The Bangover

by Valente, Lili

  “Hopefully I won’t be long.” I cover her hand with mine, keeping her fingers on my arm as I cut right out of the elevator instead of left, where a line of people snakes away from the club entrance all the way down the hall toward the shops and restaurants on this floor. “This way. No time for the line tonight.”

  “So you’re going to be the obnoxious rock star who uses his famous face to bypass the queue?”

  “I am. Can you forgive me?”

  “Yes, I can,” she says. “The only thing worse than a long line is a long line in heels. And there ought to be some perks to your crazy life, to go along with the stalking fans, crazy touring schedule, and pervasive lack of privacy.”

  I make a sound of agreement and lift an arm to high five Jorge, one of the bouncers I’ve met before. We exchange a few pleasantries as he opens the rope, angling his large body to shield Kirby and me from the curious stares of the people at the front of the line, who are already starting to murmur my name. But I’m too busy wondering if my fans, touring schedule, and lack of privacy are going to be a deal breaker to pay much attention to the talk.

  Kirby likes her privacy. A lot. She’s a happy little hermit 90 percent of the time, and she’s always done her best to fade into the woodwork when we’re out after a show and someone comes over to ask me for a selfie.

  Unlike Regina, who squeezed into every shot, as in love with the way I boosted her social media reach as anything else I had to offer. But her love of attention has given me a good idea where to find her, proving almost every trying thing in life has a silver lining.

  I lean close to Kirby’s ear, raising my voice to be heard over the music pulsing from the dance floor. “I’m betting Regina is in the champagne suite upstairs. As far as she’s concerned, the more exclusive, the better. So I’m going to try there first. Where do you want to wait?” I motion to the massive twin bars to our left and then to the balcony bar on the second floor that overlooks the writhing, jumping, twisting bodies below. “Big bars or balcony bar?”

  Kirby points to her left. “I’ll wait at the big one closest to the wall. More likely to have coffee and tea, I think.” She glances down at her phone, which she’s pulled from her tiny handbag. “And I’m getting good Wi-Fi, so I can check email and do some research on haunted Pennsylvania while I’m at it. I’m thinking of setting a series there.”

  “Perfect. I’ll be back soon.” I kiss her forehead. “Don’t work too hard.”

  “Good luck,” she says, lifting her crossed fingers as I head in one direction and she in another.

  I duck my head, concealing my face as I thread my way through the crowd at the edge of the dance floor, heading for the not-so-secret secret entrance hidden in one of the cigarette machines on the other side of the club. The vintage dispensers are part of Elevation’s theme. Everything here is “elevated” to serve a function finer than the one for which it was originally intended.

  The couches in the champagne suite are made out of antique bathtubs, the glittering dance floor is composed of thousands of bottles of various colors, crushed and covered in lightly bouncy plastic, and the old soda and cigarette machines along the wall deal out art from local artists for five bucks a pop.

  Except the one in the corner, the one with another massive bouncer stationed in front of it to keep non-VIPs from tugging handles they shouldn’t. That machine leads to the champagne suite, a glass-walled room with a view of the entire club and a third, catwalk-style dance floor that’s a popular selfie attraction.

  As I approach the bouncer, I lift my head and make meaningful eye contact, but the guy doesn’t blink. His brown eyes remain flat, and his meaty arms stay crossed at his chest.

  Looks like the famous face isn’t going to get me far with this dude.

  Luckily, I know the password.

  “I’m here for the old-fashioned,” I say, but when I reach for the golden handle in the center of the machine, the bouncer holds out a hand.

  “Sorry, we’re full up.” He points a finger overhead, where the glass wall of the champagne suite juts out into the room just enough to catch a glimpse of the bartenders’ shoes as they rush from one side of the bar to the other. “You’ll have to wait for someone to leave.”

  I nod, even though I fully intend on getting up there—now. But nodding always makes people feel better about letting you break the rules. “I’ll only be a second, man. I just need to talk to someone who’s up there. I’ll be in and out in five minutes.”

