Blind Item(6)
She took her phone from the purse. She had no missed calls and no texts. That was weird. She texted her roommate.
Nico! You OK?
Then she opened her contacts and chose Billy Baby. The call went straight to voice mail. Her brow furrowed lightly as she tapped out another text.
Baby boy! Where you at? Mama feels like doing a red carpet drive-by at Bootsy’s. HMU if you feel like scammin on someone else’s bottle service.
Kara walked back into the living room and scanned the room for Ryk’s jacket. It was lying on the floor beside his sleeping body. She carefully lifted it up and pulled his wallet out of the inside pocket and was pleased to see that it contained a thick fold of hundred-dollar bills. She helped herself to six and put the wallet back, dropping the jacket on the floor. She flipped the bird at Ryk as she let herself out the front door and, juggling her purse, phone, and platforms, carefully descended the two flights of steps down to Cherokee, summoning an Uber on the way.
* * *
Ten minutes later, she instructed the driver to wait on Doheny until she returned.
“Hey, this ain’t a cab,” he complained. “I don’t get any more money for waiting for your ass.”
“I’ll tip you three bucks a minute, honey, I promise.”
She stepped out into the warm night air and looked herself up and down. She took a full-length flash selfie and consulted it. The violet of the Prada stilettos set off her black button-up suede shorts and a sheer black tank. She fished a pair of elaborate gold waterfall earrings from her purse and slid them into her ears.
“Girl, you’re better than ready,” she said huskily.
She peered around the corner onto Sunset. The line at Bootsy’s was long, sluggish, and suburban. She checked her phone one last time—nothing—and waited till she saw that tonight’s doorman was conquerable. It was Shawn. Perfect.
Dropping her phone into her purse, she snapped to attention and strode around the corner onto Sunset. She walked past the end of the line, and then along the line. People jeered her. She ignored them. She walked directly to Shawn and kissed him on the cheek. She saw a paparazzo emerge from an illegally parked car.
“Block him, baby,” she whispered, and Shawn held a huge hand between the guy’s camera and Kara’s face. A barrage of flashes washed over her as the door opened and she went inside.
She waited just past the entrance as the white flashes faded from her retinas. It was busy tonight. All the booths were occupied and the tiny dance floor was moving solidly as one unit. Kara surveyed the crowd.
“Dang.” She whistled. “This place is full of tall white girls with blond hair.”
Methodically, she moved through the crowd, pausing on the periphery of each booth to see who was inside. The first few were filled with boring trust-fund Hollywood kids and their friends. Pop tragedy SaraBeth Shields and her manager, both of them on their phones and texting madly, occupied the booth by the DJ setup. Neither of them looked up as Kara filmed a short Snapchat, captioned it #VIPLIFE, and posted it before moving on.
After not even five minutes inside, Kara went back to the front door. She opened it slightly and Shawn appeared.
“Yes, Miss Jones?” he asked playfully.
“I gotta jet,” she whispered. “It’s loser lodge in there tonight.”
“I hear ya, but it is still early.”
“Not for me.” She smiled. “I need to be asleep. Set a sister up?”
“Yes, mama.” Shawn winked, waving his hand at the paparazzo, who obediently got out of his car.
Kara strode out of the club onto Sunset and the portly photographer struggled to keep up with her, shooting her from the front and the side. As she got back into her Uber, she turned and pulled a card from her wallet. On the front, the card read KARA JONES. ACTRESS. STYLIST. CHOREOGRAPHER. Beneath that, her phone number, e-mail, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and even her KIK. She took a pen from her purse and scribbled on the back: “Outfit tonight: vintage from stylist’s own collection.” She handed it to the photographer.
“You think you can place any of these shots with the weeklies?” she asked, her voice sounding a bit desperate.
“Depends,” the photographer said with a wince. “Who the hell are you? What’s your story?”
“Like the card says, I’m Kara Jones. I got a show coming out on A&E, I just broke up with…” She paused, thinking of which lies would sell best. “Oooh, I better not say his name. I have a clothing line out soon from QVC and I’m up for a lead role on a Showtime drama.”
The photographer didn’t look impressed.
“Listen, Kara Jones, I’ll trade you. I’ll pitch your photos to the weeklies if you start telling me what goes on behind those doors. You tip me off, I’ll get you printed. Promise. My name is Gino.”