When we step out of the cab, it’s instant pandemonium. At least half a dozen paparazzi are between us and the entrance of the club. Neither Vera nor I are recognized, but they snap pictures anyway on the off chance of scoring a sale. I cross my fingers that none of them end up within a mile of the internet or trashy magazines. My brothers would have conniption fits seeing me in this dress.

At the door, a mountainous bouncer asks for our names.

“Candace Hughes, plus one,” I tell him. He begins scanning down tonight’s guest list, so I add, “Check the back page.”

He glances up curiously, then flips to the other list—the one with names of people who could show up in a garbage bag and probably still get in. After a moment, a pen taps the clipboard decisively and he lifts the velvet rope.

“Go on in, ladies,” he says cheerily.

“I could seriously get used to that,” Vera says breathily.

“Not gonna lie, it’s—” I don’t bother finishing, as we’ve stepped through the inner doors and been assaulted with bone-grinding techno beats.

Vera squeals and squeezes my arm. Or, I think she squeals. I can’t hear anything besides my eardrums dying. Ahead of us is a huge pit of writhing bodies, elevated from darker wings with bars and seating.

“Bar!” I yell, pointing.

“Dance!” she yells back, pointing toward the pit.

Neither of us are surprised. We yell at the same time, “Have fun!” Then we laugh and walk in opposite directions. Co-dependent we are not.

I make it to a bar mostly unscathed and find a space to lean. There are no less than six bartenders behind the modern, chrome counter. One of them swiftly approaches.

“What’ll ya have?” he yells.

“Whiskey sour!”

It’s in front of me within thirty seconds. Impressed, I give him a wide smile. He winks. “Tab?”

I shake my head and slide him a twenty. “No change.”

He blows me a kiss and disappears.

I take a few sips of my cocktail, which I realize now probably wasn’t a good choice. I should be drinking something frilly with a low alcohol content. I’m already tingly from the earlier shots. Or it could be from the bass rattling every hair on my body.

After a few minutes of people-watching at the bar, I wander toward the dance party in the middle of the club. From the outskirts, it looks like a giant orgy. I scan the writhing masses for Vera, my gaze passing over a plethora of familiar faces.

Hollywood’s young, famous, rich, and drunk.

I finally spot Vera, mainly because she’s jumping up and down with her arms in the air. She’s at the very front, right beneath the DJ. The girl has a serious love of electronic music. Even I can appreciate the talent of the DJ, who’s no doubt famous in his own right. Almost without conscious effort, my hips twitch to the beat.

“Can I buy you a drink?” shouts a voice near my ear. I don’t bother turning. Shaking my head, I hold up my cocktail and point at it. “Refill, then?”

Sigh. I turn to shut him down but suddenly freeze, my gaze caught by a man on the dance floor. He’s about fifteen feet away, his back to me. The wheeling and flashing lights make it impossible to determine the color of his hair; the crowd is too dense to see much of his body. Regardless, a weird wiggle of recognition settles in my gut. It isn’t a good feeling.

My breath flutters out in sudden panic as he turns. He can’t see me—I’m standing against a wall concealed by shadows. My scalp prickles. My eyes ache from staring unblinking through the frenetic light show. But I can’t blink. Can barely breathe. He’s with a woman. Jessica, the blonde from the museum.

“What are you and Vera doing tonight, darling?”

“Secret girl stuff. What about you?”

“Poker with the guys, probably. Something low key.”

I didn’t tell him we were coming here because he’s been wanting to check the place out for weeks and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

I should have told him.

Why the fuck do I feel guilty?

Nausea touches the back of my throat. I had him there this morning. Now his tongue is in the back of Jessica’s.

Still watching them, the oddest childhood memory arises. Lying on my side in a field of grass on a beautiful summer’s day, my attention riveted by the ant making its way down my pale arm. I’d fiercely wanted to brush it off; the little jerking legs and antenna freaked me out. But I couldn’t—I was too sickly fascinated by his efforts to find the ground.

Right now, I feel the same morbid curiosity. I can’t see what their bodies are doing, but from the way Robert is kissing her, I’m confident Jessica is rubbing against something hard.

“I need some air,” I say to absolutely no one.

I set my empty drink down on the nearest table, ignoring annoyed glances from its occupants. Spying an Exit sign, I move toward it. Slowly. One foot in front of the other, until I emerge on a crowded, smoke-clouded patio. I don’t smoke, but a cigarette sounds fantastic right now.

