“I swear togod, if we end up at an orgy, I’m going to kill you,” I say to Nina as she finishes applying her lipstick.
“You really don’t think…” Her words trail off as her eyes get larger. “I’m texting her to ensure that’s not the plan.”
I can’t help but chuckle at Nina’s obvious discomfort at the mere mention of sexual debauchery. The thought of her reaction to being dragged into something like that is quite amusing. But I’m not concerned. Jill knows that sort of thing isn’t our scene.
She dabbled in some questionable activities in college, and we made it clear back then that we weren’t interested. She never pushed. We’ll likely be enjoying a lively night out on the square, as Jill suggested.
As I finish applying the last layer of mascara, I step back and appreciate my reflection in the mirror. A smile spreads across my lips as I notice the results of my new nightly skin care routine. The fine lines around my eyes seem less pronounced, a testament to the effectiveness of the absurdly priced products I’ve been using.
I’ve been contemplating Botox, but only for my forehead. The lines there are too deep for any cream to make a significant difference. It’s not a necessity, but it’s something I want for me, and I have the means to afford it. There shouldn’t be shame for a woman investing in herself. I refuse to let anyone’s opinions on it dictate my choices. Often, others’ views are a reflection of their envy. Nothing more. If they had the money, they’d likely do it too.
Twenty minutes later, we’re out the door and in the square where we agreed to meet Jill.
The Communes sprawl before us like a utopian oasis for retirees. It’s reminiscent of other retirement communities in Florida, but with an air of exclusivity that sets it apart.
Jill, ever the social butterfly, is surrounded by a group of people, chatting animatedly while sipping an amber cocktail. I catch her eye, and her face lights up, hands flying into the air, alcohol spilling over the side of her plastic cup.
“You made it,” she cheers, pulling Nina into a side hug. “I was afraid you two would pull your typical shenanigans and ditch.”
Her lips smash together, and Nina laughs.
“We were looking forward to it.”
Jill smirks, leaning in close to us. “As long as the dicks and chicks remain clothed.”
Nina splutters, and I smother a grin.
“You were always up for testing boundaries,” I say, my shoulders shaking with laughter.
She offers a toothy smile, waggling her eyebrows before grabbing Nina by the elbow and pulling her toward a group of people.
Jill had a knack for attracting the attention of wealthy men, and tonight appears to be no exception. They swarm to her like bees on honey, each vying for her attention in ways I find a bit pathetic.
“Let’s dance,” I suggest to Nina, and she nods, appearing eager to get away from Jill and her harem.
A cover band is playing nineties hits, which seems to please the diverse crowd. It’s definitely what Nina and I would’ve chosen. We dance and sing along to the songs, having a great time.
“Here,” Jill says, reaching between us to place plastic cups full of liquor in each of our hands. “Drink up. We got the invite of the year.”
Nina and I share a glance, and Jill rolls her eyes.
“Don’t clutch your pearls just yet, Nina Joy,” Jill says, a Cheshire-cat grin lighting up her face. “We’ve been invited to an underground poker tournament. A very exclusive invite.”
Her eyes travel over to a group of regal men who reek of too much money. A salt-and-pepper-haired man with piercing blue eyes smiles at Jill, lifting his chin slightly.
“Who is that?” I ask, not immune to the charm he emanates, even from a distance.
“That’s Harlan Abbott. He’s part of the investment group that built The Communes.” She turns toward us. “And our ticket to fun.”
Within five minutes, Nina, Jill, and I are escorted into a decked-out golf cart with the most comfortable seats I’ve ever sat upon.
“Help yourself to anything in the cooler, ladies.” Harlan’s deep brogue curls around me, and I shiver in response.
Not because it’s sensual and manly, which it is, but for a reason I can’t quite pinpoint. He has me a bit on edge, especially considering we know nothing about this guy, and Jill hasn’t always been the best judge of character.
He drives down the golf-cart path for a good forty-five minutes, steering us toward the far end of The Communes, where the nature reserves begin. He pulls the cart onto a small hiking trail, just wide enough for the cart to traverse. Branches scratch against the pristine metallic finish, and I grimace at the horrific sound. Harlan doesn’t seem bothered that his fancy cart is being scratched to hell.
The ride is bumpy, and I’m just about to ask how much farther it is when the trees open up and a set of massive iron gates with a giant M in the middle greets us. Beyond the gates sits an old, abandoned house, straight from a horror movie.
