Page 53 of Let's Kiss and Tell

It’s been years since I’ve been to a nightclub. Just thethoughtof going out drinking, dancing, and staying up until two in the morning exhausts me. My ideal night with my girlfriends is a low-key, candlelit wine bar, and bonus points if they have cheesy garlic bread.

When Marsh discovered two of the escorts involved in the trial used to work at The Peppermint Club, he wanted to check it out.Get in their heads, see what they saw,as he said. Naturally, anything related to this story I’m more than happy to help with. So, cut to me putting on the only outfit that felt acceptable for tonight. My tightest black dress. The one I wore for my twenty-fifth birthday that hits just above mid-thigh, shows off my modest cleavage, and hugs my ass in all the right ways if I do say so myself.

Looking in the mirror, I forgot just how hot I can look if I try. Age is a funny thing. As we get older, we tell ourselves it’s inappropriate to dress a certain way. But looking at my reflection, I feel beautiful, and there shouldn’t be any shame in flaunting that. I think of photos I’ve seen of my mom when she was younger and remember being taken aback by how stunning she was. She stillis, but there’s something special about youthful beauty. If I’m still able to feel good in a dress like this, why shouldn’t I?

The Peppermint Club is a sixties-inspired music lounge with deep lighting throughout. With cork-indented ceilings, the venue feels larger than life, yet surprisingly intimate with a giant stage that feels like it was pulled right off a set. There are wooden booths with velvet seats surrounding the bar with warm globe lighting and gold hardware. It’s striking, and based on the drink prices, I’m not surprised women choose a place like this to be a waitress.

According to the website, there are two live performances starting at tenp.m.,but in the meantime, there’s a DJ set up on the stage and already a surprising number of people. I don’t see Marsh yet, so I make my way to the bar.

A man in what looks to be his early thirties—with pale skin and an intriguing tattoo sleeve on his left arm—is sitting by himself. I find a spot a few feet away and lean toward the bar, looking at the drink specials. It’s not hard to feel his eyes on me, not in a creepy way, but he’s looking.

“How’s it going?” he says loud enough for me to hear over the music.

“Fine,” I answer politely and get a better look at his face. There’s no denying he’s attractive. Blue eyes, a subtle thin gold nose ring, and another tattoo on his hand I can’t quite make out.

“You here for the show tonight?” he asks.

“I’m meeting a friend.”

The corner of his mouth curls and he then takes a sip of his beer. He definitely thinks I’m meeting a girlfriend.

“I’m Colton.” He reaches over and shakes my hand.

“Lucy…”

“You from LA, Lucy?” He turns his body to face me.

“I am,” I say.

“A native,” he says. “I haven’t met too many of you.”

He’s not wrong. Los Angeles is full of transplants; rarely do you find someone who was raised here and spends their time at nightclubs like this. That’s because we’ve already experienced it all growing up. It gets old.

“I’m from Philly,” he offers, even though I didn’t ask. “I’ve lived here for two years, though.” Colton takes another sip of his beer. “So, what do you do? You must be an actress.”

“Journalist,” I say.

“Shit, my mistake.” He raises his eyebrows. “I’m a DJ, I’m playing a set here tomorrow.”

“Oh cool,” I say, not really sure what to do with that information.

“Let me get you a drink.” He waves over the bartender.

“Oh, no thank you,” I protest. I know what buying a drink for someone means. It means you’re unofficially theirs for the night. You’re obligated to talk to them, maybe dance. I’ve learned the hard way. “I’m good.”

“You sure?” He smiles like a flash of his teeth can get me to change my mind. Like I’m too naive to not know when no means no.

“I’m actually not thirsty.” I turn and walk away.

I find a seat at one of the two empty high-top tables and look at my phone. A new text from Chris.

Chris:

What’s up

One of my biggest pet peeves with Chris is that he hardly uses punctuation. Hesitating for a moment, I open my camera app and take a selfie sitting cross-legged on the chair. I don’t includemy face, just my lips. Enough for him to recognize me in the photo. There’s not a part of me that wants to see Chris tonight, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy him wanting me.

I snap a few angles, choose the best one, and send it to him.