In Case You Didn’t Know (The Fitzgeralds #2)

Chapter 1

one

FRANCIE

“You can’t wear jeans to a sex club,” Charlie says to me, like he’s the bastion of all knowledge when it comes to all things carnal.

“It’s not a sex club.” I roll my eyes. My twenty-six-year-old cousin – who happens to be younger than me by all of ten months – is scrolling through his phone the way he always does.

He’s almost certainly either checking stock prices or his dating app.

“It’s an exclusive, luxury adult intimacy venue,” I remind him, parroting the description they put on their members only website.

Technically, Charlie isn’t my cousin. He’s my nephew. Well, half-nephew. The son of Myles, my eldest brother. But ‘cousin’ is so much easier when talking about our relationship.

We’re sitting at a table outside the coffee shop below my apartment building.

It’s a tad too cold to be sitting out here, but the sun has come out and it’s like all of Manhattan has decided this might be our only chance at summer.

Like snakes shedding our skins, we’ve removed our thick parkas and replaced them with thin jackets.

And of course, I’m shivering. Thank goodness for coffee.

Charlie looks up from his phone, smirking, and I roll my eyes, because this whole situation is his fault.

“Okay,” he drawls. “You can’t wear jeans to an exclusive, luxury, adult intimacy venue.”

“I’m not wearing jeans to the club,” I say, exasperated. I love my cousin to bits, but I wish I’d never confided in him. “But really, it doesn’t matter, does it? I’m not going there to do anything.”

“Voyeurism is doing something,” he says.

“I’m not a voyeur. It’s research.” He’s enjoying this situation way too much. From the moment I confided in him about the meeting with my potentially brand-new book editor, panicking because I have to take my writing from zero to sixty in about five seconds, he hasn’t stopped grinning.

“You should have just gone out and gotten laid,” he says. “It would have been so much easier. And you could have worn jeans.”

“Shut up.” This is the problem with growing up so close to somebody. They know you far too well. “And women can’t have sex in jeans. It’s a physical impossibility,” I point out.

He finally puts his phone down. A girl at the next table is batting her eyelashes at him, despite the fact that I’m sitting right here. He grins at her, and it makes her blush.

“Hello?” I say to him. “Am I interrupting you?” He has this amazing ability to get along with everybody. Man, woman, child, animal. They’re all drawn to him.

“Nope.” He brings his gaze back to me. “Where were we? Oh yeah, you were going to tell me what you’re wearing to the sex club.”

“Exclusive, luxury adult intimacy venue. And I’m wearing a dress.”

“Please tell me it doesn’t have flowers on it.” He wrinkles his nose like there’s some kind of etiquette list I have no idea about.

“It doesn’t. It’s white and it’s tight and I won’t stand out like a sore thumb.” It’s one of my only “going out” dresses. Truth is, I’m a bit of a hermit. I’m more often at home interacting with characters I’ve made up in my head than with real life people.

“Virginal. Nice touch.”

“You’re not helping.” I shake my head, even though a smile pulls at my lips because Charlie has the same effect on me that he does with everybody else.

It’s impossible to be annoyed with him for long.

But the truth is, I’m terrified about going to this place.

It’s so far out of my comfort zone it’s not funny.

But if I get this contract, I’ll have to write the most spice I’ve ever written in a book.

Until now I’ve been self-published, and though it’s had challenges – trying to write, work with editors, cover designers, and bloggers has always been a juggling act – the only person I’ve had to please with my first draft has been myself.

But Alice Duchamps, the CEO and Publisher in Chief of Twisted Publishing is a tour-de-force in the industry. She’s swept in like a summer storm, turning the whole traditional book publishing model upside down.

She knows exactly what she wants in a book.

It has to be supremely marketable, with all the characters, tropes, and hooks that modern readers love.

And she’s not afraid to work with authors from the very beginning, pushing them to write their best work, and in return she markets them so hard they hit the top of every chart available.

This opportunity is huge. It’s also very scary, because if this book – which I haven’t written a word of yet – works, it’s going to catapult me into the limelight. Which isn’t the most appealing thing to an introverted, pen named author like me.

But still, I’m concentrating on the story, which we workshopped together over the past few weeks. It’s a romantasy – since that’s what I’ve been known for in the self-publishing book world – but it has more of everything. More tropes, more buttery scenes.

