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Dozens of men and women in black-tie dress make their way up the cascading steps leading into the renowned theater.
Tonight they’re in for the operatic beauty that’sLa Boheme.
A sense of deep longing pulls at me. I’ve never wanted to belong somewhere more…
Even as we finish driving by, I twist in my seat and crane my neck for one last view.
Jael snaps her fingers for my attention. “Do notmake me regret bringing you. Do not act all weird and doped out. Follow my lead. Tonight could be the night.”
She primps in the rearview mirror despite the fact that the Uber driver openly leers at us. Pushing her tits up and smacking her lips together to make sure her lipstick’s good and her mouth looks extra pouty, she’s satisfied.
We pull up outside the Winchester. The most expensive hotel in the city.
There’s a line of limos and town cars passing through. The routine is the same. The valet opens the rear doors and helps the next wealthy businessman or famous public figure step out. They’re escorted into the hotel by the staff.
Everyone’s in sweeping gowns and tailored tuxedos. Everyone’s in masks.
I turn my head to Jael. “This is the party? We’re not dressed right—”
“Sure we are.”
“We don’t have masks.”
“Sure we do. Stop talking.”
It’s a command I become familiar with. I’ve still got a high going, though it’s quickly fading. Jael steps out of the Uber half a block down. With her mile-long legs and sleek, torso-length hair, she looks like one of the models on the arms of the businessmen we saw earlier.
I’m not full of as much aplomb and instant sex appeal as she is.
I do my best, standing tall in my heels, popping a hand to my hip. Jael shakes her head and then starts a fast stride down the street. I rush to keep up.
We’re doing this. We’re headed for the Winchester.
“What are we doing when they turn us away?”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“This is a Midnight Society party. A club full of some of the richest, most elite people in the country. Ever heard of them?”
“I’ve heardofthem—not sure I buy it’s a real thing. Sounds a little too illuminati for my tastes.”
“We won’t be turned away, Lyra. Girls like us are their bread and butter.”
“But—”
“Here, our invitation. Give it to the security guard.”
I take the little black card and wobble forward as she stands back and strikes a pose like a true model.
The man reads the card, looks up at us, and then gives an overt once over. He’s deciding if we’re attractive enough.
“Follow me.”
We set off at another fast pace behind the man. He leads us through an alternate entrance that’s not quite as extravagant as the plush-carpeted main door, but still stunning with glittering chandelier lights and thick-veined marble.
“Here.”
