Chapter Fourteen
Dean
The party Saturday night kicks off with a dud. On the drive over, I get three texts in quick succession:
Kimberly: Hi Dean! Nia isn’t feeling well so we’re going to sit this one out. Karaoke got the best of her. Sorry for the late notice, but we’ll see you on Wednesday for Career Day and dinner. Have fun!
Peter: Hey Dean. Molly found out my ex is hosting the party and flipped. Says I’ll sleep on the couch for a month if I go. Staying home to keep the peace. Just use my name to get in. Give Kimberly and Nia my regrets. Tx.
Solange: be there in 5 mins
Well, shit. This changes everything. And makes it a thousand times harder to limit my remaining time alone with Solange as Max suggested.
Since Kimberly’s and Peter’s texts aren’t time sensitive, I respond to Solange first.
Me: No need to rush. I’ll explain when you get here.
Solange: ok!
Funny how a tiny exclamation mark can make you feel better about seeing someone again. It tells me Solange and I are still on good terms. The alternative—that I caused irreparable harm to our budding friendship when I kissed her last night—is too unsettling to contemplate.
I take a moment to respond to Kimberly, then I send Peter a thumbs-up. It’s petty, yes, but I’d like Peter to think we’re having an excellent time; I’ll tell him about the cancellation on Monday.
My Lyft driver pulls up to the address in the invite just as a few people are entering the only row home on the block with a front porch.
I add a sizable tip for the trip and climb out. “Thanks, man.”
My otherwise quiet driver snickers. “No problem. Have a good time.”
It’s an odd thing to say—he doesn’t know what I’m doing here—but I figure that’s his standard farewell, or he meant to say “take care” in that same embarrassing way I always say “you too” when a server tells me to enjoy my meal.
I wait for Solange by the stoop, occasionally nodding at the other partygoers filing in. Most people are dressed in dark slacks or suits, as if they’ve come directly from work even though it’s the weekend. Considering we’re in DC, I’m sure that’s the case for at least some of the folks passing by me.
Solange appears when she said she would, her cell phone pressed against her ear as she speaks to someone on the line. Her hair is fluttering around her shoulders, and her long strides are eating up the sidewalk as if it’s a runway. Like me, she’s dressed in black from head to toe. Unlike me, she’s mesmerizing in a gauzy top and pants that cinch above her ankles. I clench my hands, then release them, my breath quickening the closer she gets. Probably residual nerves from the unexpected turn of events last night.
She stops a foot away from me and mouths, Sorry, as she points to her phone. I mouth, No problem. She doesn’t seem to be concerned about my overhearing her conversation, so I simply wait for her to finish up.
“Mãe, I know,” she says, crossing her eyes. “There’s nothing to worry about. Of course we have clean sheets. Yes, yes, and coffee. Sugar too. Sure, bring towels if you want. Tá. Vejo você amanhã. Te amo!”
“What was that about?” I ask.
“Our cousins from Brazil are coming to visit next weekend. A couple of them are bunking with Brandon and me, and my mother wants to be sure we’ll have everything they’ll need.”
“That’s considerate of her.”
Solange tucks her phone into her purse—a little crossbody number that probably can’t hold more than a few items—then drapes the bag over her shoulder. “Dean, she asked if I had enough toilet paper for everyone to wipe their butts for at least three days. She’s the most inconsiderate person I know.”
“But you love her.”
Wearing a wistful expression, she quickly agrees. “More than anyone else in the world.” She scans my face and outfit, then curves her red-stained lips into a wide smile. “You look great, by the way.”
“Not half as great as you.”
She curtsies. “Why, thank you.” Then she glances at the row home. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Kimberly bowed out. Nia wasn’t feeling well.”
“And Peter?”
“Molly’s pissed at Peter. They’re not coming.”
She sighs, then blows out a raspberry. “Wait. Are you telling me I could be lying on my couch in my sweats right now? Eating Cherry Garcia and watching The Circle, no less?”
I can’t help grinning. She’s nothing if not honest. A party like this one, attended by DC’s elite and trading on its exclusive vibe, is the last place Solange would choose to go. Honestly, this isn’t my bag either, but I regard it as a necessary evil of firm life. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to bother going inside.”
She sweeps her arms out to her sides. “Do you see this outfit? These shoes?” She points at her mouth. “This is Velvet Ribbon by Lisa Eldridge.”
I purse my lips. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither do I,” she says, her hands flailing. “But Natalia sure does. Point is, I made an effort tonight, and I expect to be rewarded with a nice glass of wine and decent hors d’oeuvres.”
“Well then, let’s go inside,” I say, mimicking her flailing hands.
Her whole face lights up, and she slips her arm through mine. “Let’s!”
The guy at the door looks as though he practices how to body-slam people as part of his daily exercise regimen. Everything about him is broad: chest, shoulders, thighs. He’s a slab of granite large enough to custom-fit a sizable kitchen island. Why is he necessary?
“Hey,” I say to him.
He looks me dead in the eyes and nods. That’s it. No instructions. No information.
