After Tonight Read online

  After Tonight

  Annie Kelly

  InterMix Books, New York

  AN IMPRINT OF PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE LLC

  375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014

  AFTER TONIGHT

  An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2015 by Annie Kelly.

  Excerpt from Until Tomorrow copyright © by Annie Kelly.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about The Berkley Publishing Group, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-41224-8

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  InterMix eBook edition / November 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Penguin Random House is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Until Tomorrow

  About the Author

  For Josh

  There I was, ’way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute.

  —F. Scott Fitzgerald

  There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.

  —Mark Twain

  Chapter One

  The Girls’ Night Out

  “You wrote me a to-do list? For the bar?”

  “I wrote you a to-do list for the bar,” Carson confirms, flashing me a smile.

  When she grins like that, the combination of short dark hair and delicate features makes my former college roommate look less like a human and more like a fairy. Or a demon disguised as a fairy, but intent on getting me to break all of my carefully constructed rules.

  “Number one,” Rainey, our other perpetual partner in crime, reads from over my shoulder. “Drink an entire Long Island Iced Tea. Yes, the whole thing.”

  She snorts a laugh. “Hyacinth never drinks anymore. She didn’t even drink a whole glass of champagne on New Year’s.”

  Carson shrugs. “It’s always good practice to start pushing your boundaries.”

  “Or demolishing them,” I grumble. “Are you serious about number two? Get out on the dance floor and shake that ‘thang’?”

  “Of course! You’re a good dancer—you just need to loosen up and let yourself relax.”

  “Um, I don’t have a thang to shake.”

  “Dude. You have thangs to shake,” Rainey says, staring pointedly at my cleavage. “Two of them, in fact.”

  “Look who’s talking,” I snort.

  Of the three of us, Rainey is definitely the one who gets the most attention when we go out. She’s a bombshell in every sense of the word—blond hair, huge boobs, legs for days, all of that. Pretty much every man I’ve ever met loses his train of thought if she happens to stroll by in a skirt or gym shorts.

  I fall back against the passenger’s seat of Carson’s Jeep and cross my arms. It’s not like I’ve never sown my wild oats. I’ve done my fair share of drunk karaoke, table dances, and walks of shame. And, yes, I’ve only been in one really serious relationship (and, yes, he took off for med school with my favorite fleece blanket and my Ravens mug), but that’s over now. I’ve finally reconciled the fact that Brent thinks his future and mine don’t mix. Reconciled, but not exactly forgotten. Even the memories still sting.

  “My personal favorite is number three,” Carson says from the driver’s seat, glancing away from the road and over at me. “Find the hottest man in the room and take him home.”

  Rainey loops her arms around my shoulders from the backseat and gives them a squeeze. “Liquor, booty-shaking, and man candy. There’s no better way to kick off the weekend than that, right, Cyn?”

  I scowl a little. “You do realize that I am a teacher of America’s youth, where I need to be a role model? Someone for them to look up to?”

  “You’re a student teacher,” Carson says, giving me a pointed look. “You won’t technically be a teacher until you’ve finished student teaching. That’s the way it works, dude.”

  “Exactly,” Rainey says, settling back in her seat. “Besides, we’re all in the same boat here, right? Yeah, we aren’t all teaching, but I’m running the Y’s afterschool program now, and Carson’s tutoring three days a week. We all have to be role models during our work time. But during our playtime, all bets are off.”

  “Oh,” I scoff, “then obviously I should just go out and Miley it up. Maybe someone will film me twerking and put it on YouTube. That’s one way to get the kids to respect me.”

  Rainey shrugs. “I just want you to have fun. You’re always so serious and you work so hard. You deserve a break.”

  I can’t help but smile. That’s a trademark Rainey move, the way she frets over the people she loves. At the end of the day, she really just wants to take care of others. When I first met her as an undergrad, she wanted to be a clinical psychiatrist. Then a child psychologist. Now that she’s finishing her master’s in social work, she swears she’s found her niche. Still, I’m pretty sure that, under the right circumstances, she’d give it all up and join the Peace Corps.

  Carson, on the other hand, was born to be a teacher, and I’m still struggling to understand why she didn’t apply to student teach when I did. Whenever I’ve asked, she just shrugs and says something about her “working better one-on-one.” She’s a great tutor and everything, so it’s not like she’s wrong. I’ve just learned not to broach the subject with her anymore.

  “So, where are we going, anyway?” I ask, trying to sound a little less pissy. These are my best friends, and I know I wouldn’t be able to deal with half the shit life has thrown at me—my dad’s poor health, my stress-filled studies, and my completely out-of-left-field breakup—had they not been by my side.

  “To a new club,” Carson says offhandedly. She glances up into the rearview mirror before flicking on her blinker. “I think it’s called Cave.”