Halfway across the patio, I see Sebastian.

Naturally.

He’s relaxed and laughing, sitting with a mixed group—actors, models, and musicians. His hair is shorter, almost buzzed. For an upcoming role? No leather and jeans tonight. He’s dressed in black from head to toe. Clean-shaven. He looks like a harder, more dangerous version of himself.

I don’t realize I’m staring until his gaze finds mine. His smile changes. The mask. I am dismissed. Of no interest to him. As I watch, he draws a leggy model into his lap. She giggles, melting into him with her arms around his neck.

I’m disgusted. Fascinated. Is it a full moon? I’m caught in a whirlpool, while everything I thought I knew floats further and further away.

Sebastian’s date squirms in his lap as he nips along her bare shoulder and neck. When I feel phantom pulses on my own skin, I finally snap out of it. Shuddering, I look skyward.

Yep, there she is. Full fucking moon.

I approach the bar, maneuvering between groups to reach the counter. After six failed attempts to gain the attention of a bartender, the man beside me comes to my rescue, lifting his drink and shouting, “Over here!” A woman scurries our way and I quickly order.

“Thanks,” I say, glancing briefly at him.

He nods, smiling slightly. “You’re too short. Where’s your wingman?”

“Dancing. Where’s yours?”

His eyes narrow appraisingly; a teasing smile tilts his lips. “Are you hitting on me?”

I shrug. “Maybe. I’m bored.”

He laughs. It’s a nice sound, genuine and unoffended. He’s good-looking in a hipster way, slender and tattooed. A little rough around the edges. Vintage t-shirt, jeans, and messy light brown hair. I can’t tell what color his eyes are—blue or green.

My drink arrives, and I take a long swallow.

“What do you do?” he asks.

“This and that,” I reply. “You?”

His smile widens. “Screenwriter.”

“Ah.”

He chuckles. “There’s a lot of opinion in that little word.”

I shrug again. “Can’t throw a rock in L.A…”

“…without hitting someone in the industry,” he finishes with a grin. “You’re really not going to tell me what you do?”

“Nope.”

He shifts until we’re face to face. “Can I guess?”

“Fire away,” I say, smirking.

“Voiceovers.”

I snort. “What the hell?”

“You’ve got a great voice. Silk and smoke.”

I laugh. “I bet that line works on all the girls, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never said it before. Did it work on you?”

There’s attraction in his eyes, and I briefly wonder why it isn’t affecting me. I look at my drink, which is empty again.

I’m suddenly tired.

“Candace!” Vera’s screech from right behind me almost causes me to throw my glass.

I spin. “Jesus, woman! My heart just exploded!”

My neighbor laughs, eyeing six feet of sweaty, sexy Vera. “This your wingman?”

Vera ignores him, and I finally realize her eyes are burning with anger. “What?” I ask quickly. “What’s wrong?”

“You need to come with me, right now,” she snaps, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the bar. I wave goodbye to my mildly disappointed screenwriter.

Vera drags me halfway to the door leading into the club before I dig in my heels. She turns fast, gripping my shoulders. “Sweets, you’ve got to see something. I’m sorry, but you have to come inside.”

I lift a hand. “I already saw it, Vera. Robert and the blonde. It’s all good.”

Her flushed face pales a little. “You saw them? Oh God. Are you okay? What can I do?”

“Nothing. Do you want to hang here with me for a bit, or are you going back inside?”

Her eyes track over my face, searching for emotion. There isn’t any to see. I’m a pool of still, clear water. Moonlit numbness. The storm rages somewhere beyond this quiet space, but for now, I’m insulated.

“I’ll stay with you,” she says firmly. Taking my hand, she glances around the crowded patio. “It’s a madhouse out here. Oh, I know those girls. There’s a few empty seats. Do you mind if we join them?”

“Whatever.”

She guides me across the patio. By the time I recognize the group, it’s too late to back away. Introductions are made. Air kisses and insincere compliments. We squeeze onto a chaise.

Sebastian and his date, at least, are nowhere to be seen.

There’s bottle service. Vera hands me a glass of amber liquid, which I throw back. Ah, more whiskey. After tonight, I seriously doubt I’ll drink the stuff again.

My ingrained social training allows me to chat, laugh, and pretend I’m interested in meaningless conversations.

When the group goes strangely quiet, it takes me a few seconds to catch up. I look curiously for the source of everyone’s attention.

Sebastian.