“Should we just go in?” I ask.
“You can’t just go in,” he says. “Are you on the list?”
“We were told we would be.”
He smiles. “Names?”
“Dean Chapman and Solange Pereira.”
Behind me, Solange peeks her head out. “You’re Bruce Banner’s alter ego, I presume?”
Ah shit. That mouth is going to get us killed.
He grunts, then narrows his eyes at her. “Wrong.”
She disappears just as quickly as she appeared.
Not-Hulk consults his clipboard again and nods. “Guests of Peter Barnum?”
“That’s the one,” I say.
“You’re cleared. Enjoy.”
I take a long look at my surroundings, my gaze immediately landing on the steel table situated in front of the stained glass double doors leading to the rest of the home. The area inside is illuminated in blues and reds, and I can hear the steady thump of music with a driving bass line playing inside. Solange grasps the back of my shirt, as if she’s concerned about getting separated from me.
“Are you okay?” I ask over my shoulder.
“As long as I’m using you as a human shield? Sure.”
Another slab of a man is standing by a second set of doors. As we approach, he reaches behind him and produces a plastic bin. “Evening, folks. You can place your personal belongings—keys, phone, whatever else—in here. We’ll lock them up for you.”
“What the hell?” I whisper to Solange. “Is this airport security? What’s next, a body scan?”
A woman in line behind us laughs. “Psst, it’s no big deal. It’s just what some of these VIPs require. DC, you know?”
No, I don’t know. And I’m not sure I want to spend an evening with any VIPs. I certainly don’t want to give up my phone in some strange place. “Is there another option? One that will allow us to hang on to them?”
He nods without hesitation, as if he’s been asked this question many times before. “What brand?”
“iPhones.”
“I can change the settings to restrict your access to the camera app from the lock screen, then unlock the phones when you both come back out.” He jiggles the plastic bin. “It’s up to you.”
I’d expect this level of gatekeeping in McLean, but a quiet side street in Adams Morgan isn’t a magnet for people who consider themselves VIPs. Now I’m curious to know who’s behind those closed doors.
I turn to look at Solange.
“I’m keeping mine with me,” she says, giving the man a frosty look. “In case I need to make an emergency call.”
“Yeah, let’s change the settings.” I unlock my phone and hand it to him; Solange does the same.
His expression bland, he fiddles with our phones, and in less than a minute, returns them to us. “Done. I’ll unlock them when you leave.”
“You won’t forget the password you used?” I ask.
“I won’t forget the password I used.”
Once we’re inside, it takes me a few seconds to adjust to the eerie glow cast by the overheads. People of all races, ages, and sizes are scattered about in clumps—drinking, laughing, dancing—and I’m reminded of the dozens of relatively innocuous law firm gatherings I’ve attended over the years.
“It’s a regular shmegular party,” Solange says, frowning. “So why the hell did they put us through that rigmarole?”
“No idea,” I say, shrugging. “Maybe one of these people has a security detail.”
“Well, I’m cautiously ready to haul ass if I need to. Just sayin’.” She surveys her surroundings, then points at the bar across the room. “Why don’t you get us something to drink while I scope out the bathroom. I need to adjust my underwear.”
I’m trying to behave tonight, so I pretend I didn’t hear that last part. “What would you like?”
“Water, for now. Until I have a better sense of what we’re dealing with.”
Solange trots down a long hall while I weave my way through the crowd. As I wait my turn at the bar, I check out the home’s interior design, such as it is. The room’s large and configured for lounging, with several couches and chaises positioned in different corners of the space. The terra-cotta walls are bare, which gives the home a newly moved-in feel. Whoever lives here hasn’t settled in yet.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.
As I’m giving him my order, someone in the room rings a handbell. Excited chatter follows, and the energy in the room shifts. People sit, stand, and generally rearrange themselves in the space, their expressions charged with anticipation. Then the handbell rings again. A man behind me nonchalantly unzips his pants, and the woman he was chatting with drops to her knees in front of him, reaching for his . . . dick.
My head snaps up, and I search the crowd. Everyone’s either tugging off clothes, kissing, stroking someone else’s body parts, or watching. What. The. Fuck?
I stumble forward, the shock of what’s happening propelling me to abandon the line. I turn back to the bartender. “Bathroom?”
He points in the direction where I last saw Solange, and I sprint toward it, passing a sea of writhing bodies in various stages of undress. So. Many. Ponies. I can’t unsee it. Solange opens the door just as I reach it.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, a look of concern crossing her face when she sees my panicked expression.
I need a moment to regroup, so I pull her inside the bathroom and lock the door.
“Do we need to make a quick exit?” Solange asks as she tugs on the window frame and tries to pull up the pane. It only lifts a crack, and she growls in frustration, then throws up her hands. “What’s going on?”
I brace my hands against the porcelain sink and meet her confused gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “Holy shit, Solange, we’re at a sex party.”
Solange
What? No, he must be punking me. “Dean, be serious for a minute.”
