“Oh, I forgot Natalie was coming this weekend! Are you guys going out?” The sounds of seagulls and surf echo in the background. Emma’s from New York City but spends every summer in the Hamptons.

“That was the plan,” I respond. “We’ll see if we ever leave the hotel.”

Emma giggles. “Not everyone can throw on a dress and look like a runway model, Saylor.” I don’t answer. “So, how is it?” she asks eagerly.

Filling her in on an Adler Beck-less version of Scholenberg so far takes up the rest of the time the girls need to get ready. By the time we’re hanging up, everyone’s ready to go.

We traipse down to the lobby and out onto the street.

“So, where are we going?” London asks.

I prepare for everyone to turn to me. I’ll have to text Ellie again. But Natalie’s the one who answers. “I know the perfect place.”

I don’t have a suggestion and she sounds confident, so I climb in one cab already waiting outside the hotel with everyone else. It’s a sedan, definitely not designed to seat seven, but the driver doesn’t seem to mind. He deposits us in a neighborhood I wouldn’t expect to contain a trendy club and cheerfully collects his fare.

“How did you hear about this place?” I ask Natalie when we’ve all tumbled out of the cab, critically studying the bland concrete exterior in front of us.

“Extensive research,” she replies, grinning. “It was the most consistent hit for a Kluvberg player hangout. According to TravelAdvisor, there’s always this long of a line for just that reason.” She nods to the line curving around the exterior of the building. To her credit, they’re all trendily dressed people about our age.

“You’re joking,” I say flatly. The last thing I want to do is to spend the night fending off a bunch of Adler Beck-wannabes.

“Nope, totally serious.”

“Sounds like a rumor they might have started themselves,” I mutter.

“Come on,” London declares, striding toward the front of the line. Everyone else follows, me included. “Hi, we’d like to go in,” she tells the beefy man clad in all black. Protests sound behind us, but a raised hand from the bouncer quiets them.

“Name?” he asks gruffly.

“Wh-what do you need a name for?” Natalie asks, losing a bit of her bravado. Guess this requirement wasn’t included in her homework.

“This is a private club, miss. No entry unless you’re on the list,” the man responds. None of the other girls speak. Natalie looks crestfallen. I may not want to be at this particular club, but I’m not great about being told I can’t do something.

I step forward. “My name is on the list.” Natalie gapes at me.

“What is it?” the bouncer asks, tapping a pen against the clipboard impatiently.