Page 38 of The Yes Factor

But then I wasn’t the one who suggested it. I have twenty-six-year-old Jason to thank for this hotspot. Dear God, please don’t let this night turn out like Chandace, or worse, like last night. I’m skating on thin ice with Bex right now, and so far, my wingwoman skills have been disastrous. I should have told her during our backyard wine session that tonight we, or she, were going to meet someone I found on her Tinder, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I want her to have fun, and hell, I want to have some fun, too, after this afternoon’s confession of my mess of a life.

“Come on, let’s get some drinks—bottle service maybe?” Bex excitedly takes my hand and we join the decked out crowd making their way up the red-carpeted sidewalk to Glamour & State. It feels good to see that she’s got a spring in her step again.

The place is huge inside, a high-ceilinged fortress of bricks that must have been an old factory or warehouse. In its current incarnation, it’s the watering hole of every trend seeking, Instagram posting wannabe out to see and be seen.

“This place is insane,” I whisper to Bex as we walk past the three young hostesses in super tight and super short black dresses guarding the foyer entrance, illuminated by an oversized glass chandelier. They’re almost too young to be pretty, with puppy fat faces and exaggerated makeup that looks like they’re playing dress up.

“Not a girl, not yet a woman,” Bex says, finding the perfect lyric as usual to sum up a situation.

“Or is it just that we’re old? Either way, they were definitely born after Britney’s first hit.” I wonder if it was a mistake to have lowered Bex’s age range on Tinder. Glamour & State should be renamed Glamour & Steak, it’s such a meat market.

“We’re not old,” Bex corrects me. “We’re women.”

She gives the girls a smooth hello and saunters past, making a low-key but confident entrance like a female version of Clint Eastwood in a western. Maybe Sharlene is some kind of vintage voodoo witch doctor because that dress has transformed Bex into a sex kitten.

The low lit main dining room is a crowded sea of round tables. It’s an eclectic mix of today’s LA—Hollywood industry types with suspiciously younger arm candy so you’re not sure who’s a daughter and who’s a date; boisterous guys vying for attention from bored looking girls checking their phones; a table of tourists who seem a bit overwhelmed; a suited up group of young professionals who must be in either real estate or insurance sales. And swimming through it all is a synchronized crew of sharp, casting-ready waitstaff. You definitely had to have a headshot to get hired at this place.

“Let’s go check out the upstairs bar.” I look at my phone to see what time it is. 8:23p.m. Good, we’re doing okay for time. Jason said around nine thirty. I have two text notifications on my lock screen.

Darling, still busy in Dubai. Alan said that Clarissa… From Ethan then, Sweets! Where are you? Did you go… from Clarissa. I sigh and put my phone away. No need to read either of those texts any further, certainly not now.

We leave the main dining room and walk back through the entrance foyer to ascend a wide staircase that leads to the upstairs bar. It’s an airy, less crowded space, an intimate setting that feels much more exclusive than downstairs. I’m pleasantly surprised. Maybe Jason won’t be so bad after all. We slide into a cozy, semi-circular booth, one of six that line the side of the room, the other side anchored by a long bar of thick, rounded marble. Two bartenders are making cocktails in focused concentration, quickly turning and reaching every now and then to pull a bottle from the mirrored shelves behind that go all the way to the ceiling, myriad liquor labels, and bottle shapes forming a 3-D mural of twenty-one-and-up delights.

Bex squints her eyes looking at the bar. “Maker’s, Four Roses, Blanton’s, Woodford. Oh my God, wow. They have Pappy Van Winkle. I’m impressed, Liv. Nice choice with this place. I should start reading Conde Nast!” She gives me an approving smile. I cringe.

A cute waiter appears out of nowhere. “Hi, how are you two doing? Here’s our cocktail menu, and I see you’ve noticed we have a wide selection of ultra-premium spirits. Pappy is one of my personal favorites.” The waiter looks at Bex and gives her a warm smile. “I admire a woman who knows her bourbon.”

“You know, why not? We’ll take two Pappy’s,” Bex orders decisively.

“Coming up.” The waiter turns as I leaf through the cocktail menu.

“Pappy’s? I’m not sure I’m going to like that. This elderflower gin fizz sounds really good. What tha—Bex, Pappy is eighty dollars a glass.” I drop the menu in shock.

“I know. We’ve got a few coins burning a hole in our pockets, so don’t worry about the price. And trust me, you’ll love it. Forget your Kool-Aid gin. This is for big girls.”

The waiter returns with our order. Served in a hefty crystal glass that seems to weigh at least four pounds, the Pappy is indeed delicious. With each sip, I feel warmer and more relaxed.

“Told you it was good.” Bex laughs.

“So…the waiter’s cute.” I give Bex a look.

“Do not even go there. After The Weeper, I’m done with chasing after the waitstaff.” Bex crosses her arms.

“Okay, fine. But what about yoga teachers?” I tease her.

We’re not even halfway through our drinks when the waiter appears with two more glasses of Pappy on a tray.

“Ladies, this is from your neighbors over there.” The waiter points to a pair of hot guys two booths over. Even though they’re sitting down, I can tell they’re tall and fit, their shirts pulled taut over rippled muscles and broad shoulders. One of them turns to us and nods, lifting his own glass in a silent “cheers.” The chunky titanium watch wrapped around his wrist is surely more expensive than a hundred bottles of Pappy.

Bex smiles, raises the fresh glass in a return “cheers” and as she goes to take a sip says like a ventriloquist, “I’m dying, I think that’s…I don’t know his name, from the Lakers.”

“You know I have no idea about sports. The only thing I know about the Lakers is Paula Abdul. Wasn’t she a Laker Girl? Those guys are Lakers? For real?” The Pappy is tasting better and better.

“Hey. I’m Jason.” Bex looks up, expecting to see Mr. Laker, but instead she’s staring up at a tall, lean, brown-haired guy who looks like he could be Channing Tatum’s brother (siblings of celebrities aren’t ever as hot as their famous brother or sister). Still, there’s no doubt he’s attractive, and with that slim fitting V-neck sweater you can see he has the tight body of an Olympic swimmer. Bex, meet Jason, your date that you don’t know is your date. And who’s also not a Laker.

“Hi,” Bex says somewhat unsure as she looks over at the Laker booth.

“I’m Toby.” Jason’s friend steps up to extend a hand. Toby has the kind of arrogant jerk appeal of an ’80s era James Spader. He’s cute and he knows it.

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