Our Secret Summer(3)
Just before I picked up my fork to eat, my dad spoke up with a conspiratorial smile. “I’ll shift my schedule around. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“Really?” I grinned. “You’re on.”
That moment feels a million miles away now. I don’t have the security of knowing my parents are right around the corner. It’s just me here.
Judging by the pulsing music and the dense crowd gathering on the sidewalk up ahead, I’m nearing my final destination. Aura is Ibiza’s most famous nightclub. The legendary line I’ve heard about is indeed wrapped around the side of the building. Opportunistic street vendors have set up shop to feed the masses while they wait anxiously for their turn to try to shimmy their way past the bouncers stationed at the entrance of the club.
I first heard about Aura from my roommates at the hostel. The morning after I arrived, I listened to them strategizing inventive ways to cut the line. None of them had managed to make it inside yet, which seemed wild considering they’d already been here for a few weeks. Is it really that hard?
“Is it really better than all the other nightclubs on the island?” I asked, curious.
I was new to Ibiza, but even I knew nightlife sprawled in every direction and you were never more than a few feet away from a cold beer and a lively crowd. Why bother waiting in line?
The girls in the hostel looked at me like I was the most naive person they’d ever come across, just completely devoid of brain cells.
“It’s Aura—yes, of course it’s better than any other place. Celebrities, popular DJs, hot guys…” The blond rolled her eyes at her friends like, Can you believe her?
“It’s the place to see and be seen on the island. It’s really exclusive.”
It was hard to keep a straight face; the way they were going on about it made the place seem just a tad too overhyped. I’ve been in elite circles my whole life—Soho House and Surf Lodge were my sister’s favorite places to meet up for a casual weeknight dinner—but even still, my roommates’ excitement about Aura piqued my interest. Now, as I stand across the street from the club, taking in the entire scene, I begin to understand.
Aura is nestled in the middle of a long strip of cool restaurants and bars. The front entrance is nothing more than a pitch-black tunnel clubgoers disappear into if they’re lucky enough to make the cut. When people reach the front of the line, excited that they might finally get their chance to slip inside, they’re met with immediate resistance. Five bouncers in coordinating black suits and earpieces bar entry. Being a hot woman dressed in a sexy outfit isn’t a free pass. It seems security will turn people away for no reason at all.
“Let’s try again tomorrow,” I hear a girl tell her friend. “I can call Jeremy and see if he still knows that guy who can get us on the list.”
Clearly, entering Aura is less about going to a club and more about enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Instead of leaving, I let my nose lead me over to one of the street vendors. Three euros gets me a heaping pile of croquettes, deep-fried and filled with serrano ham and a creamy béchamel sauce. I’m too impatient to let them cool. What are third-degree burns compared to culinary magic?
I savor them back in my spot across the street and train my eyes on Aura’s entrance. I want to see what’s on the other side of the black tunnel, but it’s no use. By the time I’m done with my dinner—enjoying every crumb—I still haven’t found the answer.
I decide to cut my losses. I’m thirsty and tired and I know I won’t glean any more information from where I am, so I toss my trash and turn to head back to the hostel. I’m two steps down the sidewalk when a sleek gunmetal-gray SUV pulls up outside the club. There’s been plenty of traffic along the road all night, but something about this fancy car has me curious enough to turn back for a second. From where I stand across the street, it’s hard to get a good look at who’s exiting the back seat, but surely it’s a celebrity. The girls at the hostel told me famous people come to Aura all the time, right? For all I know, I’m about to lay eyes on Paul Mescal or Bradley Cooper. I’d even take one of those Marvel superhero dudes. Ant-Man or whoever, I’m not picky.
I’m deeply invested, enough so that I walk closer to the curb and crane my neck just in time to watch a man confidently step out onto the sidewalk. Who are we looking at, ladies and gents? This guy certainly has the height and build to be cast in a superhero movie.
He’s wearing a loosely fitted black linen shirt with short cuffed sleeves that show off the few tattoos decorating his tan, muscular arms. His black pants look bespoke the way they fit him. I’ve barely come to terms with the back of him when he turns toward the vehicle, and my lips part on a stunned inhale.
Holy sh—
I blink and stand there as goose bumps spread over my skin, prickling beneath my silky dress.
His eyes. They’re rimmed with dark lashes and framed by equally dark brows.
His black hair is neatly parted, and his clean-shaven face is the perfect backdrop for his sharp jawline, made all the more beautiful when paired with his high cheekbones. He is blatantly, obscenely, dangerously attractive.
He’s wearing a stern expression as one of the bouncers comes over to talk to him, and in that moment—this snapshot—he looks like he’s arrived straight from the gates of hell, confidence surrounding him like smoke.