“Don’t be,” I replied. “It’s really funny.”
“It’s not funny.”
“There’s an orgy in the courtyard right now. It’shilarious.”
“It’s not an orgy.”
“Do you know that for sure? Like you asked the lady and she explicitly told you it’s not?”
“No. I used basic logic and common sense.”
“What else could it be?”
“I cannot articulate how little I care.”
“How do you not care? I can’t stop thinking about it. I might go see,” I said without thinking. But saying it out loud, I realized it was true. My curiosity had won out and I needed to see for myself what the hell was going on in the courtyard.
“Please don’t,” Dex said.
“Not to participate. I just want to see. That sounds bad. Not in a voyeuristic way.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s morbid curiosity.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I don’t think I can. I can’tnotknow.”
“And what will you do if it is an orgy?”
“Be scarred for life. But at least I’ll know.”
“Maybe you should heed the advice you were given.”
I sat up, staring at his dark blob of a reflection. “She said it to the teenager, not us. Come on. Let’s go see.”
“When did I get involved in this?”
A great question. Now that I’d involved him, though, I wanted him to be. And it almost certainly had nothing to do with the shirtless fantasy. “You told Arden you’d protect me.”
He scoffed. “I did not.”
“It was implied. Physical or mental harm, remember? This is one, if not both.”
“I’m sorry, are you planning on gettinginvolvedin the orgy?” I climbed to my feet, veering for my sandals set neatly by the door—Dex must’ve tidied while I was in the shower because I’ddefinitely kicked them in opposite directions. “Violet,” he growled. “Goddammit.”
I slipped into the hallway, the pink floral wallpaper and fluorescent lighting blinding after an hour in the dark. This place could’ve been dreamed up by a six-year-old. That or it was a rejected set fromBarbie. I blinked hard, growing used to the brightness, just as the door opened behind me.
“You’re a piece of work,” Dex muttered, squinting under the lights in a heather gray T-shirt and dark sweatpants. I’d never seen him like this—casual, intimately so. This man who held himself so tightly together, unraveled and unashamed. For the first time since we met, he wasn’t Benji Dexter of Love Letter fame; he was simply Dex. I liked it.
“I knew you cared.”
Ignoring this, he shuffled to the elevator. I lagged behind, trying to get a handle on the sudden dryness in my throat. I tried to think of three things, but on the ride downstairs, Dex sighed and leaned a shoulder against the wall, and I noticed the slope of his bicep, as well as a tattoo just above his elbow. I stared, transfixed—someone’s handwriting, impossible to transcribe without being right on top of it.
Great. Now I was thinking about being on top of Dex.
The doors slid open, revealing a vacant lobby. Twinkling lights lit up the gardens through the windows, and the moment we stepped outside, soft music swept in with the breeze. The thought of soundtracking an orgy nearly made me lose it. Together, we crept across the lawn, sticking close to the building. The music grew louder until shadows opened up to a slate patio with grand stone pillars and, beyond it, fountains enclosed the courtyard where dozens of people lounged on the grass, facing an enormous screen.
