Chapter 11. Juliet, the Model
Juliet, the Model
PRESENT DAY
Juliet Stone knew the women had arrived when the volume in the club spiked, then went eerily quiet, like a collective inhaled breath.
After a moment, the pulsing music crashed back down and the bodies on the dance floor resumed writhing, but a moment was enough.
Only celebrities—people with faces that made others hush, or blink too fast, or double back for a second look—had that kind of sonic signature.
In the four years that Juliet had called Los Angeles home, she’d learned to recognize it.
The pattern allowed her to track the women even though the Serpent Room was dark and crowded.
All she had to do was follow the wave of silence and noise, like a tall, gangly bat, echolocating through the nightclub.
That was how she found the hidden VIP section, with the Serpent’s signature jade-green velvet curtains and ropes, a seductive barrier shielding the elites from the regulars.
A year ago, it would’ve crushed Juliet to acknowledge that despite all of her best efforts—four AM call times, sixteen-hour days, taking no pay on jobs in exchange for exposure, dealing with creepy/handsy/condescending photographers—she remained on the ordinary side of the rope.
But these days, she was over it. Battle-weary.
It felt like she’d spent several lifetimes trying to get her modeling career off the ground, and for all her trouble, she was probably worse off than when she’d started.
No, not probably—she was definitely worse off.
Which was why she’d come to the Serpent Room alone on a Friday night, waiting for an hour in the never-ending line outside, ready to risk humiliation, blacklisting, and maybe even a restraining order for one last moon shot at help.
The truth was, if tonight didn’t work, she wasn’t sure her life was worth continuing.
The crowd was thickest in front of the VIP section.
The lucky few dancing close to the ropes had an unfettered view and would go home tonight bragging that they’d breathed the same air as celebrities, even if those “celebs” were reality TV stars or YouTubers.
Over the dancers’ heads—and at nearly six feet tall, Juliet soared over most people’s heads—she could see a bouncer leading the women she’d come for up a flight of stairs to a large oval table on a raised platform.
It was the least hidden table in the VIP section, for which Juliet thanked her lucky stars.
A tiny woman with long dark hair and olive skin proceeded first, sliding around the table while her watchful eyes scanned the room.
The woman was beautiful, but Juliet didn’t recognize her.
She had the cool, assessing air Juliet had come to identify with Hollywood’s business class, the small army of agents and managers that stood behind the talent and siphoned away their money.
Cybele Laurent came next, a towering presence, her dark skin set aglow by a neon-orange minidress.
Juliet drew in a breath. The French Algerian model was a rising star, snagging enough editorial campaigns last season to ensure jealous gossip.
Despite hearing about her, Juliet had never gotten this close.
To say she and Cybele existed in separate worlds was a vast understatement.
Cybele was holding the hand of a pretty brunette in a feather-trimmed top, who wore a charmingly gap-toothed smile.
Juliet recognized her as Miranda Preston, an up-and-coming British fashion designer whose line had just gotten picked up at Harvey Nichols.
Juliet would’ve happily given a year of her life to headline a Miranda Preston campaign, but small-time models like her, repped by crappy, no-name agencies, didn’t stand a chance.
Her heart climbed into her throat as the next woman floated up the stairs.
Scout Sage looked exactly like she did in her music videos—tall, porcelain skin, full upper lip, long blond hair styled in gentle waves.
A group of sleek, beautiful women in tiny dresses trailed her, but Juliet only had eyes for Scout.
Scout wasn’t particularly famous—maybe infamous was the right word, at least in Juliet’s circles—but the woman practically shone in the dim club.
For a moment, Juliet wondered if there was actually such a thing as star power, and it revealed itself as a luminosity that lived under the skin.
She shook herself out of it. That was her hope talking—she was getting carried away. She needed to focus if she was going to make it past that velvet rope.
It wasn’t pretty, but Juliet managed to push her way through the dancers, despite a number of people who seemed ready to fight.
