After Tonight Page 2

  There are eight of them, all dark and all narrow, jutting out and away from the main area like the legs of a spider. Above each entrance is a sign. When I squint, I can make out a few of them.

  Bondage.

  Body Art.

  Power Exchange.

  And the somewhat less terrifying Dance Floor.

  Rainey points at the closest sign—Power Exchange—saying, “People come here to explore their interests.”

  “Interests?”

  I’m not trying to sound like a moron. I think I just need to have it spelled out for me. I’ve got a healthy imagination, but never in my wildest dreams would I have ever thought I’d end up being in a place like this.

  “Sexual interests. Fetishes,” Rainey supplies helpfully. I stare at her, then at Carson, who shrugs.

  “There are different areas of the club where you can try different things—you can get your body painted, like our friend back there, or try wearing a blindfold. If you’re feeling a little more daring, I’ve heard the handcuffs and restraints are a pretty popular station, too.”

  I’ve never actually felt my heart stop before, considering I’m alive and all, but I’m pretty sure it just did.

  “You brought me to a sex club?” I sort of squeak. “Are you insane?”

  Carson holds up both hands.

  “It’s not a sex club—I swear. It’s just a place for people to try something new and have a drink or two while doing it. Look around—most people aren’t wearing costumes or getting tugged around on leashes or anything. Part of the fun is just being here. It’s like Halloween in Fell’s Point or Mardi Gras in New Orleans. It’s an experience.” I bite down hard on my lip and look around again. As more and more people filter in through the curtain behind us, I can’t help but admit that they do look a lot more like me than they do like Poison Ivy or Sparkle Boy. There are plenty of jeans and skirts and collared shirts.

  Of course, there are also a few women sporting the same kind of sexy boots Rainey convinced me to wear tonight. Unlike me, however, most of those women are clad in patent leather from head to toe. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry—before, I was worried about looking like a prostitute. Now all I can think is how I must look like a dominatrix.

  “I swear to you,” Carson says now, holding a hand over her heart, “we’re just here to look around. You only get in with an invite, and my brother’s friend Micah is one of the bartenders. He’s the one who got us on the list.”

  “Come on, Cyn.”

  Rainey is bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. It has the unintended consequence of making her blond hair bounce on her shoulders—and her boobs bob up and down within the confines of her tight black top.

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” she insists.

  “Uh, except my to-do list.”

  “Well, yeah,” she grins. “Except for that.” I examine my fingernails; my French manicure is glowing in the black-lit area around us.

  “So, what you’re telling me,” I say slowly, “is that we are at this freaky club and I’m supposed to find a hot guy to bring home? What if I end up with a toe fetishist or someone who wants to tie me up?”

  “You won’t.” Carson sounds confident. “You read people better than anyone I know. You’ll be able to see through all the bluster and bullshit covering up some kind of weirdo and his penchant for vinyl boots and riding crops.”

  I snort, then shake my head.

  “Fine. Let’s just get a drink before I lose my nerve and bolt out of here.”

  Rainey lets out a whoop and throws her arms around me. “We are going to have so much fun!”

  I hug her back weakly, then watch two men in dog collars walk past us.

  What in the hell have I gotten myself into?

  We step down into the sunken bar area, and I try to slow my breathing. Even the act of getting a drink in this place has the adverse effect of making me feel like I’m stepping in front of a firing squad.

  “Three Long Island Iced Teas,” Rainey tells a female bartender, who is clad in some sort of blue rubber suit that leaves nothing to the imagination. She cocks a well-sculpted brow at the three of us.

  “We don’t do Long Islands. All our drinks are house specialties.”

  “Fine. Three of the strongest drinks you make.”

  Rainey tosses down her credit card. The bartender snatches up the Visa and plunks down three cardboard coasters. Carson’s already perched on a barstool like she belongs here—and she sort of does, I suppose. She’s far more adventurous than I’ve ever been, and her rocker-chick vibe does her favors in this sort of environment. Tonight, she decided on a short denim skirt with fishnets and a Def Leppard T-shirt. When she leans in closer to the black lights, her dark hair looks almost blue.

