Free Out of Aces by Stephanie Guerra

they’re a bunch of stags, don’t let ’em in. If they look like tourists, don’t let ’em in. If they’re hot women or they’re famous, you know what to do. You need help, ask Marilyn here.” He pointed at April in the cage and trudged into the club. I sat down and looked at a couple of guys climbing out of a taxi. I smiled to myself. This was the most ironic job in the universe for me to be d oing.

    I thought bartending was hard, but bouncing on a busy Friday was hell. There were the jerks who were already drunk, saying dirty stuff to the girls in line; the hot women who thought they should get to skip both lines; and the tourists who tried to give me tens or twenties to get in the VIP line. The first time it happened, I was so surprised, I took the money and let the guy through. April tapped on the glass. “Not for less than this,” she called, holding up a Benj amin.
    A couple hours in, I was starting to channel Terrell: no eye contact, no face movement, not even for hot women. They were a dime a dozen, anyway. Besides, April was hotter than any of them, not that I had time to talk to her. Then a guy in the VIP line stepped up and shoved his card at me, and I got an eyeful of bare, sparkly chest. Dude’s shirt was hanging open, and his abs were covered in some kind of blue ma keup.
    “Um, that’s against the dress code,” I said. “You have to button up.”
    He raised his eyebrows. He had white-blond hair spiked with gel. “You know who I am?”
    I shook my head and looked at the card in my hand. Marcus Clayton. “Sorry, man, I never heard of you,” I said, and the girls behind him in line giggled. He glared at me—and started shrugging off his s hirt!
    I stood up, blinking nervously. Was he saying he wanted a fight ? He wasn’t that huge, but then again, the kind of people who wear sparkly paint also usually do drugs, and I wasn’t looking to fight somebody who couldn’t feel pain. I looked around for security, and I could just make out the back of AJ’s blue jacket way in the far corner of the lot.
    Marcus threw his shirt on the ground, and the front half of the line cracked up. He looked like a member of Blue Man Group. Wait, what if he was Blue Man G roup?
    “Okay, man,” I said. “Calm down.” April was fanning herself in her box, she was laughing so hard. “Listen, you should pick up your shirt—you don’t want it to get di rty.”
    “No,” said Marcus. “Nobody tells Marcus w hat—”
    “Cops!” a guy yelled. Every head in line turned, and we stared as a cruiser nosed up the drive from the street. Then another. There were more cars streaming into the back of the lot, and I knew without looking that they were cop cars, too.
    The line broke up so fast it was like there was already Mace in the air. Guys darted away, girls clattered off on their heels, and normal cars drained out of the lot as fast as the cop cars pulled in. My heart was hammering like it wanted out of my chest, and there was an acid taste in my mouth. All I could think of was how many laws I was brea king.
    The cops were smooth as sharks, and they knew exactly what they were doing. They poured out of the cars with dogs on leashes and surrounded the club in less than five min utes.
    An officer said to me, “Step over there, please.” I walked numbly to where he pointed—to the smoking area, where April was already hugging herself against the cold. She was wearing a white dress, the famous one in the picture where Marilyn is standing over a subway grate. Her arms were covered in goose b umps.
    “You okay?” she asked, looking at me curiously. “You don’t look too hot.”
    I nodded, clamping my hands under my arm pits.
    “Relax. This happens a couple times a year. If they find anything, they’ll shut the club down for the night and we’ll get to go home early.” April fished a cigarette and lighter out of her purse and flicked a few times, her hands trembling in the cold. Finally she got it lit and inhaled,