Chapter Five - Scarlett
The car rolls up to a blacked-out brick building, sleek and dramatic, with a golden neon sign above the door that reads The Golden Sparrow. It’s the first time in years I haven’t whipped out my Uber app to get from a to b.
Okay, Dawson’s, this is fancy—even for you.
Shell and I are standing on the curb, waiting in line like peasants.
I’m in a black knit mini dress with thigh-high leather boots, doing my best to look like I belong here—a little bit Sydney city girl but not enough to stick out like a sore thumb.
My ass and my breakfast are this close to making an appearance, though.
Shell, on the other hand, is a walking thirst trap in a cream coloured bodycon dress that hugs her in all the right places, paired with sleek black pumps that make her just a little taller than me.
I should resent her for it, but honestly, if I had her legs, I’d be insufferable too.
Shell’s giving me a run for my money in the city meets Dawson’s Ridge department.
“So, what’s the vibe in there?” I ask, tugging at the hem of my dress to make sure I’m not flashing anyone. A few shots of my little friend tequila and I’ll forget all about that.
“I’ve only been twice, but it’s dark, moody, and you can sit and sip cocktails, eat tapas, or hit the dance floor,” she says, grinning like she’s just won the friend lottery.
Then, she leans in conspiratorially. “It’s the spot right now because—” she pauses for dramatic effect “—the Ridgebacks like to frequent the VIP section.” She winks.
Ah. Now I see why she’s so excited—and why the line is full of over-dressed, overly-excited women and of course some men.
We wait. And wait. And wait. It’s been ten minutes of mindless chit-chat, and the line has barely moved.
I shift on my heels, then step out of line to peek around and see how far we actually are from the entrance.
That’s when my eyes lock on someone standing near the front door politely smiling and wooing the door hostess.
He looks at me, does a double take, and then leans in to whisper something to one of the hosts before disappearing inside.
Wait. Was that Collins?
This club better be the best damn club I’ve ever set foot in because I am too sober to be standing on a cold street corner in thigh-high leather boots.
Alcohol really has become my go to warmer and my go to forget me not serum these last few years.
I’ve earned that “party girl” title they seem to plaster me with in the social elite pages in the Sydney Gazette.
“Shell, how are we getting ahead of this line, babe? I am not built for waiting.”
Shell just shrugs, clearly as unimpressed as I am. “Well… where else can we go?”
Before I can think of a response, a small voice pipes up behind me. “Excuse me, are you Coach Walker’s daughter?”
Hallelujah. I never thought I’d be so happy to hear those words.
“I sure am,” I say, beaming. Then, in my most convincing voice, I gesture to Shell. “And this is his PA.”
The hostess nods. “One of the Ridgebacks spotted you in line. You ladies don’t need to wait—you’re on our VIP list.”
From behind us, someone groans. Another voice mutters something about us being nothing special.
A third person yells, “Groupies!”
I spin around and flip them off with a sweet little kiss my ass gesture. See ya! Wouldn’t wanna be ya.
The hostess quickly ushers us to the front, adds our names to the list, and just like that, we’re stepping into the dimly lit, velvet-draped world of The Golden Sparrow.
Ooh la la.
Okay, I’ll admit it—it’s cute. The whole place is giving 1920s speakeasy meets underground jazz club vibes.
Red velvet curtains frame the entrance, high and low tables are scattered around, and the wooden dance floor is bathed in moody lighting.
Near the bar, a woman sings from inside a gilded birdcage, and her voice sends a ripple of chills down my spine.
Yeah. I like it. This is the kind of spot I’d frequent in Sydney with Jen.
Shell grabs my arm and leans in. “Ooh, there they are.”
She subtly gestures to the VIP section, where—sure enough—five Ridgebacks are sitting in a roped-off booth, sipping what looks like a jug of lemonade.
“Wait, they don’t drink?” I ask, raising a brow.
Shell smirks. “They can’t. You know—rules and all. Your dad would kill them.”
Yeah, she’s got a point. Old Ted barely tolerates them being out at places like this. Better behaved than some of the players I manage.
I scan the booth. I recognise three of them—Collins, so that is who spotted us in line, Jace, the team’s golden boy the one from the billboard and Benji. Peyton’s there too, all of them long-term contracted locals. The other two must be newcomers.
But no Asher.
A little wave of disappointment ripples over me.
Great. All dressed up, looking hot, and for what? A wasted outfit.
