Throb (Club Grit) by Brooke Jaxsen Page B

was being sarcastic, the way that he must be. In reality, my heart was pumping. I hadn’t really left the Los Angeles area since my internship with Keanne had ended, but I’d missed seeing cities that even outshone this jewel on the Southern California shore. New York had been so exciting the last time we went. I imagine it’d be exciting for anyone who went to Times Square and saw the massive advertisements and billboards, but Keanne was the kind of guy that saw his own image reflection in those idolized by tourists.
    Keanne could take trips around the country, around the world, whenever he felt like it. As a college student, I didn’t have those freedoms. I’d had to do assignments early to ensure that I had this weekend free to spend with Keanne, I’d had to make arrangements and tell people where I was going, and I’d had to leave Jason behind. We hadn’t talked about this trip since the night I told him I was going to New York with Keanne, and I hadn’t said goodbye, just left in the morning for class and come back in the afternoon to grab a small overnight bag for the trip, filled with the essentials.
    “Great, I’ve missed having you on my team,” said Keanne as he offered me his arm. I took it and we walked up the stairs to the plane. The interior was resplendent, in white leather with gold accents, and there was already caviar and toast set up for us, with vodka shots. “You’re a Grey Goose girl, right?”
    “You remembered?” I asked, surprised.
    “Of course, remember that night we went to the party in the Hollywood Hills and someone asked if it was Canadian?”
    “And I made a fool out of myself, and talked about how it was French,” I said with a laugh as I took the shot quickly. It was sour but fruity. “Le Citron? Classy, Keanne.”
    “Well, it’s that sort of smarts I need. You’re always coolheaded and intelligent, even when you have a drink in you. That’s why I need you on this trip,” he said, taking some of the caviar and putting it on a small toasted cracker before popping it in his mouth, not dropping a single precious egg.
    “It’s my pleasure,” I said with a small smile as I served myself some caviar as well. I hadn’t had any since I’d last seen Keanne. As the salty bubbles burst in my mouth, releasing their strong juices, I closed my eyes and smiled, involuntarily. Keanne let out a heart chuckle.
    “When was the last time you had caviar, babe?”
    “With you, of course,” I said. It was true. Although Club Grit was nice, it wasn’t as great as the places Keanne went, where bottles of alcohol went for thousands of dollars, where all the women weren’t only gorgeous, but accomplished too. Keanne’s lifestyle made the one I had at UCBH look rather, well, boring. It wasn’t like any of the other girls were jet setting on the weekends, no matter how rich their daddies were.
    This was the lifestyle I’d left behind, the lifestyle of jet setting and of luxury foods, of not worrying about things that seemed trivial when flying thousands of feet into the air, like money.
    On the way to New York, Keanne filled me in on the weekend’s plans. We’d get into New York on Saturday morning, go to a few business meetings, and get back by Sunday night. Keanne’s next album was ready to drop and a few magazines were bidding for exclusive pics of the music video that accompanied the predicted hit single. Neither the video or the single had been released yet, except for a small clip that had gone viral because of a leak.
    Keanne took a nap on the plane and so did I. We both needed our rest if we were going to play hardball with the magazine publishers. Behind the scenes pictures of Keanne’s music video could command a high price from a good magazine, better than some low-res cell phone selfies taken by a staffer. No, something taken by Keanne’s entourage’s photographer would go for at least a few million dollars. To be dealing in millions of dollars seemed crazy, but