Promise Me

Vaughn wants a next time.

My caged heart rattles the bars.

Chapter Eight

Vaughn

“No offense to Dylan,” Matt says as we approach the entrance to The Cabana, “but this place is everything I hate about clubs.”

“Why?” I reach for the simple metal handle on the understated cedar-plank door tucked into the street level of a post-modern office building on Sunset.

“It’s pretentious.”

I open the door, raise my brows, and make a point of looking around. “What makes you say that? The velvet rope? The big-ass bouncer in a headset working the door?”

In fact, there are none of these things. There’s not even a street number or awning to signify you’ve arrived at your destination. You just have to know. Which is why it’s pretentious.

“I don’t need some bullshit exclusivity to feel special.”

Just inside the door, the first hostess spots us and waves us past a small group of people—mostly guys—waiting to pay the steep cover. I lead the way down a narrow hall and toss him a grin. “How about now?”

“Nope. I don’t need a comped cover charge to make me feel special, either.”

The hallway empties out onto something truly special—a huge open-air configuration of wood and glass cantilevered above one of the best views on the Sunset Strip. The night sky and the lights of Hollywood provide a sparkling backdrop to what looks like a rich guy’s patio party. Beautiful people pack the bar, mill on the decks, and lounge on low, oversized ottomans. Those with the means or the connections occupy seating areas of silvered teak and white canvas.

Another hostess appears to welcome us to The Cabana before escorting us across the crowded main deck and up a couple steps to one of the VIP enclaves opposite the bar, but with a prime sightline to the stage. Before retreating she lifts the Reserved sign from the table, points out the bottle service menu, and promises a server will be over soon.

Matt scans the menu and then tosses it to me. “I definitely don’t need an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of Ace to feel special.”

“Lucky for Dylan and the other investors, you’re in the minority.” The place is hopping for a Sunday night, and most of the cabanas are occupied by thirty-something dudes springing for top-shelf cocktails to impress a highly curated guest list of twenty-something girls.

My cabana-mate leans back into the deep-cushioned comfort of our L-shaped sectional, crosses his arms, and stares at the stage where open mic night is in full swing. A comedian from Boston riffs about how everyone here is all sugar-free, soy-free, gluten-free. Back home he couldn’t get a blow job to save his life. Here all he has to do is slap an “organic” sticker across his balls and people line up.

It’s his big finish. Most of the audience groans. A small contingent of Boston’s buddies cheer him offstage like he’s the next Adam Sandler. Matt shakes his head. “What’s wrong with a pool table, a jukebox, Coors on tap, and a couple flat-screens over the bar tuned to ESPN?”

Just then a trio of girls stroll by. One of them tosses her hair over her shoulder and sends him a smile. He sits a little straighter.

“So you’re telling me there’s nothing about this place you like?” I challenge.

“Huh?” His gaze drifts back to me. “All right. Fine. It’s got a nice view.”

“Nicer than what you find at a place with a pool table and the game on over the bar?”

“I wouldn’t say that, but”—something on the other side of the club catches his eye—“it’s a damn fine view.”

I look to see what captured his attention, and my gaze snags on long, slender legs displayed to perfection in a short white lace skirt. Legs my deviant mind has imagined wrapped around my waist more than once. My eyes track upward. Slowly.

Kendall’s hair flows to her shoulders in loose, tumbling waves, the ends skimming the lacy edge of her strapless white top. The white plays up the platinum highlights in her hair and does amazing things for her sun-kissed skin. Although she’s trying to be inconspicuous in her out-of-the-way corner, she practically glows. The girl to her left doesn’t help. Amber occupies that barstool, a flag of color and similarly superior genes in a little red sundress and black cowboy boots. They’re both facing the stage. A quick glance down the bar tells me Matt and I are not the only guys who notice them. An instant and proprietary heat surges through me. In some secondary part of my mind I realize Dylan’s approaching the table, but I’ll catch him later. “Be right back,” I mutter, and head to the bar.

I’m halfway there when she sees me coming. She smiles before she catches herself. Graces me with an uncensored, utterly uncalculated reaction, and for as long as it lasts I feel like the only guy in the room. She locks it down as I move closer and watches me with a cautious look that lets me know I’m still at the audition stage as far as she’s concerned.

“Hey, neighbors,” I say as I draw up beside her, just to emphasize we’re not mere acquaintances. She’s wearing the pendant I gave her, and I see that as an encouraging sign. “An invitation from management has its privileges. We’ve got a cabana”—I gesture toward the spot—“reserved for Team Dixie.”

Dylan’s there now, with Matt, and he waves us over.

Kendall aims a questioning look at Amber, who answers with raised brows that answer, Isn’t this why we’re here?

“Come on.” Taking their hands, I help them from their barstools and guide them across the crowded patio to our cabana. As we walk I realize Kendall’s not wearing a s