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"Me too." I grab my purse.
Patrick nods, pushes out of his seat, helps me out of the car. "You have your jacket?"
"My what?" I ask.
He smiles. "Take mine." He takes his leather jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.
It feels good. Warm and heavy in that perfect, comfortable way. And it's his. It smells like him. It feels like him. "Won't you be cold?"
"I have a hoodie in the trunk."
"A hoodie? For your Sinful Serenade shirt?"
"Fuck yeah." He smiles.
He looks good. Jeans, a button-up shirt, boots. Smart casual. Is that what you wear to a not-orgy? I don't know.
But we're not here for other people.
We're only here for us.
And it's explicitly not an orgy. (Which is more damming than saying "it's totally an orgy").
But I don't care about that either.
I'm officially out of my mind.
Well, I've been officially out of my mind for a long time. But I'm on some new level. One reserved for people with another diagnosis.
Or maybe I'm finally acting normally, thinking with the brain below my waist. Everyone expects men to do it. Why not a book-smart science loving woman too?
"Ready?" I ask.
Patrick nods, wraps his arm around me, and leads me to the house.
Nothing about the place screamssex club. Maybe the quiet EDM. Otherwise, it looks sleeker and safer than every frat party I've ever attended.
A woman in a designer suit checks our name is on the list. It's all perfectly normal until she explains the guidelines. The main room is for mingling. Outside, things get a little more open, but mostly people are watching. Upstairs? Anything goes. The bar is here. Drinks are welcome anywhere, but no party drugs.
She doesn't want to ask us to leave, but she will.
She hands us a row of condoms, says, "safe is sexy," and nods goodbye.
Tricky leads me through the foyer, into the main room. People in cocktail gear and casual outfits flirt, dance, drink, talk, kiss.
It's surprisingly sweet, but there's still a charge in the air, a suggestion of more.
"You want a drink?" Patrick nods to the bar on the left, a long cart manned by a guy in jeans and a vest.
"Absolutely," I say.
He laughs. "You're nervous?"
"Very."
"Just one?" he asks.
"Probably smart." I want two, three, four. As many as it takes to calm the nerves in my stomach. But I want to feel this too. All of it.
