Chapter 2 I'll become

patrons-men of wealth and power, their conversations just a tick below a roar-relax with the ease of the privileged. In the corner, a crystal glass holds a golden liquid that catches the light in a special way, the clink of ice against glass a subtle soundtrack to smirks and sidelong glances. The room is filled with comfortable tables and chairs, and a brilliantly lit bar adorns the back wall. I notice a stage for the girls to dance on. I'll be dancing there this month, too, I think nervously.

This-this is where I'll become her... The waitress with dreams of dancing, the character I'm supposed to play. A part of me, the part that's always been too idealistic, is already embracing her: with every step across the plush carpet and marble floors, every nerve ending is alive with the hum of potential. I can do this, I'm sure of it! The hostess drops me to the edge of the bar, where I'm supposed to meet the man at the top of the totem pole at the Sapphire Club: Simon Sinclair. His name resonates with power within these walls, and he's the man who's given me this opportunity as a favor to the film's director. Simon is the lead investor and developer of the Sapphire Club, and has expanded the gentlemen's club nationally. He has his hands in many different types of investments, including film and music, commercial real estate, and I've heard, even oil. He's quite the icon, and he seems to know everyone. Simon suddenly emerges from the shadows, as if he's materialized from the very essence of the club-impeccable suit, piercing eyes, and a presence that demands you know exactly who he is. He's a handsome man in his fifties, with slicked-back hair and an expensive watch. He looks like he's just stepped out of a spa, his skin is radiant and smooth, his body moves like a jaguar. "Miss Alexander," Simon greets me with a handshake that's as much a proclamation of welcome as it is a warning. "Welcome to the Sapphire Club. This will be a month to remember, I'm sure. Stephen has told me all about his upcoming film and your role. This will be a great place for you to understand and develop this role, trust me."

I'm always happy to help Hollywood," he says in a powerful voice. "I promised to keep the movie a secret. Only Max, the bartender, and I know who you really are and why you're here. We must keep Stephen's secret, mustn't we?" "Yes, we must. Mr. Sinclair, thank you. Thank you for the opportunity. I won't let you down." "I trust your accommodations are to your satisfaction?" "They're perfect," I assure him, though I haven't seen the room yet. It's all part of the dance-the play of gratitude and enthusiasm. I learned all about it in Hollywood. His smile is the curve of a new moon-light, promising. "We'll make sure this is a mutually beneficial situation. You have one month, Miss Alexander. Our guests expect the best. Treat them like kings, titans. Max will give you pointers," he says, gesturing to a strong-looking bartender. "Learn quickly, Brandy." "I will." My words are an oath. I've never been afraid of hard work; it's as much a part of me as the dreams that brought me here. I worked hard on the ranch in Wyoming where I grew up. I worked hard in acting classes. And I worked hard on my first small television show in Los Angeles that led to this opportunity. Never mind that I worked from dawn to dusk in Los Angeles, memorizing lines at night before the next early morning call. I've had little personal life in Los Angeles since I left Wyoming, but I'm excited. The cameras, the drama, the acting, the magic of entertainment, TV and movies. It's always been my dream. But the nerves flicker inside me like the subtle flames in the ornate fireplaces against the walls. This is my first film role, and a big break. Will I be able to portray a complicated cocktail waitress and exotic dancer convincingly? I'll have to bare my breasts for several dances in the film, and that makes me nervous.

But to learn and overcome any fears-that's why I'm here-to watch, to do. Simon Sinclair now leads me into the heart of the lounge-the large bar, backlit and glowing like an oasis. It's a grand structure, all polished wood and glass, gleaming bottles, mirrors and twinkling lights, a beacon for the rich and disillusioned. And presiding over this realm of spirits and secrets is Max. "Let me introduce you to Max," Simon says as he leads me to the bar. "This is his domain, and he'll help guide you, especially in your early stages as a cocktail waitress. He knows everything that goes on, runs the room, oversees everything." "Max, meet Brandy Alexander." Simon Sinclair nods to Max, a silent transaction of trust. "Max is the best of us," he tells me, "and I sense that praise from Sinclair doesn't come easily. "He'll show you the ropes, make sure you're ready for your role. The other staff and girls will think you're a new hire-they don't know you're here to learn for your movie." We keep our secrets, don't we, Max?" "Yes, we do," he says in a deep, solid voice. Then he looks at me and says, "Stay with me, girl, and you'll be fine." The fake whisper makes me smile. Max has the kind of charm that's simultaneously disarming, strong, and refined. He holds out his hand to me, a look spreading across his features that tells stories of a thousand nights within these walls. I notice the tattoos on his outstretched arm and the thick muscles. With a firm handshake and a look that seems to see right through the nerves I'm trying so hard to mask, he calms me instantly. "I heard you're joining us for a month, Brandy," Max says, his voice deep and his demeanor so much like my brother's back in Wyoming. I nod, grateful for the friendliness that comes so naturally to him

. "Your secret's safe with me," he says with a wink. I smile at him. It's clear Max commands respect here. The waitresses now glide up to the bar, checking in with him before returning to the crowd with the grace of dancers. The patrons watch our interaction with some interest; Max is clearly a fixture of the room and possibly its master of ceremonies. He moves with an efficiency that is effective, pouring drinks with precision while never missing a beat in our conversation or what is happening in the room. I learn that Max is more than a bartender-he is the thread woven into the social tapestry of the club, the one who knows all and tells very little, a keeper of the moods and needs of the Sapphire Club's elite clientele. His watchful eyes miss nothing, surveying his domain with a sense of pride and subtle command. There is a powerful ease to his presence that is comforting in the intimidating opulence. He begins my unofficial training right away, testing me on different drinks, sharing insights into what many of the patrons like to drink, things I might suggest, revealing just enough to pique my interest but never too much.

I'm not much of an alcohol person, but my homework paid off. I studied all the different types of liquor, I know what they are, what goes into cocktails, which brands are the best, everything a good cocktail waitress at a high-end club should know. Plus, it didn't hurt that my rancher father knew good whiskey and wine, and collected them. And cognac. The