  I don’t see the drinks arrive, but when I look back at the bar, there are three tall glasses sitting in a row like good little soldiers. Well, if soldiers were fluorescent green and topped with a wedge of pineapple. And a miniature plastic skull.

  “A toast,” Carson says, handing out the drinks. “To the women I love the most and the sisters I never had. May we always be happy, healthy, and kicking ass.”

  “Amen!” I smile as our glasses clink and we all take a sip.

  “Fuck me!” Rainey gasps, coughing a little. “That is strong!”

  Even Carson, who can drink most people under the table, has a pinched look on her face as though she’s tasted something sour.

  I, on the other hand, actually kind of like the taste. I mean, yeah, it’s strong—but it’s also fruity. And tart. Like a Jolly Rancher mixed with a Sour Patch Kid. I take another long sip.

  “I think it’s good,” I say when I’ve swallowed.

  The girls stare at me for a second, then Carson shakes her head with a grin.

  “I should’ve known—one taste of the hard stuff and we’d lose this girl forever. Come on, let’s get out there and dance.”

  “Ooh, yes, let’s!” Rainey says, hopping up from her stool. She points to the Dance Floor sign. “Time to make good on number two on the list, Cyn.”

  I swallow more of my drink.

  “No, you guys go—I want to get a little more liquid courage before I head out there.”

  Carson cocks her head.

  “Are you chickening out?”

  “No—I swear, I will dance tonight. I just want to get a little more . . . acclimated to our surroundings.”

  She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head.

  “We’re not leaving you at the bar by yourself, Hyacinth.”

  I give her a half shrug.

  “I’m a big girl, Cars. Besides, I’m not by myself—I’m here with Mystique.” I grin, gesturing to our blue-covered bartender. “And isn’t the idea for me to meet a man? I can’t actually do that with you guys babysitting me then, can I?”

  “Yeah, Cars. Don’t be such a cock block,” Rainey chimes in.

  Carson rolls her eyes, but she’s already sliding off her stool.

  “Okay, if you’re sure . . .”

  “I’ll be fine.” I wave a hand. “Go. Dance. Come back in ten minutes when you think my drink will be done.”

  Rainey chuckles. “At this rate, you’ll only need five.”

  I shrug, then take another sip. “Well, then, when you come back, maybe I’ll have finished yours, too.”

  She links an arm with Carson. “That would blow my mind—I say do it.”

  I watch my two best friends march off in the direction of the dance floor. Once they’ve disappeared through the doorway, I dig my phone out of my purse and peer at the screen.

  No missed calls from Holly Fields.

  Is that bad? Why hasn’t Dad called? He said he’d call before he went to bed.

  I don’t bother leaving the bar for privacy; I just push 1 on my speed dial and cover my free ear with one hand.

  “Holly Fields Assisted Living.”

  “Hey, Bridget, it’s Hyacinth.”

 
“Hey, Cyn!” I can practically hear her toothy grin through the phone. “How are you, honey? I never see you anymore.”

  The music from the dance floor begins to pound with an even louder, faster beat, and I clamp my palm down tighter against my ear.

  “Yeah—I know. It’s been crazy lately. Listen, my dad never called me to check in tonight. Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, yeah, honey. You know those ridiculous men—up playing poker or watching some MVA fight.”

  “MMA?” I ask, smiling. She sort of huffs, an exasperated little sigh.

  “It’s all the same to me—plumb ridiculous, I tell you what.”

  I shake my head, grinning. “Look, if you see him, can you just tell him I’m out with friends and I’ll call him in the morning?”

  “Sure thing. And good for you, honey. You should go kick up your heels once in a while.”

  “Thanks, Bridget. I’ll see you Thursday.”