And way more sex. Including this one spicy group scene that has me shaking in my boots.

Alice Duchamps knows this too. She’s been completely upfront regarding the steam level she wants, and has suggested I send her a first draft of the first five chapters before we sign any contracts.

We both have to be comfortable that I can deliver the kind of book she needs.

Which is why, when Charlie offered to hook me up with his friend who’s the concierge at an intimate venue, I agreed for the sake of research.

Charlie’s phone starts to vibrate – reminding him that he hasn’t checked it for at least five seconds – and he lifts it up, wrinkling his nose.

“My car is here,” he says, looking up. Sure enough, a black town car is pulling up to the sidewalk next to where we’re sitting.

“I gotta go.” He looks at the carry-on bag beside our table.

“Listen,” he says, leaning in. “It’s going to be okay.

Simone is great. She’ll take care of you. ”

His mouth twitches. And that’s when I realize that Simone must be an ex of his. I lost count of them after he turned twenty-one. The man flies through women like nobody else, and they all stay friends with him.

“She seemed nice when I talked to her,” I tell him.

“She’s the best.” He stands, running his hands through his dark, thick hair. “Message me. Let me know how it goes.” He leans down, kissing my cheek. “Love you, cuz”

“Love you too. Safe travels.” He’s off to L.A. for meetings. He works for his dad and uncle – my much older brothers – in finance.

Grabbing the handle of his aluminum ribbed carry-on, he wheels it over to the driver, who takes it and loads it into the trunk. While he closes up, Charlie smiles at the woman sitting across from me again.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. I’m so going to put an overly flirtatious side-kick cousin into my next book. With a very, very dark ending. Charlie deserves it. Then he climbs into the car and lets the driver close the door, much to the woman’s disappointment.

I want to tell her she’s dodging a bullet.

But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t agree. So instead I finish my coffee and throw my cup into the trash, waving at Niall, the coffee shop owner who’s also a friend of mine.

Then I walk through the door next to the shop, that leads into a foyer, and up the steps to the apartment that I live in alone, ever since my best friend and roommate got married.

Once situated at the tiny, beaten up kitchen table in my even tinier apartment, I sit down at my open laptop and sigh.

I have two thousand words of the first chapter to write today if I want to meet the deadline Alice gave me for the first submission before they offer me a contract.

But all I can focus on is the white, strappy dress that’s hanging up on the door, ready for me to put on tonight and make what could be the worst mistake of my life.

My only consolation is that the club guarantees anonymity. I’ll walk in, see what I need to see – hopefully without needing therapy – and be done.

It’s no different to the time I went to the Bronx Zoo to study the Komodos for six hours straight so I could describe the way a dragon moved, even though the one I wrote had wings and averaged about forty feet in height.

Or the time I went to a Renaissance Faire to learn about chainmail and how it feels to run in it, because the heroine in that book was kick ass and would slay the world once she realized her power.

It’ll be fine. Nobody but Charlie and I will ever know about this particular piece of research.

Thank goodness.

I have a habit of being chronically early for any appointment I’ve made.

Probably because my childhood was so chaotic.

Coming from such a huge family, I never had any control over where I went or what I did.

My dad was mostly absent – he was seventy when I was born, and though he’s in his nineties now he still travels south for the winter – and my mom was his constant companion even though she’s over thirty years younger than him.

My brothers – I have six of them – took turns taking care of me during school vacations and holidays.

They had kids of their own and they spent a lot of time at our dad’s estate in Virginia where they all have cabins of their own around a lake.

I wasn’t neglected. I had a great childhood, all things considered.

But for all intents and purposes, I was an only child with seven fathers. And sometimes it still feels that way.

My Uber pulls up outside a restaurant a block down from the club. It’s twenty minutes before my agreed arrival time, and there was no way I was typing that place into an app. The less of a trail I leave the better. But I have plenty of time to walk the rest of the way.

I add a tip to the ride, thank the driver, and climb out, grimacing because either I’ve put on a bit of weight, or this dress has gotten tighter since I last wore it.

The Ivory Rooms – the exclusive luxury adult intimacy venue Charlie arranged for me to visit – is based in a non-descript three story brownstone at the corner of the block.

