Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I dip into my canvas bag, grab the lavender candle and set it on the bar. “Just a little thanks.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, but her upbeat tone tells me she likes the gift. It’s her signature scent, and I picked it especially for her.
“It was fun.” I draw a quiet, fueling breath. Here goes nothing…and everything. “And hey, I heard there’s another one in two weeks.” I keep it breezy, easy, and in a lower volume I add, “Any chance I can fill in? Especially with the way things are around here.” I gesture subtly to the crowded bar.
Her head tilts. “Really? But why?”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, when it’s all the deal. “It’s a Speakeasy theme. And you know me. I just really like looking at the costumes,” I say with a smile.
I’m not lying. I love dressing up.
Scarlett seems to consider it for a second. “Sure. I heard from the couple who runs it that you were really good on the piano.”
I was really good on my knees too.
“Thanks, babe,” I say, then leave, a smile blooming bright and wide once I’m out on the streets of Manhattan.
Too bad, Dad. Looks like Mom was right.
Another thing my dad says is there are no good reasons to be late, only excuses. So I’m early for poker night as I exit the subway twenty minutes after leaving Better Days then walk a block over to a sleek stretch of Madison Avenue lined with pricy boutiques and chichi cafés.
I spot Camden walking toward me. Like me, she’s carrying a canvas bag. She’s in charge of snacks tonight. I’m responsible for liquor, and my tote holds a boxed sauvignon because boxed wine is more fun. Also, wine openers suck.
I cross the street and stop to give her a hug. When I let go, I reach into my bag for another bag—a purple one—then hand it to her.
She arches a brow in question but takes the bag with avid eyes. “What’s this?”
“Only the very thing you asked for,” I say with a grin.
Opening the purple sack, she gasps. “You didn’t.”
I shrug, pleased. “I did.”
She paws at the paint-it-on vegan leather pants, the faded black tee with the cut-up neckline, and the studded wristband—the rocker chick outfit she wanted for karaoke. “Seriously. You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“I know. But it was so very you.” I don’t make a ton of money, but I like to spend my extra on my friends, and, well, on my OCD therapist, Shira.
“Then I will wear the fuck out of this,” Camden declares with a smoky purr, then squeezes my shoulder. “Now, gimme all the details,” she says as we continue to our mutual destination.
“I told you everything yesterday,” I remind her. We turn onto Harlow’s picturesque block, walking under a canopy of honey locust trees. “Or was it so good you want a repeat?”
I know I do.
She rolls her eyes. “Hello. Your request.”
“Oh, right,” I say, embarrassed. Maybe I’m a little overeager to repeat the juicy details of the hottest sexual encounter of my life. Not that there are many contenders, but still. “Scarlett said yes. I can fill in for her again in two weeks. Well, twelve days, but who’s counting?”
Camden’s eyes flash victory signs. “And now, Masquerade All The Way: The Sequel is officially greenlit,” she says, clearly amused as we pass a brick brownstone that looks like it belongs on the set of a rom-com flick. “It’s longer, dirtier, and full throttle.”
“You should write movie trailers.”
“And you should play chess with those moves you pulled off to make part two happen. I swear, you’re always thinking.”
More like overthinking. “Except chess is boring.”
“But your sex life isn’t,” she says.
“Potential sex life,” I correct.
She grabs my elbow, stopping me on the pristine sidewalk—pristine by New York standards—before we reach Harlow’s building. “Is he…the one?”
Camden knows me better than anyone—she doesn’t mean the one in a love-story type of way. Still, the idea of the one is difficult for me to embrace. If there’s one person for you, then there’s one person who can hurt you the most. One person you can lose.
But the one for a first time in the bedroom? “Hell yes,” I say, feeling so damn certain.
Her eyes light up. “Are you going to tell him it’ll be your first time riding a D?”
Even though I’m twenty-five, I’m not precious about my virginity. I wanted to sleep with my college boyfriend, Brandon. Planned to, in fact. But he played the cruelest mind games in a sick ruse to get me into bed on his timetable, not mine. I didn’t let him win, but his twisted tricks shut me down. For a few years after college, I was wholly uninterested in having sex or participating in the games people play to get it.