  “Cave?” I frown. “I’ve never heard of it. Is it on the waterfront?”

  Rainey giggles. I narrow my eyes at her.

  “What?” She shakes her head. “Nothing—I’m sorry. I love you to pieces, Cyn, but sometimes you are just too clueless. It’s kind of adorable.”

  “Wow. What an incredibly backhanded compliment. Thanks a lot.”

  She frowns. “I didn’t mean for it to—”

  “What Rainey is trying to say,” Carson interrupts, “is
that Cave is not on the waterfront. It’s downtown. Way downtown. And it’s sort of a secret.”

  I lift a brow at her.

  “We’re going to a secret club?”

  “Yep.”

  “And it’s downtown? Oh, excuse me, I mean way downtown? As in no harbor, no well-lit areas, no perfectly safe bars and clubs that all the tourists hit?”

  “Yep.”

  “So, basically, the kind of place people ordinarily avoid going?”

  “Yep.”

  “Fantastic.” I start digging through my purse for my pepper spray, which, of course, is conveniently at home in my nightstand. “I wish you’d tell me shit like this before we actually do it.”

  “Please,” Carson scoffs, “if I’d told you where we were going tonight, you would have Googled it. Then you would have freaked out and bailed. I know you.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” I admit. “But I always Google the places we go—like that café in Little Italy. Had I not searched it first, you know we never would have heard about the health code violations.”

  “And we probably would have eaten there anyway and been absolutely fine.”

  I shrug. “Whatever. Wait—why would I have Googled it and bailed?”

  Rainey leans forward again and pats my arm.

  “We’re just thinking a little outside of the box tonight. This place we’re going is, like, ultra-exclusive. Only certain people get to go in, and we scored the invite.”

  Carson winks at me. “It’s a little different than our usual Power Plant Live! experience. No ‘I-just-turned-twenty-one’ twits trying to mount the security guys, no tiki-bar bullshit. This place is a little . . . darker.”

  I chew my lip. “Darker how?”

  Carson turns the car onto Lombard Street. She doesn’t look at me this time when she speaks.

  “Darker in the sense that there will be a different clientele than you’re used to.”

  I throw up my hands.

  “The two of you are the furthest thing from vague on a normal day, so what’s up with the wordplay? Just spit it out. Are we going to some illegal poker ring or something? Oh—wait, God, are you taking me to a strip club again?”

  They both have a good laugh at that one.

  “Just trust us, okay?” Rainey says. “I know it’s hard but, believe me, you’re going to have an amazing night tonight. Just try to loosen up and relax, for once.”

  “Right.”

  I can’t relax on my best day, so I highly doubt I’ll manage to do it now. What with my dissertation due date looming and my job at the Franklin School, my plate is beyond full. Last night at dinner, Dad asked me if I was the one who needed assisted living instead of him.

  “I hear Rocky’s roommate just busted outta here, princess. I’ll bet I can get you in for cheap!”

  I know he was kidding, especially considering the fact that I didn’t want him stuck in assisted living in the first place.

  Carson swings the car into a parking space at the end of a dark alley and, peering out the side window, I swallow hard. I’m used to well-lit garages at the harbor or taking taxis to Federal Hill. My comfort zone is screaming for me to stay in the car, buckle up, and hold tightly to the “oh shit” handle on the ceiling above the passenger door.

  “We’re here,” she says brightly, as though we’ve just arrived at the park for a picnic. “Everyone got their phones?”

  “Yup.” Rainey sounds equally as happy and starts bouncing a little bit in her seat.

  “Okay—if we get separated or we need to bail, we have to text and respond. Got it?”

  I stare at Carson. “Why would we get separated?”

  She shrugs.

  “It’s a big place. You never know.”

  I glance doubtfully out the window at the backs of the row houses that line the street. I don’t know how in the world a club large enough to lose yourself in could be hiding in one of these narrow buildings.

  “Alright, let’s go already!” Rainey says, tumbling from the backseat and out into the night. I take one last deep breath of safe, Jeep-bound, not-inside-a-strange-club-yet air, then open my door and climb out.

  “You know,” Carson says to me, clicking the lock button on her key fob, then checking the door handle for good measure, “I’m really glad you decided to rock the boots tonight. You look killer.”

  I glance down past my deep green V-neck sweater and skinny jeans to the almost-knee-high boots Rainey had lent me. I agreed to wear them only after she convinced me that I didn’t look like a prostitute because “prostitutes don’t wear sweaters from Ann Taylor.”

  “Yeah, you look great. People won’t even recognize you,” Rainey says, nodding enthusiastically.

  I run a hand over my hair, which is now beginning to recurl due to my shoddy flat ironing, and glare at them both. With a grumble, I start stomping toward the sidewalk.

