Page 16 of Worth the Scandal
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 readsThe Golden Sparrow. It’s the first time in years I haven’t whipped out myUberapp to get from a to b.
Okay, Dawson’s, this is fancy—even for you.
One side of the street is packed with people waiting to get in, while the other has a red velvet rope and a sign that simply reads Guest List. The scent of smoke, expensive cologne, and regret wafts through the door every time the club security lets a new group in. It reminds me of this little hole in the wall bar Jen, and I frequented with like $5 vodka sodas. I really wish Jen packed herself in my suitcase.
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.”