  “Fire code.” He shifts to the left, blocking access to the handle that serves as the open sesame button for the door to the hidden staircase behind it. “We could get shut down if we’re caught with more than fifty people in the suite.”

  “But you won’t get caught,” I say with a reassuring smile. “Because I’m going to be so fast no one will even know I was there. Seriously, what are the chances the fire marshal is going to show up at this time of night? And even if he does, he’ll need more than five minutes to get through the club, and by then I’ll be gone.”

  “I’ll comp you a drink,” he says, not budging. “That’s the best I can do.”

  “I don’t need a drink.” I pause, deciding to bring out the big guns. “I need to talk to my ex. She just posted a picture of herself getting wasted on her InstaChat page not two hours after telling me she was pregnant with our baby.”

  A spark of interest flickers behind the mountainous man’s dark eyes. “Dude, that’s fucked up.”

  “Right? Hopefully she’s lying about being pregnant. But if she’s not, my baby’s brain could be getting pickled as we speak. And that cuts deep. If my kid ends up damaged for life because the club was too full the night I came to stage an intervention with his mom…” I sigh, giving that a moment to sink in. “I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself.”

  The bouncer’s chin puckers, and his mouth scrunches up like he’s taken a bite of something he’s not sure he wants to chew, but I can tell he’s wavering.

  “I swear I will crawl under the bar and hide if the fire marshal shows up. He or she will never know I’m in there.” I lift a fist, hoping he won’t leave me hanging for the bump. “Do a guy a solid just this once?”

  His gaze darts toward the front of the club and then over to the DJ booth before returning to me. “I’ll let you up, but you’ll have to be quick. There’s a guy keeping count up there, too. Once he realizes we’re over capacity, the last person to sign in up top will be out.” He reaches for the handle, tugging it and sending the hidden door sliding open, revealing a gas-lamp lit staircase.

  “Thank you, man.” I slip inside, throwing my next words over my shoulder as I climb, “I’ll be quick and stealthy, I promise.”

  I jog up the circular stairs, arriving at the top slightly out of breath, but the girl in an old-school flapper dress at the sign-in desk is too dazzled to notice. “Oh my God, hi,” she says, laughing as she waves a hand in front of her face. “I’m sorry. I just love your music. I couldn’t live without Better Day.”

  “Thanks so much, catch you on the way out,” I say, signing my name in the ledger and ducking through the curtain behind her before she can ask for a selfie.

  I’m sure she’s not supposed to ask patrons for pics, but most people today don’t give a shit about the rules. They will totally put their job on the line for a juicy, status-elevating social media update. It drives me crazy, honestly. And makes me wish I’d been born fifty years earlier, back when modern medicine was still doing decent work, but before technology got so fucking annoying.

  There are days when contributing to Lips on Fire’s online presence is like selling my soul for the kind of love that gets lonelier with every click.

  I pull my phone out, making a quick note of the thought as I prowl the edge of the intimate room, searching for Regina’s fluffy blond locks, notes and rhythm already humming to life in my head and itching to find their way out of my fingertips.

  The past day has been magic, inspiration-wise, making
it clear I didn’t need a sex break to connect with my muse. What I needed was to get my ass on the right path with the right person.

  “Can I get you a drink, sir?” The cocktail waitress sporting two long black braids looks familiar. Hopefully, she’s worked here long enough to know the regulars.

  “No drink, thanks, but I’m looking for Regina Williams.” I hold up a hand beneath my nose. “About this tall in heels, blond, tan, smile so white it’s blinding?”

  The girl bites her lip and shakes her head. “That’s a lot of women around here.”

  “She only drinks clear alcohol so her teeth don’t get stained? Gets upset if her dirty martini is too dirty, even though olive juice doesn’t have a color, and will send it back at least twice, no matter what?”

  The server’s eyes light up. “Oh yeah. I remember her. She was in tonight.”

  “Was,” I repeat, spirits sinking. “So I missed her?”

