INT. NIGHTCLUB. NIGHT.
The music in the club thudded loudly, the base thumping over the speakers. A mass of bodies bobbed up and down in the middle of the dance floor and people shouted over each other to be heard. Clint Morgan’s arm was jostled as a girl bumped up against him and then grabbed for the bar. She landed with a thud on one of the bar stools and waving erratically ordered another drink.
Shaking his head, Clint slung his camera around his neck and surveyed the room. He wondered absently if he could get himself into the VIP room. Whatever was going on in there would probably be worth far more photographing. He knew better though to really think he could.
“Morgan! Hey!” A large man clapped his hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Do you see any more of them?”
Clint turned to look at the man speaking to him. Ah Lionel, great… Inwardly he sighed. Outwardly he just shrugged. “Most of them are upstairs.”
“What about Steele?”
“Lost track of her. Probably went up there too.”
“Darn shame. Didn’t get a good one of her tonight. All pretty tame.”
For lack of a better response, Clint shrugged again.
“You get anything good yet?”
“They’re haven’t started home yet,” Clint pointed out. “They’ll be something later.”
“You can always rely on the rich and famous to make fools out of themselves, eh?” grinned Lionel, clapping his hand on Clint’s shoulder again.
“I’m headed for the bathroom,” said Clint abruptly, stepping away and dislodging Lionel’s hand.
“Hurry back. You never know who’ll get roaring drunk and who’ll get high while you’re gone.”
Ignoring the comment Clint pushed through the throngs of people as he made his way towards the restrooms. He pushed open the door to a long hallway and then walked down it towards the end, thankful for the relative quiet after the blaring music.
He opened the door to the men’s room and went through. He ducked a minute later as a compact went whizzing past him.
“You’re sick! You can’t even let me go to the bathroom in peace! You have to follow me in there!” Someone was yelling at him over by the sinks. A blonde haired, twenty something, someone in a sequin top and tight black pants. Someone he recognized.
He cleared this throat. “I didn’t follow you in here. You’re in the men’s bathroom.”
“I am not.”
“I’m afraid you are. Look around. I’m pretty sure the ladies rooms don’t have those in them.”
“Oh..no…” The woman seemed to crumple to the ground and the next thing Clint knew she was crying. “How on earth did I manage that?”
“Probably after excessive drinking,” he muttered. She heard him though, and flashed him a glare through her tears.
“Which is exactly what whatever rag of a newspaper you sell the pictures to will say. ‘Drunk Nikki Steele Stumbles into Men’s Room’.”
Clint shrugged. “Why do you think I’ll sell a picture anyplace?”
“I recognize you.” She was still crying and she gave a little hiccup as she glared up at him. Somehow, it was almost endearing. “I’ve seen you in those packs of scavengers and peeping toms, those- those…”
“Paparazzi?” Clint supplied helpfully.
“There are dirtier names for what you do.”
“You’re not being very nice to someone who gets to choose rather to let the world know you got so drunk you couldn’t tell the men’s room from the women’s.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Really? Then why are you swaying?”
The door started to open. Instinctively Clint pushed it shut. Someone yelled at him from the other side of it.
“Darn!” Nikki jumped to her feet. “Oh…” a queasy expression crossed her face. She held a hand up in front of her face and stared at it as if she were trying to focus it. “I think we may have a problem…I don’t think…I’m going to remain conscious here…”
“What?” Clint snapped.
“I think I’m going to sleep now.” And with that she crumpled back down onto the floor and drifted off.