Suddenly, every head at the VIP table whipped in her direction. Juliet went dry-mouthed. So many perfectly smoked eyes studied her like she was a freak ranting on the side of a freeway. Which she supposed she was. She pushed past her humiliation and yelled, “I need your help, if you could—”
“All right, ma’am,” growled the bouncer, blocking her with his giant frame. “I need you to back up. This isn’t the way to get your fifteen minutes.”
Juliet ducked to the side. The women had already turned back to one another, dismissing her. “Scout!”
“Seriously?” The bouncer lifted his arms. “You going to make me do this? They’ll put you on social media, you know. Everyone will call you a desperate psycho.”
But Juliet was desperate. Desperate for a break, desperate for money, desperate for someone toseeher, for some small piece of luck to go her way. And she was so goddamn tired of it. She’d had no idea when she started in fashion that it was a life full of degradation, envy, mental breakdowns. She had no dignity left, nothing to lose, so shetried one last move, bending under the bouncer’s outstretched arms and yelling for Scout.
And by some holy miracle, she locked eyes with the woman herself, the only person at the VIP table still paying attention to her. “Help,” Juliet mouthed, and then the bouncer seized her by the shoulders and lifted her away.
“Hold on.” The unmistakable voice cut across the rope. “Let her in.”
Juliet’s hands trembledas she squeezed into a chair between Cybele the model and the dark-haired businesswoman. Every eye at the table was back on her, and the scrutiny was even more unnerving up close. Juliet was a model, so she rubbed elbows with pretty people all the time, but it was different facing a gauntlet of ten poreless, perfectly symmetrical genetic anomalies. This was a table of dolled-up, alien beauties, a United Colors of Benetton ad set at a nightclub, all of them waiting to see what the crazy girl would do next.
“I’m Juliet,” she said breathlessly, hating how nervous she sounded. “I promise I’m not a psycho.”
“Definitely something a psycho would say,” Cybele muttered.
“I’m Isabel,” said the dark-haired woman. Her eyes were so kind that Juliet’s shoulders relaxed. “Scout’s personal assistant.” She raised a brow at Scout, as if to say,You invited her, now what?
Scout leaned over the glossy table. “You said you needed help.” She had a mesmerizingly deep speaking voice, a contrast from her high, breathy singing voice. Her black-rimmed eyes narrowed as she raked them over Juliet’s stringy, air-dried hair—her blow-dryer had recently broken—and her sad attempt at club wear, a black jersey dress from the clearance rack. It wasn’t an unfriendly look—only intensely dialed-in, as if Scout were steeling herself for whatever Juliet might say next.
Juliet balled her trembling hands into fists under the table. “One day, at one of my photoshoots, I heard some girls whispering about you. They said that if a girl had a problem… they could come to you for help.”
Silence fell around the table. Juliet’s stomach plummeted. She’dgotten it wrong. She’d been so desperate she’d latched on to a stupid piece of gossip, and now she’d made a fool of herself in front of actual celebrities—
“I warned you.” Cybele leaned back in her chair and draped an arm over the back of Miranda’s. Her slight French accent gave her words a rich, rounded cadence as she pointed a claw-tipped finger at Scout. “People are talking. You need to cool it for a while.”
“I’m sorry if I said something wrong—” Juliet began, but Scout cut her off with a clipped “Not now.”
“Hiiiii, ladies,” sang a bubbly voice. The bottle service girl, a cute blond in black hot pants and a shimmery green top, bounced up to the table, holding two big bottles of champagne topped with fizzing sparklers. “Compliments of the—”
She froze mid-sentence, eyes widening at the sight of Scout. For a second, the woman stood speechless as the sparklers popped and crackled on either side of her face. Then she choked out: “How?”
The girls at the table burst into giggles. Juliet forced a nervous laugh, unsure what was happening.
“Oh my gosh, babes, don’t worry. Freaking out over her is a compliment.” Miranda Preston had the poshest British accent Juliet had ever heard. She turned to Scout. “I think this is your first superfan.”
“She could be reacting to me,” Cybele said, pouting.
“We can take a selfie with you later if you want,” offered one of the girls.
But the bottle girl quickly schooled the shock from her face and replaced it with a bright, toothy grin. “How embarrassing. My name’s Grey, and I’d love to pour you some champagne. Dom, vintage 2013, compliments of the house.”
In Juliet’s experience, smiles that bright were usually fake. She squinted at the waitress as she started pouring champagne around the table. Isabel covered her glass. “None for me, thanks.”
“You don’t drink?” Juliet was surprised. The paparazzi pictures of Scout’s hot girl entourage always made it look like everyone was having such big, boozy fun. They certainly had a reputation for frequenting the Serpent, which was how Juliet had known where to look for them. It had been hard to square that party girl image with the things she’d heard about them from the whisper network.
Isabel looked down at her hands. “The last time I drank, something bad happened to someone I loved. I don’t let myself lose control anymore.”
“What she means is she doesn’t let herself have any fun,” Cybele drawled. “Izzy’s our single, celibate, sinless backseat driver. All work and no play.”
“Can you blame her for the celibacy, at least?” Miranda reapplied her Charlotte Tilbury lipstick by instinct, no need for a mirror. “There’s no ethical consumption under capitalism and no ethical way to date a straight man under the patriarchy.”
A smile curved Isabel’s mouth. “Luckily, you two don’t have that problem.”
Cybele threw her napkin, but Isabel ignored it—and as the bottle girl moved around the table, she slipped her hand over Juliet’s glass. “No champagne for her, either. Sorry,” Isabel said to Juliet. “We can’t get caught breaking the law.”
