“Sutton, yes. Hi!” I hop in and get settled, tugging my seatbelt on as he pulls away from the curb.
While we make our way across town, I scan the latest headlines for any insight on up and coming athletes I may have missed. Browsing sites likeESPN,Bleacher, andDeadspin, and pointedly ignoring the main page story onDeadspinabout Max, I search for key terms likeunderdogandbright future, ordark horse—which is always a good one.
Before I know it, we’re pulling up in front of Joyce.
Once inside, I search the busy restaurant for my friend, spotting her at the bar. She spins in her seat like she feels my eyes on her, then her face lights up and she waves frantically as if it’s been six weeks since we last saw one another—not a handful of days.
“Slutty!” she exclaims when I settle into my seat beside her.
I groan as my gaze flicks around us quickly, and pray no one has overheard the horrible nickname she gave me back in high school. A nickname that has, regardless of my annoyance, stayed with us all these wonderful years.
Thankfully, it seems no one has heard her over the din of the lunch crowd.
“I hate you,” I say as I lean in for a hug, her thick strawberry-blonde curls tickling my nose.
“I missed you.” She squeezes me firmly, then pulls back and taps the base of a highball. “I ordered for you.”
I grin. “I’m glad you did.” Swiping the drink off the counter, I bring the straw to my lips and take a long pull. There’s just something about Joyce’s milk punch bourbon cocktail that has me dreaming about it on a pretty ridiculous basis. “Mm.”
“Guess what we’re doing tomorrow night.”
Setting the drink down, I turn to Mo. “Well, luckily I don’t have any plans, but thanks for checking with me first.”
She laughs, nudging me with her knee. “I checked with Andy; your schedule is clear.”
“Myworkschedule. But what about my personal life?”
She presses her lips together as her eyes go wide, then we both start laughing at my expense, and I roll my eyes, motioning for her to proceed. I know, I know. I haven’t had much time for a personal life since I started my own agency, and people who can’t meet potential partners outside of work usually wind-up dating someone they work with. (Which leaves mycousin,ew, or any number of guys in the industry whom I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.)
“We’re going to a sex club.”
I snort, thankfully without a mouthful of bourbon. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.” She slides a sleek black envelope in front of me, then taps it twice with long, pink fingernails.
Mo’s full name is written in looping, gold calligraphy on the front,Imogen Jayne Kelly, and on the back, the envelope flap is embossed with a logo I don’t recognize. I run my fingers over the intricate design and realize that within the swirls and filigree is the outline of a rabbit.
Frowning, I look up at my bestie. “What is this? Something from PETA?”
Mo snorts. “Openit.” She widens her eyes, then bites down on her bottom lip to fight a wide smile.
The bartender places a platter of oysters in front of us as I open the black envelope—
Motsksand shoves my hands into my lap.
“Discretion,” she chides, rolling her hazel eyes dramatically.
Discreetlythis time, I pull the cardstock from the envelope. It’s thick, black like the envelope, with that same insignia embossed at the top, and in the center of the page is that same filigree logo with its delicate design and small gold rabbit. Below, printed in gold, is the wording:
By Invitation Only
Masks Requested
Discretion Required
Frowning, I flip it over. The backside only has the date, time, and a neighborhood in the Hollywood Hills. I look at my friend, lifting one eyebrow. “Sounds… cryptic.”
She tuts as she pulls the invitation from my hands, then slips it back into the matching envelope and tucks it into her purse. “I think the word you’re looking for isexclusive.”
