She snorted, “Sounds good.”
The car pulled up out front of a brightly club in the heart of Soho. There was a queue of people wrapped around the block. Holding Morgan’s hand tightly in mine I headed towards the bouncer at the front door.
The thing I liked about London is here I was just another guy. No one important. Sure, I liked the things my newfound celebrity afforded me, but I also missed the days where I wasn’t recognized every time I opened my door. In Chester I had lost the ability to go to the grocery store or the chippy without having people hound me for autographs.
In London I wasn’t as recognizable. My star may be rising, but I was by no means a household name. Most of these people wouldn’t have been able to pick me out of a lineup.
But here, at this club, it was different.
“Oh my god, it’s Lucas Bradley!” I heard several people squeal as we made our way to the front of the queue. I should have known that the club Alan recommended would be a notorious footballer hang out, thus my anonymity would be non-existent.
Morgan clung to my arm, looking around with slightly widened eyes. “It’s so busy,” she breathed. “We’ll be waiting forever to get in.”
“Stick with me kid,” I whispered in her ear, affecting my worst American accent.
She made a face. “That was just offensive. Americans don’t sound like that.”
I kissed the tip of her nose. “Come on, I thought I sounded pretty authentic.”
“Not in the slightest,” she laughed.
The bouncer was a big, burly guy with tattoos up both sides of his neck. He wore a stern expression as he let scantily clad women inside and turned the men away. I felt a brief moment of hesitation. I wondered whether my name would matter here. I was pretty sure I saw a few celebrities making their way inside. This was obviously the place to be.
But then the bouncer saw me and the severe looking man actually smiled.
“Lucas Bradley!” He reached out and shook my hand, his meaty hand dwarfing mine.
“Looks busy tonight. Too busy for us?” I asked, glancing down at Morgan who seemed to have shrunk in on herself slightly. I gave her hand a squeeze.
The bouncer unclipped the red velvet rope at the door. “Never to busy for you, Mr. Bradley. Go on in.”
I started to pull out my wallet. “I’ve never been here before, so I’m not sure about the cover—”
The bouncer held out his hand, stopping me. “You don’t pay. You just go inside and enjoy yourself.”
I tucked my wallet back in my jeans. “Thanks, mate. I appreciate it.” I led Morgan inside the darkly lit club.
“This place is…uh…interesting,” Morgan commented, looking around.
The club was decked out in leopard print wallpaper and bright purple booths. The lighting was typical club lighting, meaning you couldn’t see three feet in front of you. The music was at an ear bleeding volume and we had to shout to hear each other over the din.
A woman dressed in a tight fitting purple dress greeted us as we entered. “Welcome to Splash Mr. Bradley.”
“Does everyone know who you are?” Morgan asked, seeming amused.
“I’ll take you to the VIP room. Drinks are on the house and if you need anything, Sherry will take care of you.”
“Drinks are on the house? We don’t have to pay for them?” Morgan asked incredulously.
The hostess gave her a strange look. “Of course not. Mr. Bradley brings a certain level of visibility to our club, complimentary drinks and food is our way of saying thank you.”
“Jesus, I think I like hanging out with you.” Morgan nudged me in the side.
The hostess led us to the VIP room, which included a balcony that looked out over the dance floor. The place was heaving. I recognized several footballers, including two from Barnet.
“Wait a minute, is that Woody Harrelson over there?” Morgan asked, pinching my arm.
I peered into the darkened room and shrugged. “I can’t be sure, but it looks like it.”