  “You did,” the woman says, “but not by much. She just left. Maybe ten minutes ago? I remember because she made Joan let her use the back elevator, even though it’s supposed to only be for handicapped guests.” Her brows lift as she adds in a more pointed voice, “She said she needed to avoid someone coming in the front. A guy with a history of abuse, she said.”

  My head rears back as I blink like someone threw acid in my face. “What the hell? I…” My mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. “I don’t even know what to say to that. Except that it’s bullshit, and I’m sorry she involved your staff in her drama. She texted me a positive pregnancy test earlier tonight and then decided to go clubbing instead of talking things over like reasonable adults. That’s why I’m trying to find her.”

  The girl nods and some of the wariness fades from her eyes. “Yeah, I remember you from before. You never acted like a douchebag when you were with her. And I’ve seen some stuff go down here that you wouldn’t believe. People can be awful when they’re drunk and feeling fancy for getting to play in the secret room.”

  “I bet,” I say, brow furrowing in commiseration. “So I don’t suppose you have any idea where she went?”

  “Sorry, no.” The server jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “But I can let you go down the elevator. Maybe someone downstairs will have seen her. The projector games are there, so sometimes people stick around for a while.”

  “Thank you so much.” I press my palms together in gratitude and follow her around the back of the raised dance floor, where several women in skirts even shorter than Kirby’s are flashing sparkly panties not nearly as cute as hers. Then we go down a hall with bathroom doors on one side and soundproof chat rooms with phone charging stations on the other, finally reaching a door marked “Staff Only.”

  I follow her through, glancing around at the gray and light brown color scheme that takes effect the instant we’re out of the public eye.

  “I know, right?” The girl grins as she punches the down button near the oversize gray elevator doors. “If they really wanted to ‘elevate’ the club, they’d give us something to look at back here aside from beige lockers and instructions on how to give the Heimlich maneuver. You should buy this place and take it up another notch. I have ideas, and the owner’s looking for a buyer before the cool factor wears off.”

  I cock my head. “Own a club. I’ve never thought about anything like that.”

  “You should,” she says, jabbing the button again. “Entertainers with pull are making insane money in Vegas. You guys could play here a couple of months a year and then pop in for unannounced guest appearances whenever. People would be lining up even harder than they are now.”

  The doors trundle open with a thunking sound, and I step inside, holding an arm in front of the sensor as I extend the other to my guide, a twenty between two fingers. “Colin Donovan.”

  “Yeah, no duh.” The girl rolls her eyes good-naturedly and takes the bill. “Theresa Chin. I’ve been here longer than anyone but Bill, the marketing guy, including the general manager. If you want to chat more, give a call and leave your number. I work most nights.”

  “Maybe I will. Thanks, Theresa Chin.” I pull my arm away from the sensor.

  Theresa waves as the doors slide closed. “Good luck.”

  I pace the elevator, pondering Theresa’s suggestion. A club of my own would be a great place for the band to try out new music, give us a feel for what’s resonating with our fans before we head into the studio. And if I am going to be a father, being close to Regina, who’s lived in Vegas all her life, for at least part of the year would probably be a good idea.

  The thought sours my excitement, but only a little. No, I don’t want to have a baby with Regina. But if there’s already one on the way, I’m going to do everything I can to be a positive force in his or her life, and that includes being physically present as often as possible.

  I exit the elevator and do a quick scan of the people waiting their turn to play a space-themed virtual reality game projected on the wall to my right. The current players are wearing headgear that completely covers their eyes and ears, so they won’t be any help, but maybe one of the people near the front of the line…

  I approach two curly-haired kids who look way too young to be in a twenty-one and older club, and I tap the boy gently on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” I say when he turns. “Have you seen a tall, blond woman with big hair wearing a very short gold skirt walk by? And if so, could you tell me where she went?”

  “I saw her,” the girl says, pointing up and over the dance floor. “She was walking really fast that way. Toward the exit, I think.”

