Beautiful Stranger (19 page)

Ben pointed. “Isn’t that him?”

A huge roar went up from the crowd as John Carlos climbed the short ladder from an overhead catwalk and stepped into the booth. He was dressed in skinny black jeans, a vintage red
Like a Virgin
Madonna T-shirt under an open black-and-white bowling shirt, and a black pork-pie hat. Even with his soul patch, he still looked younger than his nineteen years. The dueling mix-stations ensured that the music shift from DJ to DJ could be seamless, and John Carlos wasted no time. Even as the hot Asian girl was finishing her set, he started scratching.

“I am … John Carlos! I am … John Carlos!”

Cammie had no idea where he’d found vinyl tracks with those words on them. Maybe he’d had it specially recorded. But his fans on the dance floor—which seemed like the size of a football field—knew how to respond, as if they’d been cued along with the music.

“You are … John Carlos! You are … John Carlos!”

And then the beats started in earnest. A cool, eclectic mix of hip-hop and techno, with some eighties Madonna and rap mixed in just for fun. John’s fingers flew around the rack’s sliders and pots, flipping vinyl as if he were playing three-card monte, all without drawing a single seam in the beat. But his concentration must have been on the pulse of the dancing crush below him. For a kid, he sure knew how to control a crowd.

“Check it out,” Ben said, jutting his chin out with a smile. “They’re going nuts down there.”

He was right. If the scene on the dance floor before John Carlos started his set was intense, now it was positively frenetic.

“You want to dance?” he asked, offering his hand.

Damn. Any other time, Cammie wouldn’t have passed up the chance to dance with Ben. But tonight, she had to keep her eye on the prize, and the prize was John Carlos. Besides, Cammie knew Ben was not used to being turned down. That was a good thing. It was easy to play easy to get. Hard to get was harder, but better. Always.

She gave him her most flirtatious smile. “Maybe later. Let’s go to the lounge. He’s only got ten minutes in there.”

He nodded, and they made their way down the three-story-high set of risers, cut along one edge of the club past a crowded bar, and reached a roped-off room guarded by three hefty security guys.

“Ben Birnbaum and Cammie Sheppard,” Ben told the tallest, baldest, and beefiest of the security guys, the one who held the clipboard. “We’re on the list.”

Wordlessly, the guy scanned it and then moved the velvet rope aside and opened a thick black double door. A moment later, they were in the club’s inner sanctum, which was a world away from the pulsing masses outside. Done in cool blues and blacks, with light emanating from cubes on the floor, the walls, and the low ceiling, the space featured an open bar area, comfortable conversation nooks set into the wall for maximum privacy, and several round-top Plexiglas tables and matching stools.

In contrast to the throbbing dance mix in the club, the music here was cool jazz. The crowd was thin, though, confirming Cammie’s belief that this place would never catch on with Hollywood royalty. Still, she was pleasantly surprised at how nice this area was. She recognized a few of the earlier DJs from the competition at the bar, drinking beers together.

“You’re sure John Carlos will show up here?” Ben queried.

“He’s got to wait for the results to be announced. He’ll be here.”

“And how do you think you’re going to persuade him?”

“This is me you’re talking to, Ben.”

He laughed. “Oh, you’ve got the golden ticket, huh? You gonna share it with me?”

“Can’t,” she demurred. “I need the shock value.”

For a moment, Ben look puzzled. Then he laughed again. “Shock value. You need me to look surprised. I can pull it off.”

“Cammie Sheppard? Ben Birnbaum? Welcome to the Vermont Theater.” The VIP lounge waitress was Latina, about five-foot seven, extremely slender, with tendrils of auburn hair curling down her back. Cammie was impressed that she would know their names. Once again, the porn-producers-turned-club-owners were showing that they had their shit together. “Is there anything I can get you?”

Ben answered first. “I’ll take a beer—Rolling Rock if you’ve got it. Cammie?”

Cammie looked closely at the girl. Her doe eyes were fringed with sooty lashes that appeared to be natural. She had the carriage of a ballet dancer, and while she was wearing makeup, it was so subtle that it looked as if her features were simply more perfectly defined than anyone else’s. She wore oversized menswear plaid trousers, slung low, and the staff
VERMONT THEATER
T-shirt. Cammie noticed that her navel was not pierced and she had no visible tattoos.

