Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
“Gold means this,” she shouts as she leans closer to my ear. “White is voir… how you say, for looking.”
“For people who like to watch?” I pull back as I clutch my figurative pearls.
She gives a gallic flick of her shoulder. How would she know that? So much for her tears and denials.
“I can’t even watch porn without my soul trying to claw its way out of my skin.” And that’s while I’m alone.
She seems to find that funny. And who knows? Maybe someday I’ll laugh about ‘that one time’ I became a spectator at an orgy. I didn’t even know an orgy was a spectator sport.
“Safer though, no?” She offers me the ribbon again. I don’t immediately reach for it as a tall, slender woman dressed in a leather bustier struts by us. But that’s not the most striking thing about her outfit. It’s not even her matching leather thong, which looks seriously uncomfortable, or the black stockings and sky-high heels. The most striking piece would be the leather lead she’s holding. And the man she appears to be taking for a walk. On all fours. Must be hell on his knees. But then, the leather jocks he’s wearing can’t be that comfy, either.
“I think we might be a little overdressed,” I say, even if I do wish I’d brought my big coat.
The music changes, and Sabine’s face suddenly lights up. “This is Jay’s set! He said to look for ’im on the terrace.”
She pivots, and I follow, my eyes glued to her flowing blond mane as she weaves through the dense crowd of partygoers drinking, chatting, and generally hanging out. Some of them are really hanging out I see, thanks to some varying states of undress. But I’m surviving.
“Look, a bar!” I could do with a stiff one. A drink, I mean. “Sabine?” My stomach plummets. I only took my eyes off her for a second, and she has… gone.
After her tears and her supposed concern about being here alone, she’s totally ditched a bitch! And she has my phone.
“Fabulous,” I mutter as I shimmy sideways between the backs of a couple of men. “Excuse me. Coming through.” I weave blindly through the crowd. She can’t have gone far, and at least I know where she’s going. I’m sure she’s bound to realize I’m not behind her any minute. Any minute now.
Except, she only needed me as far as the door. Why do people have to be such selfish arseholes?
I push my way through the throng as I mentally cross my fingers that I’m going in the right direction when, huzzah! I spot a door, so I slip through it and into a garden room. Glass roof and parlor palms. I close the door behind me, and the music fades. It feels a bit like going deaf.
This must be a chill-out zone. Partygoers lounge on cushioned benches in jewel tones like we’re in an antiquated harem, the low tables littered with glassware and ornate shisha pipes. I wrinkle my noise at the fruity smoke, my hair coming to life thanks to the oversized cane fans rotating lazily overhead.
On the move again and, oh! I spot a couple canoodling, so swing my attention in the opposite direction. It’s fine, I tell myself. They’re just snogging. Heavy petting. That stuff happens everywhere from bus stops to parks benches and pubs. Sometimes it feels like I can’t go anywhere without seeing people making out. I glance back—no biggie. They’re just kissing. Except… the man seated next to them is touching himself as he watches.
A laugh like a fart spurts from between my pursed lips.
Ohmygod, I am not cut out for this.
And then it seems to be everywhere: sex. Maybe I just wasn’t paying attention or seeing only what I wanted to see because there’s a guy to my left doing coke from his companion’s ample bottom—which gives the expression a couple of cheeky lines a whole new meaning—and a couple to my right are totally going at it. And no one is batting an eyelid! Well, except me because I am freaking the furk out!
I give a quick shake of my head to unfrazzle my brain. The doors. I need to get outside before my radioactive cheeks explode or something.
“Where’s the fire, gorgeous?”
It’s not the question that makes me halt but the strong fingers that loop around my wrist. Panic momentarily seizes me as I turn to the owner of the voice, rattling my brains for an appropriate answer.
Thanks, but no thanks?
Oh, so you want to share my herpes, do you?
I’m only here to observe? My ribbon. I glance down at my wrist. Where the hell has it gone?
But as my brain seems to catch up, I realize he spoke in French, and I have an out.
“Can I help you?” I begin as I turn, all frowning and cutely confused. English girl without a lick of French just entered the chat.