  I hang up, then rub my now-pinched earlobe. I know Dad wants me to have a life of my own, but I’m not sure I’m ready to let go of my responsibilities when it comes to caring for him. I look up at the ceiling and take another long sip of my drink. It was one of the reasons Brett broke it off with me in the end, I think. He hated the idea of being saddled with a girlfriend whose father might actually need more of her, as time went on, not less. He wanted to be able to travel and stay out late and be spontaneous. I was sort of the antithesis to that dream.

  The sad truth is that most women my age are home right now with their boyfriends or fiancés or husbands.

  But me?

  No, not me. I just called to check in with my father from the bar on a Saturday night, when I should be finding someone willing to be a part of Carson’s to-do list.

  “Let me guess—your husband?”

  The husky voice makes me look up immediately, but it takes me a good ten seconds to process the words. For the first nine, I’m too busy staring into a pair of deep, denim blue eyes.

  I’ve seen good-looking men before, of course. But this good-looking? Only Hollywood spawns men this hot. He’s got one of those faces that you’d call pretty if the edges weren’t so angular. His closely cropped hair and square jaw give him the look of someone you wouldn’t want to mess with, but the warmth and humor in his gaze makes me think he’s about to laugh at something.

  Wait.

  Is he about to laugh at me?

  “What?” I ask him, finally managing to form words around my tongue.

  “Your husband.” He gestures to the phone still in my hand. “Were you trying to explain to him where you were without saying ‘I’m at a sex club that promotes bondage and nudity’?”

  “Oh.” I glance down at my phone, which I’m currently clutching as though it’s a lifeline. “Um, no. That was not my husband.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  I shake my head.

  “Hmm.” His eyes sort of narrow. “Calling a cab, then? Trying to get rescued from the dog collars and glitter?”

  I smile at that. “No—it’s not that scary here. It just takes a little . . . adjusting.”

  “You’ve never been here before?”

  I shake my head. “First time. I came with some friends.”

  Blue Eyes nods, his gaze flickering up at the Dance Floor sign.

  “Yeah, I know. I saw them.” His mouth kicks up on one side. “I saw you first, though.”

  “Oh,” I say again, feeling my face warm. I try to busy myself by stowing away my phone in my purse and grabbing my neon-colored cocktail. I don’t even remember the protocol for when a man is talking to me. I was with Brent for way too freaking long.

  “So . . . uh . . .” I look back up at Blue Eyes and clear my throat. “Um . . . do you want a drink?”

  This time, his eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles. “Aren’t I supposed to ask you that?”

  He is, isn’t he? Oh, God, I am the worst at this!

  “Well, I actually have a drink,” I say, gesturing to my glass.

  “Hmm.” He crosses his arms—tan and muscular—over his chest—also tan and muscular, or so it would seem from the V of skin peeking out from his shirt collar. “Seems like it’s getting close to empty, though.”

  I rattle the ice cubes at the bottom and give him a little smile. “Hmm. Seems like you’re right.”

  See, I can do this.

  I can flirt.

  Awkward Hyacinth: 0.

  Sexy, Confident Hyacinth: 1.

  “So, then it seems like I should get you another,” Blue Eyes suggests.

  I gaze at him through my lashes, and my mouth suddenly feels very dry. Men this hot usually take one look at Rainey and never see past her. After another few seconds of staring like an idiot, I sort of shrug, then smile shyly.

  “If you want to.”

  “Oh, I want to.” He winks, then pushes himself up to standing. “Don’t go anywhere, beautiful.”

  He saunters down to the other end of the bar and, out of the corner of my eye, I watch him chat with the bartender. Her body language is anything but subtle; she’s practically shoving her rubber-clad cleavage in his face. And, yet, his piercing blue gaze returns to me, and I see that smile again. He’s got those mouth parentheses I love—you know, the indents that are like their own kind of smirk on either side of his lips? I’ve always liked them far better than mere dimples.