“Sparkling water. Fiji,” Cammie ordered. “And your phone number.”

The waitress raised her eyebrows. “I’m flattered. But I’m straight and I have a boyfriend.”

“There’s a reason I’m asking. What’s your name?” Cammie just had a feeling about this girl. Everything about her screamed “fresh-faced petite model.” And she was going to need more than one client.

“I’m Roxanne,” the waitress told her.

“Ever done any modeling?”

Roxanne’s eyes shone. “No. But I’d love to!”

“When you bring our drinks, bring your number too,” Cammie instructed. “I’d love to take you to lunch and talk.”

“It’s legit,” Ben assured her.

Cammie pointed at Ben. “He’s my type,” she told Roxanne. “You’re not.”

Roxanne laughed. “Got it. I’ll be back with your drinks.” She headed for the bar.

“I like how you multitask,” He commented.

“You’ll like how—hold on.” Cammie chucked her chin toward the doorway. “Here he comes. Go over to the bar, please. Wait for my signal.”

Without waiting for Ben’s response, she got up from the couch and crossed the lounge.

“John Carlos?” She tried to look inscrutable when he turned to check her out. “I’m Cammie Sheppard. My father owns Apex. Clark Sheppard?”

“Damn,” John Carlos commented, obviously impressed. He shook the hand she offered. “Your father is the man.”

Cammie did an instant assessment. Well spoken. No alcohol on his breath. No grille on his teeth. All good signs.

“Who handles you, John Carlos?” she asked.

“I make my own deals. Don’t want to give up the ten percent to an agent. And to tell you the truth, I’ve never really been approached seriously.”

“I can understand that,” Cammie commiserated. For the first time, she smiled. “Your contracts must be pretty simple. The nights you’re spinning, the length of your shifts, how much you’re getting paid, blah, blah, blah. But what happens when the club you’re working for changes ownership? It’s been known to happen. Or shuts down? That’s been known to happen. Or if you want to take a few weeks to work as a music supervisor on a movie? Something like that can come up. And believe me, if my father handles you, it will definitely come up. And for that, you will definitely want an agent.”

John Carlos looked interested. “Talk to me.”

“I’ll put you in a room with my father, and you’ll take it from there. Now, he’s going to need to see your work. I know that there’s a new club willing to pay you twenty grand a week more than you’re making at Montmartre, and guarantee it for three months. I can ensure that Clark Sheppard will be at the club’s opening to check you out.”

“Who owns this new club?”

“Me,” Cammie replied.

John Carlos laughed and studied her with that look she knew oh so well. It said,
You’re hot
. It said,
I’m imagining you naked and I like what I see
.

“You do know how to work it, girl.”

“Why thank you.”

“The problem is, I’m under contract with Montmartre. I don’t think I can get out of it.”

“John Carlos …” Cammie put a flirty hand on his shoulder and leaned close. “Trust me on this. Contracts can
always
be broken. And I would
love
to work with you.”

She handed him her father’s business card; she’d already written her name and number on the back. “Call me. You’ll be glad you did.”

He looked at the card, then stuck it in the pocket of his bowling shirt. “Thanks.”

“Don’t wait too long to call,” she cautioned. “I can’t keep the other gig open indefinitely. And congratulations. I’m sure you won tonight.”

With that, Cammie stepped away. Ben was waiting for her at the bar, where he’d been watching the encounter with interest. But rather than give John Carlos the impression that she was there with either a date or a business partner, she walked right past Ben and ordered a Flirtini from the tall Japanese bartender with a samurai-style band tied around his forehead. She could feel John Carlos’s eyes on her from across the room.

Am I fucking good or what?
Cammie thought. And speaking of good, John Carlos was as good as theirs.

Red Velvet Panels and Priceless Tapestries

“I
’m in front of the building,” Logan’s welcome voice crackled through the phone. “And I’m holding the taxi. That is, if you’re done ‘mixing,’” he added with a laugh.

“More than. I’ll be right there.” Anna looked around for Contessa Weiss, her soon-to-be-roommate, to say goodbye—not because she wanted to, but because it was the right thing to do. But Contessa, Stevens MacCall, and a select group of freshmen were huddled around Joyce Maynard, and it was clear from their body language that outsiders were not encouraged. Anna regarded the large room still buzzing with self-aware erudite chatter. There was no one there she wanted to say goodbye to, so finally she just left.