A simple sign, black serif script on white, is above the door.

Nothing to say what it is, or who’s allowed to enter.

Like Simone promised when we chatted, nobody would ever know you’re walking into an erotic club.

It’s classy and discreet and it makes me breathe a little easier.

Night has already fallen over Manhattan as I press the buzzer on the door. The sky is an inky dark blue, and the streetlights are illuminating the sidewalk.

“Hello?” A low, smoky voice echoes from the speaker.

“Hi. It’s Sylph.” I was given the code name when Simone registered me. It’s their way of giving anonymity. Every member goes through a full check – financial and security. But after that, no names are used.

“Sylph, welcome. Come on in. Turn left and I’ll be waiting for you.” The smokiness disappears, replaced by a friendly tone.

Sure enough, the door buzzes open and I step through, feeling the rush of a breeze as it clicks closed behind me almost immediately.

I turn left as directed, into an open hallway that smells of gentle florals, like they’re piping perfume in.

The floors are marble, and the walls are painted a soft ivory and the room is well lit. Nothing like I expected at all.

There are no audible sex sounds, no people parading around in the flesh bending each other over in the corridors. It could be the entrance to any upmarket club where rich people come to meet.

At the far end is a woman dressed in black pants and a white sleeveless blouse. Her hair and makeup are exquisite. She smiles at me as I approach.

“Sylph. I’m Simone. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.” She holds out her hand and I shake it, warming to her immediately.

“Thank you for everything,” I tell her.

“No worries. It’s a pleasure to be able to help a friend of Charlie’s. How is he?”

Okay, so she’s not keeping complete anonymity. Not that I really mind, I’m not here for anything anonymous, after all.

“The same old Charlie. He’s in L.A. at the moment.”

A dreamy expression comes over her face.

“I went to L.A. with him once. Best weekend ever.” She turns to the desk next to her, picking up a thick bracelet that has a tiny computerized screen on it.

“This is your pass. You’ll need to wear it at all times.

Anybody found inside the club without one is removed by security. ”

I slide it onto my wrist, trying not to smile at how much this feels like going to a conference or exhibition. Maybe it’s going to be okay after all.

“There’s no photography, obviously,” she reminds me. “No saying your real name. And if you have any trouble at all, come find me, I’ll be here all night.”

I take a deep breath. “Where should I start?” I ask. She knows I’m only there to observe, not partake.

“Through that door is the main hall. It’s where people go to relax, hang out. There’s some beautiful women in there, serving drinks. Sometimes doing more.” Her lip quirks. “But it’s gentle and a good place to begin.”

Charlie has obviously warned her that I’m a novice at this. At all things, pretty much. “That sounds good.”

“And then, maybe after a couple of drinks, I’d suggest you go to room five. It’s a voyeur room. Watching is very much encouraged in rooms five through seven. You won’t stand out, and there’s always some interesting things going on in those rooms.”

Her eyes twinkle and I try not to blush. Because we both know what interesting means.

“Definitely avoid rooms one to four,” she tells me. “Unless you’re feeling brave. They’re group participation only. No voyeurism”

I nod. “No rooms one to four. Got it.”

“And rooms eight to twenty are for private encounters. There’s a light on each door. Red means occupied, green means empty. They’re accessible with your bracelet. Each participant will need to swipe if they are using the bed.”

“I won’t be using them,” I say firmly. I’m here to research, that’s it. I’d probably spontaneously combust if I did anything other than that.

“Okay.” She smiles widely. “Any questions?”

“None right now. But thanks for answering the ones I had when we spoke last week. It was really useful.”

“Again, anything for a friend of Charlie’s.” She looks at the door and presses a button. “You’re in. Have fun.”

“Thanks.” Though I’m not sure that fun describes it accurately. Fear mixed with the need to run is how I’m feeling right now. If I get through tonight without barfing, I’ll be happy.

I take a deep breath and tell myself to woman up. I’ll wander around for a couple of hours, take in the sights, smells, and feels that I’ll need to write the scenes I’ve agreed to with my editor, and by midnight I should be home in my fleecy pajamas with a cup of hot cocoa.

Two hours, a few mental notes, and zero interaction.

What could possibly go wrong?