  I’m starting to feel flushed and a little dizzy. Tomorrow, I’ll recognize this sensation as “tipsy” but, right now, I’m going to call it “confidence.” Because the hottest man I’ve ever seen is carrying a drink toward me, wearing my favorite kind of smile, and the music blasting from the dance floor has a throbbing, insistent beat that is repeating a mantra in my mind—Number Three, Number Three, Number Three.

  Find the hottest man in the room and take him home.

  I lick my bottom lip and smile.

  I think he’ll do.

  “So,” he says as he approaches, setting the drink down in front of me, “what do you do? When you’re not exploring your fetishes, of course.” I smile, then swallow a sip of my new drink, which seems even more potent than the last. “I’m finishing up my last semester of grad school, actually.”

  His brows raise. “Wow. You don’t look old enough to have a master’s degree.”

  I quirk an eyebrow back at him. “Is that your way of saying I look young for my age?”

  He laughs. “I guess so, yeah.”

  “Well, thanks.” I can feel my cheeks color and I force myself not to look down—not when this gorgeous man’s attention is completely focused on me.

  “I aim to please,” he drawls. “Besides, I have to do something to keep you from getting seduced away from me by some of the more—ah—interesting clientele.”

  He nods his head toward a man walking past, wearing a tight silver T-shirt and an equally shiny cone-style bra over top.

  I snort a laugh and shake my head. “I’m up for an adventure, but I’m not sure that’s quite my speed.”

  Blue Eyes takes a swig from his beer, then grins. “Well, you’ll get an adventure here, alright. That’s for damn sure.”

  “You say that like you come here often.”

  He shrugs noncommittally. “I wouldn’t say often—but I’ve been here enough to see a lot of crazy shit go down. Sometimes I’m not sure how this place stays open.”

  I lean toward him a bit. “So, since you’re the resident expert, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure—shoot.”

  “What’s up with the no-names thing? I mean, why is it important that we are strangers who stay strangers to each other?”

  He rests an arm on the bar, letting his finger run along the edge of my coaster. Something in my lower stomach flips over itself as I watch his hand move back and forth.

  “It’s kind of a rule—everyone stays anonymous in the club,” he says. “If you leave with someone, all bets are off. But, while you’re in here, you’re supposed to be whoever you want to be, not the pers
on you actually are.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Sounds a little sketchy to me.”

  He laughs. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Well, then why do you come here?”

  “A couple reasons.” He scoots a little closer. “Partly because my friend owns this joint and I get in for free. But mostly because majority of the clubs around town are meat markets. That shit gets old fast.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. I send a very obvious look over at our bartender, then back at him.

  “And you’re telling me this place isn’t a meat market?”

  He cocks a sexy half grin that makes my knees feel a little weak. It’s a good thing I’m sitting down.

  “I was mostly referring to the guy meat market—the Jersey Shore types with their ’roid muscles and hair product and fake tans. I’m just saying—people don’t come here only to hook up—they have fun. They dance. They let themselves go a little bit. It isn’t all about the score.”

  I can feel my slightly intoxicated heart take a sad little nosedive into my belly. If he’s anti-meat-market and anti-score, then he’s definitely going to be anti–Number Three. I take a long sip of my drink to increase my bravado.

  “So, are you—not interested in scoring, then?”

  When I grow enough balls to look up at him, he’s staring at me, his gaze slightly hooded. His lashes are impossibly long, giving his eyes a darker frame, almost as though he’d lined them.

  “I wouldn’t say I’m not interested,” he says slowly. “I just think I’m selective.”

  “Selective?”

  “Yeah.” Now, his smile doesn’t just unfurl—it practically prowls over his face in a slow, sexy bloom. “Selective about who I talk to at the bar. Selective about who I buy drinks for. Selective about who I score with.”

  I force myself not to bite my bottom lip, because I really want to, and I know that it makes me look like a terrified high schooler. Instead, I fiddle with my straw.

  “Good to know,” I manage to say.