“Eighty-sixth and Fifth, please,” Logan told the dread-locked taxi driver when Anna was safely in the backseat.

“A life-changing experience?” he asked, regarding her with a half smile on his face.

“Sure,” she fibbed. She didn’t want to admit that she felt even a little let down. It made no sense at all. This was one of the world’s great universities. She’d been accepted, and she’d be starting there in less than three weeks. She should be flying.

“How about you and all things Harvard? Did it make you want to transfer to Yale?”

“The brilliance in the room made me squint,” he joked. “Every incoming freshman had graduated number one in his or her class, or they were already a world-class violinist or something. You could literally
feel
people sussing each other out.”

“As in, Who’s my comp?” Anna asked. “I know the drill.”

Logan regarded her thoughtfully. “Don’t get me wrong. It was very cool, in a way. And stimulating, for sure. And, you know, pretty much everything you’d expect a Harvard thing like that to be.”

“Right. Yale, too,” she said quickly.

“We’re both getting what we always wanted,” he pointed out, then smiled wanly. “Which doesn’t happen all that often.”

“Right,” Anna agreed. She turned to the window and saw a homeless woman clad in a polka-dot shower curtain rummaging through the garbage and talking to herself. “Lots of people never get what they want,” she added quietly, and couldn’t help but feel slightly ashamed. She had so much. So many people had so little.

She hadn’t given any thought to where they were headed and was surprised when the driver pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly eleven. She loved this museum; it was her favorite in the world, tied only with the Louvre in Paris. But it had been closed for hours.

Logan was paying the driver.

“Are we going to a café?” Anna wondered aloud, because there were all kinds of cafés near the museum, and, this being New York, they were not only all open, but spilling with people on this warm summer night.

He smiled enigmatically as they slid out of the taxi, and the driver immediately got another fare. “Does that smile translate into actual words?” she asked curiously.

“A café of sorts,” he finally answered, touching the small of her back to propel her down Fifth toward Eighty-sixth Street. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” Anna admitted. She hadn’t realized it until that moment. There had been various hors d’oeuvres at the party, but Anna hadn’t eaten a thing, because she’d been too busy awkwardly trying to mingle with her future classmates and too anxious about what exactly that future would hold.

“This way.” Logan led her down an alley to the museum’s side entrance. He still had a funny little half smile on his face, like he was in on a joke that Anna would soon hear.

“Where are we—?”

“You are a hard girl to surprise.” He held open the metal door marked
SERVICE ENTRANCE
. “This is supposed to be a go-with-the-flow moment.”

A few feet inside the service entrance was a large desk, behind which sat an even larger uniformed guard. He had ruddy skin, a broad face, and sharp cheekbones, and a black braid shot with gray that went down his back.

“Logan!” His face broke into a huge smile. “Hey, you weren’t kidding, she really
is
a beauty.” He held a meaty hand out to Anna. “James Broadband. You must be Anna.”

“Nice to meet you,” she replied softly, blushing at the compliment. “I have no idea what’s going on. So I’m just going with the flow.”

“Well, you’ll find out soon enough,” James said with a broad smile. He picked up his walkie-talkie. “Charlie, you heading to the service desk?”

“Rounding the corner,” a staticky voice replied. A moment later, an older man, bald, with a red nose that reminded Anna of the classic silent film star W. C. Fields, came into view. He wore the same uniform as James.

“I’m on my break for the next fifteen,” James declared in his powerful voice, as Charlie stepped behind the desk. He made a follow-me gesture to Logan and Anna, and they headed down the narrow service hall. It opened into the main hall of the museum. Massive columns stood sentry to a grand staircase, which James led them down. “When’s the last time you were at the Met?” he asked Anna.

She tried to remember. She and Cyn had been planning to go on a warm early evening last fall. But two guys at Caffe Grazie around the corner had started flirting with them, and they’d ended up going downtown with them to an East Village bar called Arlene’s Grocery—it actually used to be a grocery store—to hear a punk band doing an afternoon set to try out new material. Anna had neither heard of nor liked the band. Fifteen minutes into their gig, Cyn was sitting on the carved wooden bar, making out with the cuter of the two guys they’d just met. Anna had sat there for two hours listening to music that gave her a headache. Why hadn’t she simply left?