  “Uh, you’re going the wrong way.” I turn to see Carson’s arms crossed over her chest and a smirk on her face. Rainey’s already skipping along the brick pathway between two buildings, dodging trash bags and recycle bins. Sighing, I pivot on one heel and walk back. When I reach her side, Carson pats my back.

  “We’re just trying to build you up, you know? You should feel good about yourself. You just don’t seem to do all that great a job of making yourself feel that way on your own.”

  I bite my lip, then lean my shoulder against hers.

  “I know. Thank you. I really will try to just let go and have a good time tonight.”

  “That’s my girl!” She grabs my hand and squeezes it hard before half dragging me after Rainey. This time, I’m smiling in anticipation. I may not know what I’m in for, but, for once, I’m actually excited about the unknown.

  Chapter Two

  Great Expectations

  That feeling lasts for all of three minutes.

  “Are you serious?” I hiss in Carson’s ear.

  We’re standing in line in a dark corridor, which had originated at the entrance of a fairly innocuous-looking row house. As we descended, though, this tunnel-like hallway has become about as terrifying as anywhere I’ve ever been. The walls around us don’t even look like walls—they’re rocky and almost shiny in their dampness. The floor is dirt and there are lamps hanging from above us that are made of animal skulls. At least, I’m assuming they’re animal skulls because they don’t look human, which is about the only consolation I can find as I glance around. The air is thick and humid, but chilly, like we’re stuck in a cave. Because we are, I suppose.

  I never thought I was claustrophobic, but this place feels like a cold, wet grave, and I’m willing to claw my way back out if I have to.

  “I know it looks sketchy, but just trust me—once we’re inside, you’ll be much happier. I promise.” Carson’s face is solemn and I roll my eyes.

  “You said you’ve never been here.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Then how can you promise me anything?”

  She shrugs. “I dunno. I thought it would make you feel better.”

  As the line moves forward, I realize people are disappearing behind a thick black curtain. When we get to the front, I try to peer through a crack in the fabric, but it’s completely dark on the other side, too.

  “Names?”

  A man with thick, glittery eye makeup and a black derby hat stares at me expectantly.

  I blink at him. “Um—Hyacinth?”

  Carson pushes past me.

  “Hi,” she says, giving the doorman her most winning smile. “Carson Tucker. Party of three. And our password is ‘leather.’”

  Password?

  I turn to ask her about it, but she’s still grinning at our sparkly host. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Carson’s preferences always trend a little more artsy than mine. That, and she’s a sucker for Twilight’s twinkly vampires.

  The doorman scans the screen of a tablet, then looks up. “IDs, please.”

  Each of us flashes our license and Sparkle Gu
y presses a rubber stamp against the backs of our hands. Once we’ve been vetted and stamped, he gestures to the black curtain and gives us a polite little bow.

  “Right this way, ladies. Enjoy yourselves.”

  Carson gives him a lingering look, but Rainey shoves her forward through the curtain. As I follow behind them, I realize why I wasn’t able to see through to the other side—there are actually more curtains, all thick black velvet with a silver thread running through the fabric. We get to the fourth or fifth one and, this time, the curtain moves for us, pulled up and back by some kind of mechanical arm.

  “Good evening. Welcome to Cave.” A woman is standing in front of us, wearing the same glittery makeup and hat as the doorman. The only difference is that she’s naked—like naked-naked—save a metallic green body-painted bikini.

  Rainey gives her a slow, wide-eyed once-over. “You look awesome. Where can I get that done?”

  “Vestibule number four is the body-painting station,” the woman says pleasantly. She gestures to the space behind her before launching into a clearly practiced spiel. “As you explore, please remember to be mindful of the people around you. Everyone’s privacy is imperative. Per the club regulations, you should not give anyone your real name, but an alias you can identify yourself with. For example, my alias is Ivy.”

  Of course it is.

  I guess Carson senses my discomfort, because she grabs my arm and pulls me over to the side as another group enters in behind us.

  “Listen,” she says, gripping my shoulder, “this place is a fantasy club. It specializes in getting people to lose their inhibitions in a safe, anonymous way.”

  “A what club?”

  “A fantasy club,” she repeats, gesturing to the room around us.

  Now that my eyes are adjusting to the dim light, I can see that the space is massive. Down a handful of steps, there’s a faint blue glow coming from the base of what looks to be a wide, circular bar. At the surrounding tables, I can just begin to make out the outlines of faces and bodies; it’s as though they’re manifesting from some kind of alcohol-induced mist. There’s a girl wearing tight leather pants that are laced up the sides like a corset. A handful of men in suits sit at a high-hat table, while two men wearing denim and rocking Mohawks are walking back past the bar and through a dim entryway. Which is when I notice the hallways.