets it on the table. She crosses her legs, and my eyes travel up the length of them. Her hands reach for her phone inside her clutch and I see her focus is on the screen. Strange.
No one focuses on the outside world when they are at the A-List. Anyone who is anyone is already here. And she needs to put the phone away, stat. They are strictly forbidden at the club.
“Good for Danny,” Sawyer says, whistling. “I thought he was out of the business.”
“He was. His wife got really sick last year,” I tell him, knowing the inside scoop on most of the guests here, courtesy of Jordan. “Cancer. But she’s better and looks like Danny’s back in the saddle.”
“Good for him,” Sawyer says, “And looks like he found a pay day with those women.”
I nod in agreement, watching as the brunette raises her phone to take a selfie. My eyes crease in concern. There are only a few rules at the club—and no photographs are the absolute number one rule.
I see Jordan walk over to the table and tell her to put her phone away. She looks so sweet when she answers, and I can’t tell if it is real or not. Deciding a woman who looks so delicious can only be sweet, I turn my attention back to Sawyer.
“So, why not have fun with one of them?” I say. “One night, no questions. Before this agreement with the studio kills you.”
“Sondra and I just have a few more weeks of things lined up and then we get to call it quits. Don’t worry about me, I’m done playing this game, man.”
I make Sawyer a Manhattan, not wanting to argue with my oldest friend.
Sawyer and I grew up together, he’s one of the only people who know my whole story. I also know his, and because of this, I know Sawyer isn’t going to stop being a puppet for the studio anytime soon. I’ve heard him talk big before.
Every time he gets some fancy offer, he can’t seem to refuse. I’m not judging him. All of our priorities are different. Sometimes we gotta do things even if we don’t want to do things. We all have our reasons. And Sawyer, he’s the son of an Oscar-winning actor and actress—just like me. He was born into a legacy and it’s not so easy walking away from that. So, I don’t judge him. But sometimes, like when I’m watching him right now, I do feel bad for him.
“So then, after Sondra—then what?”
“Maybe I’ll hold out for what you’re holding out for. Someone who wants me for something besides my status.”
“I hope you get that, man,” I tell him. I nod toward the models who walked in with Danny. “You never know, one of those girls right there might work.”
As I finish my sentence, Sondra sidles up to him, grabbing his elbow as if just remembering her job in this relationship is to be his arm candy. She scowls at me and for a second I think she may have overheard me, then I remember her resting bitch face.
“Sawyer, come on, I wanna get out of here.” She pouts—as if any man ever found that attractive.
“You want me to take you home?” he asks her, brow raised. “After you made such a thing out of coming here tonight?”
“Plans change,” Sondra says, not meeting his eye. Her lack of eye contact tells me everything I need to know. Sawyer may not be screwing around, but she certainly is. “I have a friend coming over.”
Sawyer deserves more than this. But he must realize that for himself. I just hope he figures it out before it’s too damn late.
“How about you just take a cab home and I’ll stay here?” Sawyer asks. Sawyer staying here, at the Fuck Club, by himself, might be the first step in the right direction.
“No way, my agent says if we come together, we leave together.” Sondra may be an immature brat, but she plays by the rules.
I’m not one to talk, considering I own the club that’s catering to everything I don’t want to be.
Still, I try to go easy on myself. It’s an industry, I know—hell, the only industry I know. And I like sex and nice drinks and discretion.
And I like feeling like I’m doing something good with my life, even if most people wouldn’t understand having a revamped warehouse with black velvet curtains and sofas everywhere, where half-dressed women dance in cages and plenty of rooms line the perimeter for acts that won’t be discussed.
Sawyer, realizing he has nowhere to go but home, throws back his drink, gives me a fist bump, and tells me he’s out.
“Have a good night, Sondra,” I tell her. She looks at me with annoyance. I’m not surprised. Sawyer told me how she hates that we’re friends, thinking he is way too good to be best friends with a bartender.
Exactly why girls like her make me sick. Everything she does or doesn’t do—every move she makes—is based on judgments and assumptions.
With her gone, I return my focus to the bar; to mix drinks and watch the club from a distance.
&
nbsp; A few hours pass and the later things get here, the more dangerous, desirous, and risky things become. A-Listers find themselves in dark corners, strangers now confidants and sex is no longer just a whisper on the dance floor. People leave the swanky dance party and find themselves uninhibited. Seduced by the allure of the privacy.
This is why I made this place. For this hour. Everything becomes heavy, quiet. People come here with a purpose, and in the late-night hours, wishes are fulfilled.
Which is why it’s so fucking surprising to see one of Danny’s girls, sliding on a stool at the bar—nearly falling off it before she’s even seated—asking for a cocktail menu we don’t have, with a voice on the verge of cracking, wearing the least pretentious half-smile I’ve ever seen.
“Is this place always so weird?” she asks, looking at me as if I can provide her with a real, honest-to-god answer.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” I tell her, hoping she doesn’t look away. My eyes aren’t leaving hers. On the surface, she may look like her agency sisters, but she’s not your typical supermodel.
No.
This woman may be in LA, but she isn’t in this city looking for a leg up. One look at her and it’s clear she’s already looking for an out.
4
This club is literally the largest leap I’ve ever taken from my comfort zone. The tiny strip club at the edge of town in Resting, IN is a sorrier excuse for entertainment than any of us back home realized.
The A-List lives up to its name. It is swanky, sexy, and more risqué than HBO television. The dancers here are gorgeous—and I know I just got signed as a model at the most exclusive agency in the country and by all accounts am gorgeous too—but there is a huge gap between these women and me. They know the power they hold over the people here. Me? I hardly know the power I hold over myself.
Getting “discovered” was one of the most surreal moments of my life. One second, I was loading a bale of hay in the back of my daddy’s truck at the feed store in town, and the next, I was offered a life that I never imagined.