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swallow the smooth, fiery liquid in one gulp. Our cups clink against the stone bar at the same time, ringing loudly enough to startle me. When I look into the mirror behind the bar I see two things. My face familiarly framed by bottles of booze I no longer have to resist—which makes me smile. And Spence watching us, okay mainly Maria, with mixed emotions while he continues his conversation with some impressive-looking suits.
    “Another round.” I circle my finger over our empty glasses and the bartender jumps to action. “It’s going on Mr. Hugo’s tab.” I point to Spence over my shoulder and he nods his permission to the bartender. Now the man is all smiles and places a bowl of party nuts in front of us like he wants us to stay. Please. Like we’d eat that shit.
    Dinner is forgettable. Spence’s money manager makes it clear he’s doing Spence a favor by taking me on as a client. He mainly deals with individuals above the hundred million mark. My paltry twenty million must be insulting. I couldn’t care less. But damn if this vodka isn’t the most delicious I’ve ever tasted. The flavor profile of Grey Goose must have changed in the months I’ve been sober. Finally, Mr. Too-Good-For-You Money Manager shuts his face and we can leave.
    “Where do you ladies want to go?” Spence asks, an arm thrown around each of us to steady our walk to the elevator. Devon Hayes’s bedroom, please. I stop walking when the unconscious thought registers.
    Spence’s arm urges me forward and my feet manage to move. I’m not out-of-my-mind wasted. Not yet. The scorching black hole that used to be my heart has cooled, thanks to ice-cold vodka. But I’m going to need a hell of a lot more if I’m going to get through the night without being reminded of him every five seconds.
    “Oh, we don’t know what’s cool anymore, Spence. You tell us,” Maria coos into his ear, resting a hand on his chest and cuddling into his side. Damn she’s good. Spence’s arm falls from my shoulder to push the elevator button but stays firmly around her.
    “The Nice Guy is cool, and nearby. You want to try it?” Spence offers.
    “Yes!” Maria howls, punching a party fist into the air. Damn lightweight.
    A black SUV waits in the underground parking garage. Not a single paparazzi bulb flashes when we leave. How nice to have a private dinner out for a change.
    * * *
    We exchange the refreshing calm of Soho House for drinks at The Nice Guy, a restaurant and bar that has quickly become the paparazzi chum bucket of WeHo. Everyone gets wasted inside, which is everything I need. It is impossible to walk out of the place sober. After last call, the famous patrons are loosed on the streets, making for the biggest photo op payday in town. You know what you’re getting into when you go. But it’s worth it.
    Tonight is no exception. Inside, live music warms my ears. It’s loud enough to keep a girl from getting lost in her own depressing thoughts, which is a welcome change. The room is old-Hollywood perfection—soothing wood-covered walls, a wraparound marble bar and overstuffed, kitschy-cool fabric-covered booths. Only certain people are allowed inside. The right kind of people. It doesn’t matter if the club is graveyard dead one night. If you aren’t fabulous, your ass doesn’t cross the velvet rope. Period. There’s always room to move inside. That’s unheard of in L.A. clubs. Spence has a table reserved. Of course he does.
    We slide into a corner booth. A bottle of Grey Goose, ice, Voss water and a bowl of lemon peels immediately lands on the table.
    “You enabling me tonight, Spence?”
    “You started it on your own.” He shrugs and leans over to Maria. I feel like a third wheel. So of course, Devon flashes hot across my mind. I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, forcing the image away.
    “I need drink!” I announce to no one in particular, and reach for the ice.
    Maria squeals with delight and begins waving frantically at someone she