Fastidio's

The thing about "exclusive clubs," Sophia realizes, is that you won't even know it's there. Technically, you'll know: there's a little door, above which the word "FASTIDIO" seems to have been paint-stenciled in black against the teal of the entire wall, there's a huge bouncer who looks like Brock Lesnar from UFC standing by the door and sort of filtering the strays from the invited. But that's it. There's none of the flashy, screaming neons of the kind of clubs Sophia used to know. And despite the obviously moneyed crowd—the alley leading to Fastidio's door is lined with the kind of cars you drive if you have a boatload of money but a small penis—Brock is undaunted: unless you flash the all-too-important red invite, you're nothing but a fly on the cup cake he needs to swat.

Which is what's making Sophia's life hell for the past minute. She was so nervous when she had stepped into the shadow of the colossus, not to mention she had been nervous all along—from choosing what to wear to ultimately deciding to actually come at all—that when Brock Lesnar the Bouncer slowly motioned with an up-facing palm and grunted, it took her ten gazillion years to realize he was asking about the invite. Scenes from her entire life flash before her; the montage slow-mos and abruptly stops and freezes at that frame when she sees the red invite on the bedside table and decides she doesn't have to bring it along. After all, Brad Silverstone "knows" her, right? They're like two peas in a pod, right?

Wrong.

"Err, can you just tell, uhh, the management that my name's Sophia. Sophia Masterson. I'm sure they keep a list of guests inside?"

Brock Lesnar's language is probably called Snarl, because that's what he has been doing in the past 30 seconds: snarl, grunt, shake his head, snarl, grunt, nod his head. At the moment, he's giving his slowest, most ponderous shake of the head at Sophia's suggestion.

Behind her, a line is forming, and the phrase "stupid bitch" has been mentioned quite a few times. Sophia protests. "But I personally know Brad Silverstone. He owns this place. He'll tell you. I'm sure he's inside."

Brock stares at her as if she's the saddest creature he has ever seen in his entire gym-trained existence. He doesn't need to shove her aside: she's suddenly invisible. His gaze shifts toward the next person in the line: a suave-looking gentleman in a black suit.

If Brock Lesnar behaved towards her like one of those hounds from hell, before this gentleman, the bouncer is as submissive as a puppy. And he talks, too! "Pardon the delay, Mister Silverstone," says The Bouncer Formerly Known as Snarl. "We're having a lot of strays trying to get in."

"The girl over there," Sophia hears the voice and it's filled with warmth, or empathy. Or so she imagines. "Is she, as you'd call it, a 'stray', too?"

The bouncer hesitates. "Unfortunately, sir. I believe yes, she is."

"She doesn't seem deserving, in any fucking way, of your kind of treatment. Wouldn't you agree?"

The bouncer stammers words that sound like the whimpering of a puppy.

Sophia feels a gloved hand gently touching her elbow. She turns and sees a face you often associate with the line, "I love fast cars and loose women." But there's something else, something about that smile, the way the sides of that mouth crease, a subtle message that reads, "I've been there, done that, and I'm tired of all the bullshit."

"This place would be much more interesting if you're in it," the gentleman says.

"I've actually lost the appetite," Sophia says, still feeling the sting of humiliation, "for whatever this is."

"No, please. Don't let that underpaid"—a quick, angry jerk of a thumb in the bouncer's direction—"Over-muscled fucking bonehead change your mind and dry up your appetite." He offers a hand. "Alexander Silverstone III, at your service. But please, like my friends, just call me Alex."

Sophia thinks about it as she tentatively shakes his hand, or at least, lets her hand shaken. She decides, why not, this Alex might just save this night from total disaster. And besides, she hasn't seen Brad, yet—it has been a week since she last saw him, and the ache from the pits of her soul is starting to gnaw—"gnaw." That's a word for the English class—into whatever delicate flesh her heart is made of.

Alex takes her hand and wraps it around his arm. They pass by the bouncer, who, miraculously, makes that obsequious bow Sophia saw everybody that was not Brad Silverstone do at the grand Silverstone household. Alex stops right in the bouncer's face. "And you, Ill-mannered, Un-astute Filterer of 'Strays' and 'Invitees', go find a new fucking job."

The bouncer stands there, uncertain whether he's actually being fired on the spot, or he's being merely served a rhetorical statement.

Alexander Silverstone III reads the bouncer's mind. "It's not a rhetorical fucking statement. You're fired."

The Bouncer Formerly Known as Snarl bows so gently that it would not have disturbed a sleeping butterfly, then he shuffles from sight and into the pits of the alley's darkness.

Sophia's inner sense of goodness and righteousness is shaken. "You didn't have to say that to that poor bouncer person."

Alex nods. They have entered Fastidio's, and so far, everything she's seeing is nothing but regular night club scenes. "Yes, I didn't have to. But I can, can't I? He certainly did enjoy the power he wielded—at least while it lasted. I also do enjoy mine. I'm sure he won't take offense for a dose of his own medicine, as the older folks say."

"Did you say you're a Silverstone?"

The man smiles. "Yes. The youngest brother of Brad's father. I'm his uncle, in plain language. I heard you say you knew Brad personally, and you did seem to be a nice, honest person—I'm a good judge of character, a trait our door filter unfortunately sorely lacked—that I knew you were not lying through your teeth just to have a foot inside the door."

They take champagne from a passing server.

"So what's your association with Brad?"

Cold champagne burbles down her throat. It makes everything seem carefree. "Believe it or not, I'm her English teacher."

"Oh." Alex stops and scans her from head to toe. "I now understand why Brad extended the invite."

Intrigue perks up Sophia's ears. "Why so?"

"Well, you're a lovely young woman. And you look smart, too. Isn't it true that only smart people become teachers?"

