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With that thought comes the usual waves of guilt. I drag a shuddering breath into my lungs.
“Calm down, love.” Cara laughs, her hand on my shoulder. “You’re good.”
“I don’t belong at a place like this.” I try not to stare, wide-eyed, around the dark, forbidden space and the people crowded into the room.
Jeez, you’d think I’d never seen a rich person.
Cara rolls her eyes. “No one belongs, you just pretend that you do.”
The slight grunge of the bar has an upmarket sleaze to it. Like anything and everything can happen here. The exposed deep red brick, the black velvet…it’s like a speakeasy from Berlin in the thirties.
At least, what I imagine a speakeasy in Berlin in the thirties would be like.
Hedonistic.
That’s a good word to describe this club. Carefullymanufactured hedonism. A place for the who’s who of Manhattan to be seen. Trendsetters with money and fame.
I’ve seen rich people; I was rich, but my conservative, well-heeled and bred parents would never have set foot in a place like this.
The familiar pull of guilt clenches a fist around my stomach.
“I…”
Cara—the most sophisticated and wildest woman I know…someone so beautiful and confident that I’m still trying to work out why she chose me as her friend—grins. “You’re just sober. Let’s change that.”
She cranes her neck as she looks around the room full of impossibly cool and loaded people. With a wave at someone, she turns back to me. “I just saw someone I know who’ll buy us drinks. Wait here and I’ll work my magic.”
Cara flips her long black hair over her shoulder, shimmies her silver dress down a little for maximum cleavage, and takes off.
I’m left behind like a fish flopping on the pier while the crowd laughs, talks and—Oh my God…are people doing actual key bumps of coke out in the open?—has a good time. I am completely out of my element here. College chemistry majors aren’t exactly known to be party animals, so Cara is always trying to pull me out of my bookish shell. She thinks I need to experience the world a little bit more and shake up my comfort zone.
And what better place for that than the elite and exclusive Manhattan party scene?
Five different men offer to buy me a drink in the span of about two minutes. I’m almost tempted to see if there’s a group with a bet going. But they’re not frat guys. I turn them down, and every second that passes feels like an hour.
I try to find Cara, but I don’t see her in the crowd. And a low-grade electrical current runs through me, making me shiver.
There are eyes on me. I shouldn’t be able to feel them, but I do.
Like someone in here is playing with my senses.
My skin starts to itch, like it doesn’t fit right over my bones. It’s a familiar feeling, one that’s been there for years. Parties aren’t my thing, not the boring ones I had to attend growing up, and definitely not this one.
I wipe my clammy hands on the sides of my dress. The music is low-key, fitting in with the speakeasy vibe. The patrons are older, some way older, than me.
I’m probably the only girl in New York who’s uncomfortable at anitplace. I prefer my books, working, studying. I need them. They give me purpose.
I push out a breath.
Where the hell is Cara?
I look around and a dark thrill that’s purely physiological passes through me as I hit a secluded corner of the room. A drop-dead gorgeous blond man in head-to-toe black slouches against a wall, and he’s eyeing me like lunch.
But he’s not the source of the thrill.
There’s someone else. In those shadows. All I see is a suit jacket and shirt cuff as he lifts a glass of amber liquid.
It’s him.
