"Wait? No ride other customer?"
"Ja, bitte," I say, which is about the extent of my German.
He frowns at me in the mirror. Looks away, blinking—coming up with his number in his head. He holds up two fingers. "Zwei hunnert."
I dig my purse out from beneath my hoodie and withdraw some cash from my wallet, showing him two hundred dollars. I give him a hundred-franc bill.
"The rest if you're still here in two hours," I tell him.
"Okay, ja. I wait." He takes the hundred and stuffs it in his hip pocket. "Two hour only. After, I go."
"Two hours," I agree. "Danke."
We pull up to the curb near the line, and he points to a parking lot down the road. "There. I wait."
I peel off the hoodie and sweatpants, switch my shoes, and fold the clothes into a pile on the seat. "See? I'll be back.”
He just nods. "Two hour."
I step out of the four-door Audi sedan and hustle to the end of the line, which is, fortunately, short…seeing as I'll be a popsicle in about ten minutes out here in this brutally cold wind.
I reach the front of the line, and the burly bouncer juts his chin at my purse, flashlight at the ready. I open my purse, keeping my ID in hand, along with a pair of 100-franc bills.
The bouncer sees my ID first, and his eyes widen at my name—as the kids of very famous parents, I'm pretty well known by name, if not always by face. Plus, my social media presence is pretty big, if I do say so myself. Then he sees my gun.
I lean close and whisper to him. "You know who I am, and you know why I need that. It's for protection only, I promise.”
The francs vanish into his meaty palm, and he nods. "Don't get me fired," he mutters in English. "You won't like it if you do."
I smile sweetly at him. "I'm a perfect little angel."
He just snorts. "My daughter follows you on TikTok."
Unfortunately, that's really all that needs to be said. I'm…notorious, I guess, for shenanigans, getting into trouble, and being an all-around nuisance. Thus, the bodyguards—they're as much to prevent me from pulling stunts exactly like this to keep me safe.
I show him my powered-off phone. "Look, it's off. I just want to have fun…Kevin." I look way up at him. "Can I call you Kevin? You look like a Kevin." I bat my eyelashes at him.
He rolls his head. "Name's Jerry. Just…stay outta trouble, okay, Ms. Harris?"
I point at the black Audi visible down the road a way. "That's my driver. I'm paying him two hundred francs to wait two hours for me, and then I'm going back to my hotel. I promise.”
He jerks his head at the club. "Go on." A big hand wraps around my wrist, and hard brown eyes fix on me. "No trouble."
I give him a saccharine smile and a cutesy little "who, me?" shrug. "Never."
I hurry inside out of the icy wind, rubbing my hands up and down my arms and then sticking my freezing fingers under my armpits.
Clicking on my heels down a low, dark, narrow hallway lit by a handful of neon signs, I descend a short set of stairs into the belly of the club. Dance music thuds and pounds, sending adrenaline and excitement surging into my veins. I'm dancing before I even hit the dance floor. I don't even need a drink, I just need this.
Sweaty bodies everywhere, the air so thick you can taste it, flesh against flesh, the rhythm pounding through you, abandoning yourself to the moment, to the music, to the palpable, unspoken unity of hundreds of people all moving to the same beat.
I dance my way through the crowd, pausing here and there to share a moment with a cute boy or two. I always move on; they're just boys.
Eventually, I find my way to a bar and order a vodka sprite and a glass of ice water, and ask the bartender for the time—I still have an hour.
Back into it.
More than a few boys try to keep my attention—sorry boys, Bryn's not on the prowl tonight. This is just for me.
