Jack Calloway stood behind the zinc-topped bar, polishing a crystal coupe glass with the kind of focus usually reserved for dismantling bombs. He was thirty-two, with dark hair that refused to stay entirely neat and eyes the color of good hazelnut liqueur. He wore his vest and rolled-up sleeves like armor. The heavy oak door swung open, admitting the Friday night Hollywood breeze and two women. One was tall, striking, and dressed like she was ready to start a riot. The other was Vivienne Stone. Vivi was trying to be inconspicuous, which was a bit like the sun trying to hide behind a cloud. Copper-gold hair, green eyes that cameras loved, and a trench coat belted tightly over a dress that shimmered like liquid mercury. She looked exhausted, beautiful, and slightly reluctant. "Cleo," Vivi hissed, sliding onto a velvet stool. "I told you, I'm on a detox. My trainer will smell the gin on my pores." "Your trainer is a sadist," Cleo replied, hopping onto the stool next to her. "And you’ve been filming for fourteen hours straight. You don't need kale juice; you need an intervention." She slammed her hand on the bar. "Barkeep! Save us."