  Cursing inwardly, I thank the girl and jog off in the direction she pointed, taking a hard look at every blond I pass, but none of them are Regina. I reach the exit and hesitate, torn between telling Kirby I’m heading out to search the casino and not wanting to give Regina any more time to get away from me. Finally, I split the difference, calling Kirby on my cell as I hurry past the bouncers and over to the balcony to scan the casino floor below.

  The phone rings several times before sending me to voicemail, but I don’t worry. It’s loud as hell in there, and there’s an excellent chance Larry can’t hear her phone.

  I make a mental note to try again in a few minutes and jog down the hallway, searching the various shops and bars, ignoring the nagging feeling in my gut that something’s not right. Not right at all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kirby

  I’m halfway through the unanswered messages in my inbox—and a quarter finished with a cup of the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted—when the bartender sets a fizzy red drink garnished with a plump strawberry on the bar in front of me.

  “Your friend bought you a drink,” he says, his eyes crinkling as he flashes a mouthful of even teeth. “Thank goodness. I was about to buy you one myself. To apologize for the coffee. I think that bag of French Roast is older than you are.”

  I set my phone down on the bar beside me with a smile. “It’s fine.” I glance around the bartender, but there’s no sign of Colin. Maybe he called the drink in from the champagne suite?

  “No, it’s not fine.” He braces his hands on the bar, the better to display his flexed forearms. “I feel terrible. I didn’t know it was shit brew until my coworker poured himself a cup and spit it out in the sink. I’m a tea guy. Love a good Lapsang souchong or anything rich and smoky.” He pushes the bubbly red concoction closer to my hand with a flirty wink. “But this is almost as good. House-made strawberry lemonade, squeezed fresh every morning.”

  “That sounds great. Thank you.” I grip the glass lightly in one hand while I push the coffee his way with the other. “There’s no alcohol in this, right?”

  He lifts a hand, his flirty vibe vanishing. “Yeah, there is, actually. A shot of lemon vodka, and a touch of peach liqueur. But if you’re sober, I can make it virgin. It’s no problem.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not sober.” I shake my head with a wince. “I mean, I am presently sober, but I’m not in a program.” I shrug. �
�I was just trying to take it easy tonight. But a shot of vodka isn’t a big deal. You don’t have to remake it.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks as he dumps the coffee in the sink behind the bar. “It’s no trouble. Things are slow. After two o’clock or so, the team on the dance floor side gets all the action.”

  My eyes widen as I take my first sip of lemonade, tongue tingling as the tart liquid prickles down my throat. “Wow, I didn’t realize it was that late. I don’t feel two-in-the-morning tired.”

  He points toward the ceiling. “That’s because the casino is pumping pure oxygen into the joint to keep people awake and gambling.”

  “Is that right?” I take another sip, catching a sliver of sickly sweetness this time, a not-quite-right flavor that makes me think this guy was hired more for his impressive forearms than for his skill with slinging a drink.

  “It is. At least, they say it’s just oxygen.” He leans closer, adding in a confidential tone, “But I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they’ve slipped something else in the mix, something to keep people amped up and reckless. My roommate thinks it’s just the desert air that makes people crazy around here, but I’m not sure. There are more things in heaven and earth, right?”

  “Shakespeare,” I say, smiling. “You’re the second man to quote Shakespeare to me tonight.”

  His eyes narrow as his lips curve. “Bummer. I like to be first. Hopefully, I’m better looking, at least.”

  I bare my teeth and turn my palms to the ceiling in a “Sorry Charlie” way that makes Forearms laugh. But then, if Colin ordered this drink for me, Forearms should have seen with his own eyes that he’s up against some pretty intense competition. Colin must have called it in from somewhere else, which makes me wonder how much longer he’s going to be.

  If he anticipated a quick return, surely he wouldn’t have ordered me a drink.

  “Oh, well, can’t win ’em all,” the bartender says with another wink. “Enjoy your drink, and let me know if I can get you anything else.”