Hero Worship by Christopher E. Long Page A

knows it’s here. We might as well be on a deserted island.”
    As I follow her downstairs, I ask, “What do you do for fun?”
    We climb inside her shiny orange car. It still has the new car smell. Eliza revs the engine. “Whatever I want.”

NINE
    A valet attendant opens Eliza’s car door. He hands her a ticket and gets behind the wheel. Realizing I’m still in the passenger seat, he clears his throat, signaling it’s time for me to get out. As I step onto the curb, I notice the procession of vehicles behind us, whose occupants are growing increasingly more agitated the longer they have to wait. They don’t strike me as belonging to a socioeconomic class that typically has to wait for anything. The women are adorned with expensive jewelry, and the men look like they drop more on weekly haircuts than I make in a month.
    A velvet rope cordons off the people waiting in line at the entrance of the Mule Kick Club. I’ve never been here, but I recognize the exterior of the club from photos in celebrity magazines. If you’re not somebody in Loganstin, you’ve never made it past the ropes at the Mule Kick.
    Eliza walks to the front of the line. Two very large men with shaved heads stand behind the velvet rope. They wear headgear and one clutches a clipboard. “Hey, Big T,” Eliza says.
    The man holding the clipboard turns to her and a smile spreads across his face. “Yo, E. What’s shaking?”
    â€œNothing yet, but hopefully that’ll change,” she says. “How’s it in there?”
    â€œIt’s bumpin’. You coming in?”
    â€œMy bumps need to bump, and that ain’t gonna happen out here,” she says.
    Big T unfastens the velvet rope and holds it aside for Eliza and me to pass. “Get bumpin’.”
    This causes a chorus of grumbles from the people waiting in line, but if Eliza notices, she doesn’t show it. We walk past Big T toward the door.
    â€œWho the hell is she?” asks a man wearing a silk shirt with a dragon embroidered on it.
    Big T shoots the man a glare and says, “If you knew, you’d wet yourself.”
    A doorman opens the front door, allowing Eliza and me to enter.
    â€œShouldn’t we get in line?” I ask.
    â€œWhy would you if you don’t have to?” she asks.
    â€œTo wait our turn.”
    Standing on the threshold of the club, Eliza leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. “That’s so cute.” She grabs my hand and walks inside.
    Techno music blares at an ear-piercing level, a thumping bass that rattles your bones. Men and women gyrate in a hedonistic mass on the dance floor. The air is musty and thick, reeking of sweat, liquor, and perfume.
    I follow Eliza through the crowd of people. She cuts expertly through them, heading to the back wall where VIP tables and booths are positioned so everyone can see and be seen by everyone. And a quick glance tells me that we’re being seen. A hostess sees Eliza coming and motions us toward one of the empty booths, where a Reserved sign sits. I scoot into the booth and Eliza slides in next to me.
    The music is so loud that the hostess has to lean over the table to shout, “What would you like to drink?”
    Eliza says, “A Purple Hooter.”
    Both ladies glance at me and I say, “A cola.”
    â€œA rum and cola,” Eliza adds.
    The hostess spins and heads off toward the bar.
    Leaning in close to my ear, Eliza asks, “What do you think? Pretty cool, huh?”
    â€œDo you come here—”
    Before I can finish my thought, Eliza slides out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.”
    She walks toward a group of men standing around a tall table. They’re dressed in tattered jeans and untucked dress shirts, and they’re smoking thick cigars. The men all take turns embracing her, apparently pleased to see her. Eliza holds court. The men surround her and laugh as she talks.