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“You guys want to go to Midnight Elite?” I ask weakly.
No one says no, so we pay our bill and head out into the cold.
The club is in the Hell’s Kitchen, so we stack into two taxis, on account of Harper and Olivia’s heels. My boots are mostly flat, so I could have walked, but it’s cold, and I’m not wearing my warmest coat; I went for cute over practical, picking a red leather jacket.
When the taxi stops in front of the club, I immediately feel silly and underdressed. There’s a crowd amassed in front of two closed doors, with dozens of gorgeous model-worthy girls in short, sexy dresses, airbrushed to perfection. The guys are no less sophisticated. Their hair and clothes make them look like they’re starring in a TV show. And I’m wearing ripped tights and a witch’s hat.
Tara wasn’t kidding: there are paparazzi lining up—not in front of the crowd, but at another door, also blocked by a bouncer, but wide open. There’s no line at all. I notice a bar code above the door.
I gesture my friends to the open door, as they’d started to make their way to the crowd. Here goes nothing.
“Hey.” I smile weakly at the bouncer, who looks like he chews metal bars for breakfast and spits out thumbtacks. “I have an invite.”
He says nothing as I pull out my phone and show it to him.
His glower clears, and he grabs a device from his back pocket, scanning the barcode.
Then, to my utter horror, the herculean guard smiles. He looks pretty hot when he does. Which is disturbing, as he’s rather terrifying.
There’s something wrong with me.
“Ms. Reyes. A pleasure.” He takes a step back to let us in.
The entrance is a mindfuck.
Pitch black, other than dim diamond lights dotting the floor, it makes me feel disoriented as fuck, although I just came out of another club.
I walk slowly, hanging on to a hand—Harper’s, I think.
I don’t know how far we’ve walked in terrified silence when a deep voice booms, “Welcome to the Elite.”
Automatic doors swerve open in front of us, and I enter another world.
There are girls swaying on a hoop impossibly high in the ceiling. They’re wearing almost nothing that I can see—maybe just diamond stickers. Although it could be a cleverly designed costume—I can’t tell from here. A couple of women dance up and down aerial silks, sensual and dangerous.
The music blasting is a deep beat I immediately want to dance to. Most of the crowd is in agreement: they’re dancing on the floor. I notice the DJ at the back—and my jaw drops.
“Is that Markus!” Spencer screeches.
I can only nod in wonder. He’s the most famous DJ in the city. I attended one of his raves about two years ago, and I’m pretty sure that’swhyI love partying, and dancing. His music makes me feel free.
The servers are recognizable by the fact that they hold silver trays, and that they’re various degrees of naked.
They’re closer than the athlete on the ceiling, so I can tell they are wearing clothes. Just not much of it. All employees, male and female, are in flesh-colored mesh with cleverly placed patches of silver, for the Caucasian servers, or gold, for the darker-skinned people.
It’s on the border between hot and vulgar, tilting more towards the latter.
The booths against the walls are made of soft leather with metallic studs and polished steel coffee tables, but only few are occupied—almost everyone’s dancing.
The bar occupies the center of the cavernous room, and right behind it, I see a grand staircase designed like it belongs in an opera, but made of brushed silver. It leads up to a second floor, though I wouldn’t have guessed there was one, the ceiling is so high.
My friends hurry to the bar and I follow, gawking as I look everywhere.
I recognize faces. Not from school, but from billboards, fashion magazines, and TV shows.
Holy fuck!
“You like?”
