club. The Red Door was in a refurbished brick building on Crescent Avenue, squatting among glass and steel skyscrapers. It was the sort of place where a long line of hopefuls waited for the doorman to allow them inside.
Cassidy and Barb bypassed the line, gave the bouncer Cassidy’s name, and he waved them in.
The front door was red, naturally, and opened onto a short, red-carpeted black corridor that widened into a bar and lounge. The theme was relentlessly red and black—black walls, red-upholstered booths, a black granite bar with a glass top encasing thousands of pressed red roses. The bartenders were stunning beauties in black leather chokers and bracelets, wearing ultra-skimpy red and black clothes that looked like they’d come from some kind of S&M lingerie catalog.
The place was crowded, the girls flashing lots of glittered skin through their designer clubwear, the guys in ultra-tight and expensive clothes. They were the future executive class, entry-level accountants and copywriters getting drunk and laid on the weekends while they were still young and single. Fast electronic music thumped from somewhere below, shuddering the floor.
They struggled to get a bartender’s attention and finally managed to order drinks—whiskey for Cassidy, tequila for Barb. The bartender ignored their requests and brought them each a plastic cup filled one-third of the way with straight vodka, then charged them fifteen dollars each.
“Fifteen bucks for a shot of potato liquor?” Barb grumbled as they left the bar.
“ That’s how they can bring in famous DJ’s from New York and London,” Cassidy said.
“ I hope Peyton’s getting a big chunk of this fifteen-dollar vodka.”
“ He is. He’d get more if he were headlining, though.” Cassidy led the way down a wide, curving stairwell lit only by the red glow of the stairs beneath their feet. It brought them to a landing overlooking a crowded dance floor. Narrow beams of colored light swept the dark room, illuminating closely-packed sweaty flesh undulating to the rapid, heavily layered music.
Peyton stood in the dim red glow of the DJ booth, across the room and high in the corner, his head bouncing, his eyes locked on his mixing table before him while his hands flew. He wore a sharp grin, his upper and lower teeth grinding against each other. Peyton Alessi was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes—his ancestors were mostly Spanish and Italian, and he had a dusky Mediterranean look.
They descended the final set of stairs, which was red-carpeted, spotlit, and had clear handrails, creating the sense that were onstage over the dance floor for a moment. Then they stepped into the dense crowd and were swallowed up by music, darkness, and the heat of hundreds of warm, moving bodies. Cassidy led the way toward the DJ booth, but it was slow going and Barb had to walk behind rather than beside her, and they still barely managed to squeeze through the tightly packed dancers.
“ Barb!” a girlish voice squealed. Kit emerged from the crowd, wearing some kind of shiny top that appeared to be made of nothing but different hues of glitter, short enough to show off her navel ring. Her black shorts were just a thin stripe of denim.
“ What’s up, baby?” Barb asked while Kit hugged her. Kit lingered against her, gazing at Barb’s face and stroking her hair. Kit and her gang of friends were already dripping with sweat.
Cassidy greeted each guy and girl in the group, thanking them for coming, but she hurried. She wanted to reach Peyton before the ecstasy really kicked in, lest she find herself in the middle of a cuddle puddle with Kit and friends, who were clearly rolling, too. Everybody was on ecstasy tonight.
Cassidy left Barb with her friends and continued on. She climbed the steep stairs into the DJ booth, where Peyton was still focused on his equipment. Another man stood nearby, assembling his own gear. The
Cassidy and Barb bypassed the line, gave the bouncer Cassidy’s name, and he waved them in.
The front door was red, naturally, and opened onto a short, red-carpeted black corridor that widened into a bar and lounge. The theme was relentlessly red and black—black walls, red-upholstered booths, a black granite bar with a glass top encasing thousands of pressed red roses. The bartenders were stunning beauties in black leather chokers and bracelets, wearing ultra-skimpy red and black clothes that looked like they’d come from some kind of S&M lingerie catalog.
The place was crowded, the girls flashing lots of glittered skin through their designer clubwear, the guys in ultra-tight and expensive clothes. They were the future executive class, entry-level accountants and copywriters getting drunk and laid on the weekends while they were still young and single. Fast electronic music thumped from somewhere below, shuddering the floor.
They struggled to get a bartender’s attention and finally managed to order drinks—whiskey for Cassidy, tequila for Barb. The bartender ignored their requests and brought them each a plastic cup filled one-third of the way with straight vodka, then charged them fifteen dollars each.
“Fifteen bucks for a shot of potato liquor?” Barb grumbled as they left the bar.
“ That’s how they can bring in famous DJ’s from New York and London,” Cassidy said.
“ I hope Peyton’s getting a big chunk of this fifteen-dollar vodka.”
“ He is. He’d get more if he were headlining, though.” Cassidy led the way down a wide, curving stairwell lit only by the red glow of the stairs beneath their feet. It brought them to a landing overlooking a crowded dance floor. Narrow beams of colored light swept the dark room, illuminating closely-packed sweaty flesh undulating to the rapid, heavily layered music.
Peyton stood in the dim red glow of the DJ booth, across the room and high in the corner, his head bouncing, his eyes locked on his mixing table before him while his hands flew. He wore a sharp grin, his upper and lower teeth grinding against each other. Peyton Alessi was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes—his ancestors were mostly Spanish and Italian, and he had a dusky Mediterranean look.
They descended the final set of stairs, which was red-carpeted, spotlit, and had clear handrails, creating the sense that were onstage over the dance floor for a moment. Then they stepped into the dense crowd and were swallowed up by music, darkness, and the heat of hundreds of warm, moving bodies. Cassidy led the way toward the DJ booth, but it was slow going and Barb had to walk behind rather than beside her, and they still barely managed to squeeze through the tightly packed dancers.
“ Barb!” a girlish voice squealed. Kit emerged from the crowd, wearing some kind of shiny top that appeared to be made of nothing but different hues of glitter, short enough to show off her navel ring. Her black shorts were just a thin stripe of denim.
“ What’s up, baby?” Barb asked while Kit hugged her. Kit lingered against her, gazing at Barb’s face and stroking her hair. Kit and her gang of friends were already dripping with sweat.
Cassidy greeted each guy and girl in the group, thanking them for coming, but she hurried. She wanted to reach Peyton before the ecstasy really kicked in, lest she find herself in the middle of a cuddle puddle with Kit and friends, who were clearly rolling, too. Everybody was on ecstasy tonight.
Cassidy left Barb with her friends and continued on. She climbed the steep stairs into the DJ booth, where Peyton was still focused on his equipment. Another man stood nearby, assembling his own gear. The
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