Page 50 of All Signs Point to Malibu

He follows me inside and we approach the owner, Darren Brooks, who’s standing with his back to us. He’s jamming to something, but it’s definitely not what’s playing inside the club—loud hip-hop. Darren stacks glasses behind the bar. He’s dressed in a tight black T-shirt with the bar logo on the back—one I helped him choose—and jeans, likely held up by his signature horseshoe belt buckle.

At least he lost the cowboy hat.

We stop at the bar and I call out. “Brooks!”

He can’t hear me. Earbuds in his ears.

I lean across the bar and, in the mirror behind it, catch Warren checking out my ass. I want to be offended or call him out, but instead, I flex my ass cheeks tighter.

I tap Darren on the shoulder and he jumps as he swings around.

I send him a sheepish look as his hand flies to his chest and he pulls one earbud out. “Hailey, Jesus. Kill a guy why don’t you.”

“Sorry,” I say, picking up the dangling earbud and holding it to my ear. “Whatcha’ listening to?” As if I need to ask. Darren is a huge country music fan and amateur performer. When he first came to me, he wanted to open a country saloon with open mic nights and a mechanical bull, featuring wet T-shirt contests and BBQ tailgates in the parking lot.

Unfortunately, the location he’d already signed a lease on was in the middle of Silverlake...not exactly Nashville or even the slightest bit Southern-ish.

Convincing him that a hip-hop club would be more suitable to the trendy location had taken some major convincing, with focus group studies and a real breakdown of economics in the area, but eventually, he conceded that it was the better play.

Now he wears ear pods to block out what he calls “chaotic noise with repetitive beats and uninspired lyrics.”

As I expected, twangy country music fills my head when I hold the earbud near my ear. The song, about a guy who lost his girl and is now keeping a whiskey label in business, sounds like a dozen others on the radio, but I’d never offend his “religion” by voicing my opinion.

I smile as I hand the earbud back. “Still not a convert, huh?”

“The day I enjoy this—” he gestures around, indicating the music “—put a bullet in me,” he says with a deep Southern twang that the customers love. At least the ladies. The clientele may not be on board with country music but they love a country boy.

I laugh and introduce Warren. “Darren, this is Warren Mitchell...” Though I’m not sure why I thought an introduction would be at all necessary. Darren’s staring at Warren as though a god has entered the building. “Football fan?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, extending a hand to Warren.

Warren shakes it. “Nice to meet you. Nice place,” he says scanning the bar.

It’s more than nice. With its purple velvet interior and dark mahogany wood accents, expensive crystal chandeliers and modern artwork, Brooks’s Bar is elegant, sleek, upscale, and trendy. It’s reservation only on weekends and packed every night of the week. Bottle service costs these Gen Z kids their rent money, but this is the place to be seen on the coast. The clientele are the youngest, hottest up-and-coming musicians, actors, and models in LA. And the staff rival the patrons for most eye-catching.

The marketing and promotion on this place when it first opened nearly bankrupted Darren, and at first I was a little nervous...but it worked like a charm. The grand opening had A-listers flocking to the purple velvet rope—which had a lot to do with my calling in my previous clients—but the following week, Darren didn’t need any staging to give the appearance of exclusive. The place was a hit.

Just like I’d seen in my glimpse.

“Thanks,” Darren says. “It’s not exactly my aesthetic, but it draws a crowd.”

I hear the hint of disappointment in his voice and have to remind myself that Darren owns his own yacht. Sympathy for what he “gave up” only goes so far when he’s living a lush life.

“Drink?” he asks us.

I glance at Warren, but he shakes his head. “We’re good. We were just wondering if we could book DJ Scale for an event this weekend?”

He looks uncertain. “He’s one of the bigger draws—which night?”

“Actually, it’s an afternoon thing. Early evening at the latest. He’ll be back in the booth by seven.” I’d never consider asking if I thought it would interfere with the club. I’ll call in favors from one client to the next, but not at the risk of their business.

Darren nods. “In that case, he’s yours.”

“Great.” I pull out my wallet, but Darren looks almost offended, as he shakes his head.

“Put that thing away, dollface. You know your money’s no good here.”

I love my clients.

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