Ugh. Annoying.
“Let’s get a drink, Shell. And some food. I am starving.”
We quickly claim a booth and slide on in.
We’ve hit the jackpot—perfect angle for prime people-watching, yet just far enough from the songbird in the golden cage.
Or should I say, the Golden Sparrow herself.
Bless her heart, she is really good. At least over here, we can just barely hear ourselves think, let alone talk.
I scan the QR code and dive straight to the cocktails. Tonight calls for something fancy, French martinis. Oui oui, très chic. Without hesitation, I order four—two for me, two for Shell—and toss in some chips and chicken tenders—for you know good measure.
Now’s the perfect opportunity to suss out Shell and figure out our friendship dynamic. Is she here as Dad’s undercover informant, or is she going to be Team Scarlett?
“So,” I start casually, waving my hand around dramatically at the too chic for Dawson’s Golden Sparrow crowd. “What brings you to this sleepy little town?”
Our waitress approaches with our drinks already. Impressive speed. I do like my cocktails to come fast, unlike my choice in men, funnily enough.
Shell laughs softly, raising her glass to mine. “Honestly, I’ve always dreamed of working in sports. Eventually, I’d love to tackle the marketing side, but this gig pays well and feels surprisingly chill.”
I hold up my glass dramatically. “Oui oui, to new friendships and French martinis!”
“Oui oui indeed, babe,” she echoes, giggling into her drink. Okay I definitely like her, and I feel I can trust her. “But seriously, your dad’s a pretty laid-back boss. I mean, I’m technically on call, but most of the time, I’m free to do whatever.”
I nearly choke on my sip. “Dad and chill in the same sentence? Now, that’s a first.”
Shell grins knowingly. “Oh, I’ve seen him unleash his inner dragon on the boys. He’s got quite the temper.”
She flicks her eyes subtly toward the door, then shifts the spotlight back onto me. Odd, she’s probably seen someone she knows “But enough about work. What about you, Scarlett Walker? Beyond the whole agent-to-the-stars thing, who are you really?”
I take a dramatic pause, sipping thoughtfully.
“Let’s see. Single, Taurus, fiercely independent—but now, ready to chill out a bit and see who Dad really is these days, you know, since Mum passed.
” My voice dips slightly at the mention of Mum.
“I’ve been so consumed by work that I haven’t been around as much as I should’ve been. How’s Dad really been?”
Shell offers a gentle smile, her eyes sincere. “He’s doing better now. But yeah, some days were rough. I’d sit at the house working in silence, while he just… sat there, barely noticing me.”
Guilt twists uncomfortably in my gut. Way to earn daughter-of-the-year, Scarlett. Slow clap.
I offer a small warm smile “I’m back now and I really want him to open up to me so I’m going to do what I can, and I know nothing gets him talking more than football and my line of work.
I think it’ll be the perfect combo to fix what I broke.
” I drain the residue from my first French martini and the night and this new friendship with Shelley is looking oh so promising.
As predicted, the evening picks up speed—and laughs—as the cocktails keep flowing.
Shell and I rapidly transition from awkward acquaintances to giggly besties, armed with inside jokes and relentless banter.
Tonight’s entertainment, watching a particularly hopeless man we have affectionately dubbed Casanova strike out from table to table with his near pitiful attempts to wooh women.
“Oh God, incoming,” I mutter, desperately biting back laughter as Casanova struts our way. “Hello, ladies,” he drawls with misguided confidence. “I’m only passing through, but I’d love to take a lucky lady home tonight.”
I lose it immediately, bursting into laughter.
The level of sleazineness takes me back to the way Jason would act around other women, the way he thought he commanded a room, and all eyes of the opposite sex were on him.
Little did I know all eyes were on me—feeling sorry for me and what I didn’t know was happening behind my back.
“Cass—can I call you Cass?—there’s a reason you’ve been skating between tables solo tonight.
That pick-up line was aggressively sleazy. ”
Shell gasps, choking on her martini, eyes watering with laughter. “My name’s Brendan,” he sputters weakly. Clearly unimpressed with my joke—if he even gets it.
Shell cracks up further. “Seriously? That’s all you took from what she said?”
“Well, ladies, how would you suggest I improve?” Brendan counters desperately with a wink almost as sleazy as his first pickup line.
Without missing a beat, I reply, eyes glued mischievously on Shell, “Well, Cass, you could start by buying a girl a—”