“Solange, listen to me,” he says as he paces the length of the surprisingly spacious bathroom. “I’m being one hundred percent serious. Does this sound like something I would lie about? Me?”
Oh. My. God. I kind of scream on the inside for a few seconds. This is bananas. All I can do is repeat his words. “We’re at a sex party.”
“Bingo. I’ll take ‘Oh, baby, the places I never thought I’d go’ for one million, Solange.”
“Shit. Are you telling me Peter wanted to bring a firm recruit here?”
“Now that I think about it, no, that’s not what’s going on,” he says. “Peter wanted me to bring a firm recruit here. He didn’t know that Kimberly and Nia had canceled. He just conveniently and suddenly decided that his marriage meant more to him than a very important assignment that could give him a leg up in his bid to become a firm partner. The sneaky, cutthroat, disloyal son of a bitch. Peter set me up. Or tried to.”
“Are you sure that’s what this is, though? Because I’ve read about sex clubs, Dean—just . . . uh . . . out of curiosity—and there’s a whole process to this. Waivers, promises of confidentiality, rules.”
“Well, I’m not an expert in these things, but a bell rang and suddenly people were having sex, and everyone in there seemed to know what was up. That sounds like a sex club to me.”
It does to me too. What the hell is wrong with Peter? I pegged him as a sleazeball from day one, but this is beyond the pale. If Dean and I had consented to attending, I wouldn’t blink twice at what’s going on beyond these walls—okay, maybe I’d blink once, depending on the scene. But we didn’t agree to this, which means Peter is a menace who must be stopped. My immediate priority, though, is to get us the hell out of here. “So we should just leave, right?”
“Right,” he says, raking his hands through his mussed hair. “‘When in doubt, get the fuck out’ is my mantra. I’m sorry, Solange.”
I raise a brow. “Sorry? What for? You didn’t do anything.”
“But you’re caught up in all of this because of me.”
“Dean, stop,” I say, jumping in front of him and halting his incessant pacing. “Look at me.”
He does the very opposite of that, his gaze bouncing from object to object in the space, until he lets out a harsh breath and finally returns my stare. Dean prefers to control his surroundings, so being thrust into an unexpected situation like this one must be unsettling.
I link our hands together and squeeze. “I take it from your reaction that you’ve never attended a sex party before?”
He snort-laughs, as if my question is ridiculous. “Uh, no. Never. Have you?”
“I have.”
His gaze snaps to mine, and his eyes go wide. “Really?”
I clear my throat. “Really. Nothing like this, though. It was a gathering among friends in grad school. All this to say, I’m fine. I’m not freaking out. Sex between consenting adults isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”
“Of course,” he says, slipping his hands out of mine and tugging on his shirt collar.
“It took you by surprise. I get it.”
He blinks a few times, then puffs out his cheeks. Poor Dean. Going to a sex party was never in his life plan, I guess. After a moment, he takes a few steps back and sits on the edge of the claw-foot tub. “May I ask you a question about your experience?”
“Go ahead,” I say, joining him.
Is it odd that I’m comfortable talking with him about this? I’ve never mentioned that party to anyone, not even Brandon, and yet here I am, ready to share the details with Dean. Maybe it’s because I trust that he isn’t interested in my answers for his own titillation; he’s asking questions because he wants to understand.
He turns his head toward me. “Did you participate?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘participate.’ I was there, so, yes, I participated. But I didn’t have sex with anyone. I watched . . . and pleasured myself.”
Dean’s eyelids fall to half-mast, and a flutter zips through my chest. If I could choose a superpower in this moment, it would be the ability to jump to another location with just a snap of my fingers. We’re confined in a bathroom, and a short distance away, people are doing delightfully dirty things to each other. The sex-starved lobe of my brain is regarding this as a plum opportunity to seduce him, while the rational part of my brain is warning me of the impending danger of listening to my inner hussy.
Dean puts out his hands and glances at them, then he raises his chin and pins me with a red-hot gaze. “Is that something you like? Watching?”
I grip the tub’s edge. His voice is low and silky and glides over my body like a caress. He’s ensnaring me in his net, and I suspect he doesn’t even know it. I have no choice but to respond truthfully. “It’s not something I’ve done often. But yes, the idea of watching people have sex turns me on . . . What about you?”
He leans over and rakes his fingers over the tops of his thighs, as if he’s desperately trying not to stroke himself. “I’m turned on right now. Does that count?”
Jesus. He’s killing me. And maybe he does know it. “Depends. Are you turned on by the idea of stepping outside this bathroom and watching other people have sex?”
He licks his lips and nods. “I am.”
Coupled with the memory of last night’s masterful kiss, his admission leaves me breathless. “I am too.” What neither of us is saying is that we’re turned on not just by the setting but also by each other. I, for one, am not ready to take that leap. Still, I can help him explore a part of himself he may never have considered until now—and experience my own pleasure in the process. “Would you like to go out there and watch? With me?”
His nostrils flare, and his eyes flash with unbridled need. “I would.”
I bite back a moan. Well, that escalated perfectly.