did so sneaked a glance at Jackson and Dina. They each looked like someone had just peed in their limeade.
Sam smiled to herself. Their expressions alone were almost worth making the move to Paris and skipping USC altogether.
Almost. But not quite.
Girl of the Milennium
Saturday evening, 10:45 p.m.
“S tep away from the police line! Step away from the police line!”
A special off-duty officer of the Los Angeles Police Department, chosen by Cammie and Ben as much for his rangy good looks as his man-in-black authority, barked into a loudspeaker. “The club will not open for fifteen minutes. Step away from the police line!”
Cammie stood alone, surveying the madhouse scene outside Bye, Bye Love's second night of operation, smiling with satisfaction at the hundreds of people trying desperately to get into her club. She wore a black Azzaro by Vanessa Seward swing halter top studded with crystals, with black Imitation of Christ skinny jeans and black Jimmy Choo ankle boots with lethal-looking scarlet stiletto heels. She'd piled her strawberry blond curls on her head haphazardly, allowing a few to fall across her forehead and down her back.
Behind her stood her and Ben's brainchild, a low, squat, building, with auto-bay doors facing an asphalt tarmac, and an old-fashioned, low-rent sign announcing BYE, BYE LOVE as if it were an oil-change special. There were gas pumps in front that had been rigged up to dispense pure spring water, and the windows had been painted over—bloodred on the outside, black on the inside—to heighten the club effect.
News of Bye, Bye Love had spread like some kind of virus through the cell/text/Internet/tele-friend grapevine that was club-hopping Los Angeles. Within twenty-four hours it was
the
club, and if you didn't know about it, or you did know about it but couldn't get in, you were relegated to the great unwashed underclass of the subhip.
“We wanna get in!” a Valley denizen in a tartan micro-mini and a matching bustier wailed.
“Guest list first,” replied the rent-a-cop.
“I've been here since noon!” The Valley girl wasn't quitting.
“Yeah, we've been here since noon!” her friend joined in. She wore a cobalt blue Juicy Couture tube dress that did nothing for her dumpy figure and had VE—visible extensions, the cheap kind, glued in. Both girls screamed “before” photo in the makeover section of a fashion magazine.
“Then you can wait a little longer,” the rent-a-cop growled from behind his too-cool shades.
As if they'll get in at all
, Cammie thought with a satisfied smirk.
The Valley girls were not alone in their desire to infiltrate the club's exclusive clientele. Venice Boulevard was jammed bumper-to-bumper. The valet-parking operation that Cammie and Ben had hired already had a full lot, except for spaces being held for VIPs, so prospective parkers were being shunted off to neighborhood side streets. A five-abreast line snaked down the sidewalk to the west, which was fine, since Cammie and Ben had anticipated this chaos and arranged a special VIP entrance through the back alley. It was guarded by a phalanx of security guards to ensure that no riffraff squeezed through.
Tonight they were expecting Fergie, Gwen and Gavin, Justin, David and Posh, Kobe Bryant and his wife, Cate Blanchett, and the Duff sisters. Cammie had left explicit instructions that none of the following were to be allowed in: Paris, Lindsay, or Britney. They were overexposed. Toast. Yesterday. More buh-bye than Bye, Bye Love.
“That's Cammie Sheppard!” she heard a girl in line exclaim to her friend, pointing a fake nail in Cammie's direction. “Oh my God, she is so hot!”
“She certainly is,” a male voice intoned from behind her. Cammie turned to see Parker Pinelli coming toward her, hand in hand with a beautiful girl with fabulous chestnut hair that fell like a waterfall around her face. Cammie remembered her from last night—Citron, his apparent new girlfriend. She was happy to
Sam smiled to herself. Their expressions alone were almost worth making the move to Paris and skipping USC altogether.
Almost. But not quite.
Girl of the Milennium
Saturday evening, 10:45 p.m.
“S tep away from the police line! Step away from the police line!”
A special off-duty officer of the Los Angeles Police Department, chosen by Cammie and Ben as much for his rangy good looks as his man-in-black authority, barked into a loudspeaker. “The club will not open for fifteen minutes. Step away from the police line!”
Cammie stood alone, surveying the madhouse scene outside Bye, Bye Love's second night of operation, smiling with satisfaction at the hundreds of people trying desperately to get into her club. She wore a black Azzaro by Vanessa Seward swing halter top studded with crystals, with black Imitation of Christ skinny jeans and black Jimmy Choo ankle boots with lethal-looking scarlet stiletto heels. She'd piled her strawberry blond curls on her head haphazardly, allowing a few to fall across her forehead and down her back.
Behind her stood her and Ben's brainchild, a low, squat, building, with auto-bay doors facing an asphalt tarmac, and an old-fashioned, low-rent sign announcing BYE, BYE LOVE as if it were an oil-change special. There were gas pumps in front that had been rigged up to dispense pure spring water, and the windows had been painted over—bloodred on the outside, black on the inside—to heighten the club effect.
News of Bye, Bye Love had spread like some kind of virus through the cell/text/Internet/tele-friend grapevine that was club-hopping Los Angeles. Within twenty-four hours it was
the
club, and if you didn't know about it, or you did know about it but couldn't get in, you were relegated to the great unwashed underclass of the subhip.
“We wanna get in!” a Valley denizen in a tartan micro-mini and a matching bustier wailed.
“Guest list first,” replied the rent-a-cop.
“I've been here since noon!” The Valley girl wasn't quitting.
“Yeah, we've been here since noon!” her friend joined in. She wore a cobalt blue Juicy Couture tube dress that did nothing for her dumpy figure and had VE—visible extensions, the cheap kind, glued in. Both girls screamed “before” photo in the makeover section of a fashion magazine.
“Then you can wait a little longer,” the rent-a-cop growled from behind his too-cool shades.
As if they'll get in at all
, Cammie thought with a satisfied smirk.
The Valley girls were not alone in their desire to infiltrate the club's exclusive clientele. Venice Boulevard was jammed bumper-to-bumper. The valet-parking operation that Cammie and Ben had hired already had a full lot, except for spaces being held for VIPs, so prospective parkers were being shunted off to neighborhood side streets. A five-abreast line snaked down the sidewalk to the west, which was fine, since Cammie and Ben had anticipated this chaos and arranged a special VIP entrance through the back alley. It was guarded by a phalanx of security guards to ensure that no riffraff squeezed through.
Tonight they were expecting Fergie, Gwen and Gavin, Justin, David and Posh, Kobe Bryant and his wife, Cate Blanchett, and the Duff sisters. Cammie had left explicit instructions that none of the following were to be allowed in: Paris, Lindsay, or Britney. They were overexposed. Toast. Yesterday. More buh-bye than Bye, Bye Love.
“That's Cammie Sheppard!” she heard a girl in line exclaim to her friend, pointing a fake nail in Cammie's direction. “Oh my God, she is so hot!”
“She certainly is,” a male voice intoned from behind her. Cammie turned to see Parker Pinelli coming toward her, hand in hand with a beautiful girl with fabulous chestnut hair that fell like a waterfall around her face. Cammie remembered her from last night—Citron, his apparent new girlfriend. She was happy to
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