When she finally grasped hold of the velvet rope and hauled herself forward, it felt like a lifeline cast into a roiling sea.
And there it was: the VIP table. Salvation, just a few feet away.
She cupped her hands and yelled, “Cybele!”
None of the women turned.
It was messy and desperate, what she’d planned. But at this point, Juliet was both of those things. She tried again: “Cybele, please!”
Instead of Cybele, she caught the attention of the bouncer. All six foot, four inches of him lumbered in her direction.
“Scout!” She raised her voice. If she was going to get caught, she might as well throw it all on the table. “Please, I just want to talk!”
Suddenly, every head at the VIP table whipped in her direction. Juliet went dry-mouthed. So many perfectly smoked eyes studied her like she was a freak ranting on the side of a freeway. Which she supposed she was. She pushed past her humiliation and yelled, “I need your help, if you could—”
“All right, ma’am,” growled the bouncer, blocking her with his giant frame. “I need you to back up. This isn’t the way to get your fifteen minutes.”
Juliet ducked to the side. The women had already turned back to one another, dismissing her. “Scout!”
“Seriously?” The bouncer lifted his arms. “You going to make me do this? They’ll put you on social media, you know. Everyone will call you a desperate psycho.”
But Juliet was desperate. Desperate for a break, desperate for money, desperate for someone to see her, for some small piece of luck to go her way.
And she was so goddamn tired of it. She’d had no idea when she started in fashion that it was a life full of degradation, envy, mental breakdowns.
She had no dignity left, nothing to lose, so she tried one last move, bending under the bouncer’s outstretched arms and yelling for Scout.
And by some holy miracle, she locked eyes with the woman herself, the only person at the VIP table still paying attention to her. “Help,” Juliet mouthed, and then the bouncer seized her by the shoulders and lifted her away.
“Hold on.” The unmistakable voice cut across the rope. “Let her in.”
Juliet’s hands trembled as she squeezed into a chair between Cybele the model and the dark-haired businesswoman.
Every eye at the table was back on her, and the scrutiny was even more unnerving up close.
Juliet was a model, so she rubbed elbows with pretty people all the time, but it was different facing a gauntlet of ten poreless, perfectly symmetrical genetic anomalies.
This was a table of dolled-up, alien beauties, a United Colors of Benetton ad set at a nightclub, all of them waiting to see what the crazy girl would do next.
“I’m Juliet,” she said breathlessly, hating how nervous she sounded. “I promise I’m not a psycho.”
“Definitely something a psycho would say,” Cybele muttered.
“I’m Isabel,” said the dark-haired woman. Her eyes were so kind that Juliet’s shoulders relaxed. “Scout’s personal assistant.” She raised a brow at Scout, as if to say, You invited her, now what?
Scout leaned over the glossy table. “You said you needed help.” She had a mesmerizingly deep speaking voice, a contrast from her high, breathy singing voice.
Her black-rimmed eyes narrowed as she raked them over Juliet’s stringy, air-dried hair—her blow-dryer had recently broken—and her sad attempt at club wear, a black jersey dress from the clearance rack.
It wasn’t an unfriendly look—only intensely dialed-in, as if Scout were steeling herself for whatever Juliet might say next.
Juliet balled her trembling hands into fists under the table. “One day, at one of my photoshoots, I heard some girls whispering about you. They said that if a girl had a problem … they could come to you for help.”
Silence fell around the table. Juliet’s stomach plummeted. She’d gotten it wrong. She’d been so desperate she’d latched on to a stupid piece of gossip, and now she’d made a fool of herself in front of actual celebrities—
“I warned you.” Cybele leaned back in her chair and draped an arm over the back of Miranda’s. Her slight French accent gave her words a rich, rounded cadence as she pointed a claw-tipped finger at Scout. “People are talking. You need to cool it for a while.”