Sophia stifles the urge to say, "That's not exactly true. You should meet the clacking hens and crusty old farts in my school." But she decides to just smile and turn on the charm. "If that's a compliment, then thank you for that."

"Yes, it is. Indeed, it is." Alex Silverstone, all four decades of him, nods as if weighing just now the significance of the compliment he has given. "But still, forgive my nephew Brad for bungling an invite as obviously important as the one he had extended to you. If I were him, I would have posted my most trusted butler at the door to await your arrival, and not leave anything to chance. What with those imbeciles guarding that little light at the edge of the tunnel." He laughs; immaculate white teeth, too tiny and delicate-looking for a man, gleams in the half-darkness.

"It's really okay. I could have just left. No big deal. I came because I was invited and I thought, it's not everyday that I get to rub elbows with the powers-that-be."

"Some powers-that-be, eh?" Alex makes a dismissive gesture with his champagne glass. "Look at this lot. Hangers on, ass-kissers, boot-lickers, and whores. The real power is in people like you who think shit like this is no big deal. What did you say your name was, again?"

"It's Sophia." Chemical warmth nestles in Sophia's belly and stays there. She doesn't remember where she placed the empty champagne glass. A server passes by and she grabs another one.

"Yes, Sophia, yes. Lovely name to match a lovely face. You know what, I actually thought you were that famous pop singer. Which was shocking for me because exclusive Silverstone events like this one only attracts the likes of Kim Kardashian. Too sad, yes, but still, I couldn't help but mention shit like that."

Sophia feels the conversation is descending into the pit of bleakness. Alexander Silverstone is a handsome, middle-age-y guy, almost like the playboy type, but he turns out to be too jaded for his own good. She tries to clutch at straws to enliven things up. "I'm totally new to this exclusive club thingy," she says. "Tell me, Alex. Why is this club considered 'exclusive'? What's so exclusive about it?"

"Exclusive means all the other unwanted members of society are excluded." Alex trains his sad eyes at her. "Ah, let me delight you with a story." He drains the champagne into his mouth. He looks around and finds no server. He ponders his empty glass. "My brother, Brad's father, loves hanging out with people who think almost exactly like him. Which is to say, people whose sole preoccupation is to make boatloads of money. In their spare time, when they're not making money, they talk about how to make more. He'd establish gentlemen's clubs as often as he creates corporations and manufactories. He prefers hanging out with other important decision makers in these clubs just to shoot shit, unwind, relax, let their guard down. But the real purpose, of course, is to forge business connections. And connections are easier to forge when you're in a carefree environment. Brad, on the other hand, has picked on only the 'exclusive' part and not the 'forging new business connections' part. Hence, clubs like this one with a pretentious cunt of a name like 'Fastidio's'. Imagine that. Fastidio's. Make no mistake—I love that nephew of mine, but I'm only here to watch a kid play with his toys. Because, more often than not, I also get to play with them."

"I don't understand."

Alex smiles and puts his arm around her. "Brad loves his women and those ass-kissers he calls 'friends'. For example, Exhibit A, to your left." Alex nods to his left and points at it with his mouth. Sophia follows his line of vision to see Brad surrounded with beautiful women. One of the girls, whose breasts are so huge they almost spill over her dress, is leaning so close to Brad's ear and seems to be whispering something so utterly important. But Brad laughs and waves her off and turns his attention to another girl, who is only too thrilled to get 15 seconds of eyeball time from the Prince.

"See? That's Brad swimming gloriously in his 'exclusive' little pond."

Seeing Brad nestled amid gorgeous half-naked women is like someone throwing a bucket of cold water to her face. Yet, it has the opposite physical effect. The walls bend inward and wobble. Something that feels funny in Sophia's belly seems intent on exiting through her mouth. She reels, but more from whatever is making a choking grasp at her heart than about anything else. "Excuse me." She tries to find her way out the way they came in. She hears Alex's voice Doppler-shift to blue behind her. At the door, she bumps into a gaggle of giggling girls screeching obscenities at the newly installed door guard. The night's fresh air brings her back to her senses. It takes her a minute to remember where she had parked the car: all the way down the next block, right in front of a pizza place. She feels nothing. Actually, she feels silly, angry, dejected, defeated, and all those ugly, little dark feelings that nestle in your heart your whole life and only crawl out the moment someone pops your bubble. She's incredibly jealous of the girls clawing at Brad, nibbling bits of him, drinking up and getting drunk even from such fleeting attention. But even while she admits this to herself, she's acutely aware of the inappropriateness of it all—why should she care? Why does she even think of Brad in these silly possessive terms? What would Derek say or feel about this? Is Brad the fantasy that has gotten too real? Right now, there are two Sophias: one who's angry and jealous, and another one who is angry at the stupid, regrettable feelings the other has allowed herself to entertain. And to think she even dressed up for this. Stupid fucking bitch.

The key to the car's door wouldn't work. It wouldn't even get in.

"Hey, why are you leaving?"

She turns around and sees Brad—only this time without those bitches—panting from the effort of running after her.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" The key finally works. She slips into her car and bangs the door shut.

"Will you come back, please? I don't understand this."

She looks up at him through the half-opened window. Her gaze is steel, sharpened with fresh dejection. "If you don't understand this, then you all the more deserve this."

The road ahead is a wide open, empty space. Sophia slams her foot on the gas. But a glance at the rear-view mirror—seeing Brad standing miserably in that empty lot—pokes something in her heart and makes her almost hit the brakes. Almost. This is wrong, Sophia thinks. And it ends tonight. Sophia gear-shifts and flies past Fastidio's at 90 miles an hour, leaving the crowd by the club's entrance choking on her dust.