Page 4 of The Stranger

“Bien sûr. Of course.”

“The minute I have power, I’m calling an Uber, and I’m out. Got it?”

“Whatever you say.”

“I say I must be crackers,” I mutter.

“You are hungry? Maybe there will be food.”

My nose scrunches so hard the tip almost touches the space between my brows. Nibbles at an orgy? Sounds super palatable. “I must be crazy—too soft for my own good!”

But beneath my protests and excuses, lurks something else.

An invitation to a sex club. Wouldn’t you be curious?

2

PRIMROSE

There’s something a little medieval about this heavy gate. And my mind jumps from ancient torture devices to the kinds of things I might see tonight.

It’s fine, I tell myself as I forcibly replace one thought with another. I’ll just treat it as an anthropological study. To see how the other (kinky) half lives. For the dinner party stories I’ll get out of the experience, and to bank a couple of scandalous anecdotes to share in my old age.

Hey Edna, did I tell you about that one time I visited a sex club?

I startle as the gate swings open to a very large and very sharply suited door denizen.

“Sabine Kopek and her plus-one. We’re guests of Jay.” She straightens her shoulders and tosses her long blond hair.

The man taps at an electronic tablet, then asks my name—in French. I reply in kind, giving him at least some version of it. Rose Whit sounds like she might be into freaky stuff, but Dr. Primrose Whittington? Not so much.

He moves aside and directs us to a nearby table manned by a woman in a tightly fitted red cocktail dress.

“Téléphones,” she demands, barley looking up.

I tighten my hand on the precious lifeline as Sabine exchanges her own handset for an inky barcode stamped to her wrist. “I suppose that saves you from worrying about where you’ll put your ticket.”

“Pardon?”

When you’re naked and getting nasty, I don’t add as I pull Sabine away from the table.

“I’m not leaving my phone,” I whisper-hiss. “I’m only here to charge it. No phone, no orgy.” I make a quick slashing motion with my hand.

She gives a glance the attendant’s way before grabbing my handset. She stuffs it into her jacket pocket. “She doesn’t have a phone,” she explains in rapid-fire French as we step back to the table. The woman’s attention drops to my purse.

“See?” My eyes feel as wide as saucers as I pull on the sides, allowing her to peer inside. She gives a disinterested flick of her wrist, and her attention slides away.

“I don’t know why you’ve got to leave them,” I mutter as we make our way along the path toward the house.

“A lot of powerful people will be here,” Sabine says, linking her arm with mine. “Pictures or it didn’t happen?”

“Oh, this definitely didn’t happen.”

“Don’t look so worried, chéri. It’s just a party.”

“Some Eyes Wide Shut shit,” I mutter. Curious. What the hell was I thinking? Curiosity didn’t only kill the cat because I’m pretty sure my libido is flatlining.

Here lies Primrose Whittington’s sex drive. It suffered a fatal blow—I mean—a knock to the head after she fainted like a Victorian virgin when confronted by nekkid people having sex.