Page 15 of Wicked Angel
Angeline
“How beyond fucking cool would it be if I landed a role in a Players video?” Shayla linked her arm with mine as we wandered up the sidewalk. It was just past nine and downtown Vancouver was starting to light up around us as the sun went down. She smoothed her long, straight strawberry-blond hair, exaggerating the roll of her hips in her short skirt as she eyed a passing convertible with the top down and a bunch of guys in it.
After I’d watched her dance audition this afternoon, where she’d wowed absolutely everyone including the members of the Players, their management team and everyone else in the dance studio—by pole dancing in a pig costume, of all things, then stripping out of it—the two of us had met up with our girls Courteney and Larissa for dinner in the West End. We’d laughed until we cried as I played Court and Larissa a video I made of Shayla doing her pig routine to a Toadies song, “I Want Your Love.”
It was seriously one of the best things I’d ever seen in my life.
Shayla performed with such confidence and wit,in a pig costume, and still somehow managed to bring it home with a super hot ending, stripping down to a sparkly bikini. She was an amazing dancer. Plus, the whole routine was choreographed by her, right down to the costume and song choice, she’d totally nailed it, made it unique and memorable, and I’d be shocked if she didn’t get a role in the video.
Dinner had turned into drinks, and now the four of us had walked all the way across downtown amid Friday night traffic, heading over to Champagne nightclub.
“Beyond fucking cool,” I agreed. Shayla was still flying high off the adrenaline from her audition. The Players were one of the largest bands to break out of Vancouver in recent years; second only to my sister’s band, Dirty. I knew how important this day was to Shay, and I didn’t have it in me to put a damper on it by telling her that her brother’s behavior at the fundraiser last night—where I thought Johnny and I were talking business, but apparently he was just being a fucking asshole—had cost me my job.
I mean, he wasn’t the whole reason Danielle dismissed me. But he was a giant part.
“Maybe I can get a role, too,” Larissa mused. Her curvy bod was swathed in a cute purple velour track suit, her dark, curly hair wound in braids on top of her head; she’d been rocking this “stylish student” look since going back to school. “Maybe they could film me cramming for an exam?”
Shayla laughed.
“Yeah, maybe if I hang around on set,” I put in, “they can cast me as ‘girl standing around doing nothing’ in a scene.” I tried to smile and not feel too sorry for myself, but it fell flat as the lingering pain of the day’s events overshadowed it. I noticed no one laughed, but I did catch my friends passing an uneasy look between them.
It just reminded me of all the crap I was trying not to think about. Getting dumped. Getting fired. Unfortunately, it was all I could think about. Shayla’s audition had been a welcome distraction, but it was only temporary relief.
Courteney wrapped an arm around me and gave me a little side-hug.
When we arrived at the door to Champagne, Ronan Sterling, the Players’ head of security, was standing right inside the nightclub’s entrance with some other men. My sister was part owner of the new club, as was Ronan’s wife, Summer Sorensen; Summer was the Players’ keyboardist and my sister’s best friend. As we walked in, Shayla made no small work of checking out the guys—they looked like bouncers, possibly in training for opening night—as I said hi to Ronan and gave him a hug.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Ronan greeted me. “Elle’s inside.” He also hugged Courteney, whose husband and brother were both members of the Players. Then he drew open the massive, tufted suede interior door for us and we wandered inside to soak in the vibe. I hadn’t been inside since the renovations were finished.
The walls were the first things that drew my eye. Painted flat black, they displayed a number of massive paintings that had been commissioned for the space. Katie Mayes, wife of my sister’s bandmate Jesse Mayes, had painted them; semi-abstract paintings of people playing musical instruments, in bold color patterns. The paintings were interspersed with large, black-and-white portraits of Vancouver-based rock stars, photographed by Amber Cope; Amber was married to another of my sister’s bandmates, Dylan Cope.
The art really gave the place an eclectic yet elevated feel.
“Wow, VIP lounge, but take it to the next level,” Larissa remarked. “Trey is going to love this.” Her older brother, Trey, was a record company exec, owner of Brick House Records, the Players’ record label. And a man of serious taste.
“I think you’re right,” I agreed.
“Forget your brother,” Shayla said. “Mine is gonnalivehere.”
“Yeah, pretty sure I can see Johnny O parked right… over… there.” Courteney pointed out a deeply curved booth. “You know, holding court over his salivating fangirls…” Inside the large booth was a table and several large velvet ottomans that left plenty of room for babes to flock around a VIP. And possibly blow him without anyone knowing.
“Yup. Say goodbye to the Ruby,” Larissa marveled. The Ruby was a local nightclub that had been a favorite hangout of many music industry VIPs, historically.
No surprise, my sister and her team had really outdone themselves. This place was backstage VIP room meets luxury penthouse with a side of back door gambling club. There was something sexy and illicit about the dark, curving walls and the sumptuous furnishings, the gleaming, mirrored decor, and the deep corners lined with hidden booths. They’d kept those booths from the existing design, but everything else had undergone a serious facelift.
The lighting was on point, glowy and subdued interspersed with sparkling chandeliers. The large dance floor at the back of the massive space was bedazzled in lights that bounced off a series of mirrored disco balls. There were a couple of guys in the raised DJ booth, maybe testing out the sound system, and staff working away, unpacking supplies and stocking the glass-shelved walls behind the two long bars, which had been completely rebuilt.
Where it used to sayArtemisin neon along the entry wall, it now saidChampagnein mirrored script.
The Artemis Club had been a fixture in the Vancouver party scene for several years, but like so many bars and clubs, it had changed ownership many times. Most recently, Summer—who, before she became a member of the Players and a rock star herself, was known as DJ Summer and had gotten her start at the Artemis—had heard that the current owners wanted to sell. She’d appealed to my sister, and together they’d convinced Dylan Cope that he should sell his portion of the nightclub he co-owned down in L.A., bring his money back up to Vancouver, and the three of them should buy the Artemis.
They did.
An extensive reno followed, and they were now putting all the finishing touches on it for the grand opening party next weekend. It was sure to be the hottest club in town—and yet another win in my sister’s ongoing success story.
“This all is just…wow.” Larissa stood, open-mouthed and staring at one of the larger-than-life black-and-whites on the wall—a portrait of rock star/music producer Cary Clarke, wearing jeans and nothing else, and doing nothing at all but leaning against a wall with a guitar leaning next to him. His ankles were crossed, his hands dangling at his sides and his blondish hair falling over his face as he looked down at the ground, smiling. You couldn’t even see his eyes, but the effect was…. breathtaking.
“Dayyyyum, that Amber Cope is one incredible photographer,” Shayla observed.
