The Duet(2)

I decided to be honest with Cammie. “Yeah, I’m giving myself a pep talk before we leave.”

Cammie laughed and walked over to me, setting her hands on top of my shoulders and staring me straight in the eye.

“Brooklyn Heart, you are one sexy motherfucker.”

“Cammie, watch your fucking mouth!”

She rolled her eyes. “Your hair looks flawless. They did a good job with the blonde at the salon this time,” she said, fingering a long strand. “Your make-up— très magnifique, and that dress, damnnnnnn.”

I started laughing as she eyed me up and down. Only Cammie could go from a French accent to a downtown Compton accent in zero seconds flat.

“Enough, you weirdo, let’s go. My orgasm is waiting.”

…



Cammie had one night left of spring break before her semester started back up. She was a senior, finishing up her strenuous architecture program that allowed her to complete both a bachelor’s and master’s degree in architecture in just five years. Just saying that sentence made me want to gag a little bit. I’d rather stab my eyes out than take an architecture course. She definitely got the math and engineering genes, whereas I’d been graced with the singing and dancing genes.

“So, Smarty McSmarterpants, where should we start our night?” I asked as we climbed into the limousine waiting outside my downtown LA condo.

“Let’s go to M Lounge and then we can head somewhere else if the prospects aren’t looking great. I’m sure it won’t be crazy packed since it’s Sunday, but we can still try.”

I nodded. “Sounds good.”





The M Lounge was the hippest and most discreet club in LA. If there was any hope of me locking down a one-night stand, M Lounge was the place to go.

“I can’t drink much tonight because I have that meeting with my record label in the morning,” I warned as we passed through the back entrance to the club and headed up a set of stairs that were used exclusively for the VIP level. Fun fact: one time I was going up those stairs when P. Diddy was coming down, and he totally touched my ass. Allegedly.

“Just to clarify: if you’re begging me for tequila shots at midnight, threatening to kill my first born if I don’t give them to you, I should still tell you no?” Cammie asked, just to ensure the boundaries were set. Better safe than sorry.

“That was one time and it was in Cabo,” I protested. “What else are you supposed to do in Cabo other than challenge a mariachi band to a tequila shot contest until the lead singer passes out beside a donkey?”

Cammie held up her hands and started listing off items. “I dunno— enjoy the beach, check out the museums and the culture—”

“That was a rhetorical question,” I interrupted as we made it to the top of the stairs.

As if by magic, the black curtain in front of us swept to the side, opening up an entire room of drunken debauchery before us. In one corner, a celebrity who shall remain nameless (we’ll call her Nennifer Janiston) was sucking face with a sexy man, and across the room two of the funniest women in comedy were doing body shots off of a waiter from the club.

“Welcome to the behind the scenes of Hollywood,” I whispered to Cammie. She giggled as we moved toward the circular bar in the center of the room. I waved to everyone that we passed, none of them were really my friends, but snubbing a celebrity in the clubs was a sure-fire way to end a career. Even if I didn’t love everyone, it was my job to make it look like I did. The last thing I needed was for a horde of Justin Bieber fans to take over my Twitter feed with death threats. (I’d learned that the hard way.)

“Hey ladies, what can I get for you?” the beefy bartender asked us as Cammie and I approached. There were a few other VIPs in line ahead of us, but he didn’t seem to care.

I shrugged, staring down at Cammie for a second before we both simultaneously asked for Lemon Drops. Our laughter was cut short though.

“Hah. Cute,” a nameless socialite spat, eyeing us as if we were last year’s Berkin bag. “Are you guys like twins or something?”

Her question seemed innocent, but her posture and tone hinted at how dirty she was actually playing.

I’d been drilled by my PR team to stay calm in situations like this. I didn’t need to read headlines in the morning of “Popstar Brooklyn Heart Knocks Out LA Socialite.” (And yes, of course I’d knock her out. She weighed like 85 pounds.)

But unfortunately, Cammie didn’t have to worry about her public image as much as I did. Before I could stop her, she took a step toward the girl.

“I’m sorry, is there a problem?” she asked. I couldn’t help but laugh at Cammie’s honey-dipped tone.