“I’m sorry if I said something wrong—” Juliet began, but Scout cut her off with a clipped “Not now.”
“Hiiiii, ladies,” sang a bubbly voice. The bottle service girl, a cute blond in black hot pants and a shimmery green top, bounced up to the table, holding two big bottles of champagne topped with fizzing sparklers. “Compliments of the—”
She froze mid-sentence, eyes widening at the sight of Scout. For a second, the woman stood speechless as the sparklers popped and crackled on either side of her face. Then she choked out: “How?”
The girls at the table burst into giggles. Juliet forced a nervous laugh, unsure what was happening.
“Oh my gosh, babes, don’t worry. Freaking out over her is a compliment.” Miranda Preston had the poshest British accent Juliet had ever heard. She turned to Scout. “I think this is your first superfan.”
“She could be reacting to me,” Cybele said, pouting.
“We can take a selfie with you later if you want,” offered one of the girls.
But the bottle girl quickly schooled the shock from her face and replaced it with a bright, toothy grin. “How embarrassing. My name’s Grey, and I’d love to pour you some champagne. Dom, vintage 2013, compliments of the house.”
In Juliet’s experience, smiles that bright were usually fake. She squinted at the waitress as she started pouring champagne around the table. Isabel covered her glass. “None for me, thanks.”
“You don’t drink?” Juliet was surprised.
The paparazzi pictures of Scout’s hot girl entourage always made it look like everyone was having such big, boozy fun.
They certainly had a reputation for frequenting the Serpent, which was how Juliet had known where to look for them.
It had been hard to square that party girl image with the things she’d heard about them from the whisper network.
Isabel looked down at her hands. “The last time I drank, something bad happened to someone I loved. I don’t let myself lose control anymore.”
“What she means is she doesn’t let herself have any fun,” Cybele drawled. “Izzy’s our single, celibate, sinless backseat driver. All work and no play.”
“Can you blame her for the celibacy, at least?” Miranda reapplied her Charlotte Tilbury lipstick by instinct, no need for a mirror. “There’s no ethical consumption under capitalism and no ethical way to date a straight man under the patriarchy.”
A smile curved Isabel’s mouth. “Luckily, you two don’t have that problem.”
Cybele threw her napkin, but Isabel ignored it—and as the bottle girl moved around the table, she slipped her hand over Juliet’s glass. “No champagne for her, either. Sorry,” Isabel said to Juliet. “We can’t get caught breaking the law.”
Her words seemed to freeze the bottle girl, who tried to cover it with a too-wide smile. “Of course not. God forbid.”
“How old are you, anyway?” Isabel asked. She raised a brow. “Old enough to be in this club?”
Juliet blushed. For a model, she was practically middle-aged. “Eighteen.”
Across the table, Scout’s eyes softened. “You’re just a baby.”
“My mom used to say I was an old soul.” In fact, she’d cited that when signing Juliet’s emancipation paperwork. You’re an old soul—you’ll be fine.
“Hon, I ask this with love.” Miranda leaned across the table. “But is that dress Mossimo for Target 2016?”
Juliet’s eyes widened. Her blush was scorching. Miranda’s eye was good—brutal, but good.
“We can do much better than that for you,” Miranda promised. “Just wait.”
“Her hair’s gorge, though,” said one of the women farther down the table. “Do you think I could get Franco to re-create that shade of red?”
Cybele stroked her fingers through Juliet’s hair, and Juliet was struck by the strongest sense of déjà vu, like she was back at a sleepover as a girl, a friend brushing out her hair. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her outside of work. With care.
“Who does your color?” Cybele asked Juliet.
There would be no end to her blushing tonight. “Um … no one.”
“All right, ladies,” sang the bottle girl. “Be right back with those bottles and mixers. Hang tight.” Juliet watched as she trotted down the stairs. Then the instant the server left the VIP section, the strangest thing happened.
The smile melted from her face, replaced by a look of panic.