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bare, perfectly shaped leg emerged, sporting a five-inch silver heel (how did women walk in those, anyway?). Then came the other leg, then a flash of a white miniskirt. The rest of the package poured out of the car to a burst of flashbulbs and excited shouts: “Anna! Anna! Anna! Over here, Anna!”
    “Ohmigod, that’s Anna Payne,” Jane whispered. “She’s sooo gorgeous!”
    Anna stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and posed for the cameras. Scar had to admit that the actress was stunning. Flashbulbs continued popping, and the photographers continued shouting her name, until one meticulously timed moment later some generically handsome guy slid out of the Mercedes, took Anna’s arm, and steered her past the screaming, awestruck line of drunk and semi-drunk partiers to the front door, where the huge brute inthe beanie whooshed them inside with dizzying speed.
    “That was crazy, ” Jane said breathlessly. “Do you think there are other celebrities inside?”
    Scarlett checked her watch. “We might never find out. We’ve been in this line forever. If we don’t get in by midnight, we should bail. You don’t want to be late tomorrow. You might miss an important raw-honey lecture.”
    “Scar, no! I wanna have some fun. I had a bad day at work.”
    “Oh my G! What are you girls doing standing out here?” Scarlett heard someone squeal. She felt a hand grip her arm and spun around. It was Diego—D! He was wearing loud purple pumps, fitted jeans, and a black fedora. Yay, someone we know! “What’s a guy like you doing on a line like this?” she teased him.
    “Nothing. And neither are you.” He grabbed her and Jane’s hands and began walking. “Don’t you know pretty girls don’t wait in lines? Come with me!”
    “Wait! We’re gonna lose our spot. We’ve been waiting forever!” Jane pleaded.
    Ignoring Jane’s comment, D pulled them right up to the front of the line and waved to the big guy manning the door, who automatically unhooked the thick rope so D, Jane, and Scarlett could pass.
    “Thanks!” D said to the guy.
    “Who the hell are they?” somebody in line whined.
    “Seriously!” someone else piped up.
    Amazed, Scarlett and Jane followed D inside. Theywalked into a large courtyard enclosed with vine-covered stone walls. There was a massive illuminated fountain in the center with greenery spilling over the edges. Booths made up of low glass-top tables surrounded by tufted black leather sofas filled the place. It was dramatic and stunning, easily the coolest club Scarlett had ever been to.
    Seemingly unaffected by the scene, D led the two girls across the cobblestone courtyard toward a wide doorway and into the main room, which was plastered with vintage red wallpaper and dimly lit by the chandeliers mounted above each booth. Scarlett could tell that Jane was taking in the decor as much as the scene. She just hoped Jane wasn’t about to pull out a tiny notebook from her tiny clutch and start taking notes. Scarlett watched clusters of beautiful people dancing and sitting around candlelit tables, pouring themselves glasses of Grey Goose, Bombay Sapphire, and Patrón straight from the bottle. What was up with that? she wondered. Wasn’t that the bartender’s job?
    Most of the girls were wearing dresses and heels. The guys sported dress shirts. It occurred to Scarlett (not that she gave a damn) that she was probably way underdressed in her jeans and black racer-back tank.
    Scarlett knew she was kind of out of her element in the midst of all this fabulousness. Still, she had to admit that it was kind of cool being in an impossible-to-get-into L.A. club, hanging out with the likes of Anna Payne. (Well, nothanging out with , she corrected herself, but hanging out near !)
    Scarlett spotted a cute blond DJ spinning an eclectic mix of music in a booth in the corner. Aretha Franklin turned into Britney Spears, then into MGMT. The decibel level was kind of intense. She squeezed D’s shoulder. “Hey! Can