unless you think my pink Timberlands would work with this look.”
“I guess the pumps are going to have to do. I don’t know how you balance on those tiny pin-pricks you call feet, anyway,” she said with a comical glare that had the two of them bursting into giggles. Angie’s feet were two sizes bigger than Lilah’s—and Angie all but hated her for it.
Lilah piled her light brown hair atop her head in one of those sloppy knots she’d seen in magazines. She was going for an air of elegant maturity. She silently prayed she didn’t look the way she felt—like a little girl playing dress-up.
Physically, Lilah hadn’t changed much since high school. She still got carded on a regular basis. With her clear champagne complexion, no makeup and her honey-brown hair worn loose, she was a dead ringer for sixteen.
It would be a few more years before Lilah felt being mistaken for someone younger could actually be flattering instead of mildly annoying. Her tiny, soft voice did nothing to help matters. That was why Lilah relied on makeup and a severe topknot to force clients to take her seriously. She also tried as hard as possible not to be bubbly.
Angie, on the other hand, epitomized bubbly. Add that to her two-toned Macy Gray fro and funky homemade clothes, and people frequently underestimated her wickedly keen mind.
Angie in her typical statement-making fashion, was wearing a skintight vinyl tube that passed as a dress. With this she wore black leggings and multicolored paint-splattered boots, under a long dark coat straight from The Matrix. With her orange curling Afro frosted at the tips, her hair radiated from her head like rays of sunshine.
“Okay, are you ready to hear my strategy?” Angie asked later as they rode to the Flatiron District in a taxi. The late October night air had just enough bite for them to need overcoats, but it wasn’t cold enough for gloves and scarves yet.
“I can’t wait,” Lilah answered, deflated. She wasn’t looking forward to this adventure. In fact, considering the way her trip had begun, she was convinced this entire outing would be a disaster.
“Listen up, I have a three-tiered plan to get us past the doorman. Phase one, and the least likely to work, we flash our brilliant smiles and sweetly ask to be let in.”
“If that’s unlikely to work, Angie, why is it even part of the plan?”
“Because we’re attractive women—we’re armed with mother nature’s tools. It never hurts to try them out.”
Lilah rolled her eyes. “What’s phase two?”
“We drop the high school connection.”
“What?”
“We tell the bouncer we went to high school with Reggie Martin.”
That gave Lilah a start. She hadn’t seen Reggie since high school graduation. Would he even remember her?
She took a deep breath. Of course he would. She’d spent countless hours in his house for their tutoring sessions. He usually turned up an hour or so after she did, which gave her plenty of time to take in personal details and talk to his family about him.
And he’d been so nice to her. He always made sure she had a ride home with his brother whenever he couldn’t take her himself. He would even confide in her about his family problems.
But what would she say to him after all these years? Suddenly The List sounded so juvenile. Hopefully, he wouldn’t laugh in her face.
“Please tell me phase three is a real winner. Otherwise I suggest we turn this cab around and go have a nice dinner. I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Phase three is a sure thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“Filet mignon.”
“You agree we should go for dinner?”
“No, that’s the code word.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Apparently all bouncers know this code word. It means let us in immediately, we’re very important people.”
“And just where did you get this information?”
She pointed out the window. “Look, we’re almost there.”
“No changing the subject. Where did you hear this?”
Angie sighed. “The Internet.”
Lilah’s spine snapped straight. “Driver!”
Angie grabbed her arm and covered Lilah’s mouth. “Shh. This is going to work. You’ll see.”
Lilah climbed out of the cab, her legs trembling ever so slightly. “This is going to be so humiliating.”
Angie gripped her elbow and started marching her forward. “You know the drill. Say everything with confidence and authority, and you’ll have those bouncers eating out of your hand.”
They approached a tall, dark-skinned man with dreadlocks and a black leather trench coat. “Hi, we’re here for the party,” Angie said brightly.
The man frowned at her. “We don’t open to the public until after midnight tonight. We have a private party going on,” he answered with a thick Jamaican accent.
“That’s right,” Angie continued. “We’re here for the party.”
The man just shook his head.
“We’re meeting our high school friend Reggie here. Reggie Martin.”
The man pointed over Angie’s shoulder to the long line stretching down the block.
“What’s that line for?”
“Dat’s for everyone who wants to be let in after midnight.”
“But it’s only eight-thirty.”
His gaze remained cold.
“By the way,” Angie said finally. “We’re filet mignon.”
The bouncer glared at her. “Really, ’cuz you look more like chopped liver.” He turned to Lilah. “And this one barely looks over eighteen. Don’t try flashing dem fake IDs ’round here. I can spot ’em a mile away.”
“Now wait a minute,” Lilah said, finally finding her voice. “There’s no need to be rude. I realize you probably hear a lot of creative stories from people trying to scam their way into the club. And I’m certain it’s no fun to have people approach you like they own the world and expect to be treated like it. But you don’t look like the kind of gentleman whose mother raised him to disrespect women.”
Lilah resisted the urge to giggle at the look of wide-eyed chagrin on his face. “I…uh…I—”
“Please tell me you’re not giving my friends a hard time,” a deep masculine voice called out behind them.
Lilah froze in place. She knew that voice. It couldn’t be—
She turned and found herself looking up into a pair of deep-brown eyes. He towered over her at six-foot-four and was dressed in a black winter coat over an impeccably tailored, dark suit. His crisp, white shirt was open at the collar.
All of Lilah’s words stuck in her throat.
“Mr. Martin, my apologies,” the bouncer said, opening the rope for them to pass through.
Chapter 3
As he guided the two women past the entryway, Tyler Martin was pleased to have done his good deed for the day.
He hated velvet ropes, bouncers, celebrity parties and all the air kisses and fake smiles that went along with them. Helping these girls get past that thick-necked jerk redeemed some of the self-respect he’d lost profiting from this life.
But, on second glance, Tyler realized