The Virgin Society Collection

9. What Did You Do Today

9

WHAT DID YOU DO TODAY

Jules

The Lyft can’t get me home fast enough. I have so much to do before the car Finn’s sending for me arrives.

As the driver swings through the city, I tap my toe against the floor of the Nissan. Traffic is light at this hour, but not light enough for me. I want to fly home.

Nibbling on the corner of my lip, I review everything I need to do in thirty minutes at my apartment. No way was I going straight to Finn’s place from The Scene. I’m wearing a wig and a wig cap, and neither are sexy to take off.

As the driver maneuvers past a double-parked cab and onto Seventh Avenue, she glances in the rearview mirror, wide brown eyes meeting mine. “How was your night?” She asks it with mild interest, perhaps eager to fill the silence of a boring drive.

Words flash through my mind like reviews on Times Square marquees, bright and brilliant.

Wild. Amazing. Shocking. Exciting. Dangerous.

Yes, my night so far has been all of those things, but none of those words are big enough.

A handful of words fit better— only the beginning . “It was really good.” For once, I don’t try to hide my enthusiasm.

“Oh yeah?” She wiggles a brow in the mirror, then gives me an eager, “Elaborate.”

Tell a stranger? No problem. “Well, let’s just say it’s not over yet.”

“I’m jealous. Let me know if you need a ride to your next stop,” she says.

“I would, but he’s sending me a car,” I say, and it’s so easy to drop these racy little details with her.

It’s fun too.

Soon enough, we’re at my place in Chelsea, and I thank her then rush inside, tipping her on the app as I greet the doorman on my way to my apartment.

Once inside, I lean against the door, catching my breath even though I haven’t done anything to make it speed up. Still, my heart is beating so fast.

I can’t believe I’m going to do this. This is so wrong. This is so risky. This is so… exciting .

I lock the door, drawing a deep inhale of the lavender bouquet I picked up earlier in the week, then get moving on my to-do list. I need to fix my hair, since it’s flat as a pancake under this wig, and take a quick shower since, well, playing piano for three hours makes me a little hot and sweaty.

I’m not going to let him undress me unless I feel good about what’s under the clothes.

After unzipping my dress and kicking off my shoes, I turn my phone back on, too, just in case Finn texted with info about the car he’s sending. Guys I dated in college never sent town cars. They barely sent texts longer than sup or hey .

And yes, the newest text is from him. But I freeze before I open it, dread prickling at me. What if he’s canceling? He probably changed his mind when he returned home, and the weight of his choice hit him. Guilt is a powerful downer. Expecting disappointment, I click open the text.

Finn: Do you like champagne, whiskey, wine, or something without liquor? Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen.

I grin stupidly. Anything, I want to say. But that’s a boring answer. So far, Finn seems to think I’m sexy. He likes when I’m naughty. I like being this girl with him. And there’s one drink that lets him know I’m so ready.

Jules: Just water, Mr. Adams. I’m very, very thirsty.

Seconds later, a reply lands.

Finn: I’m hungry. I know what I want to eat. I thought about it all day at the office when you were bringing me contracts to sign, bending over my desk.

I gasp. He’s doing it. He’s really doing it. And so am I.

Jules: Funny, I thought you were thinking about my tits then.

Finn: Watch that dirty mouth, or I’ll bend you over the table.

Jules: Like you wanted to bend me over your desk earlier today. Or maybe you wanted to spread me out on your desk?

Finn: Make that starving. You’d better get here very, very soon. I’m not a patient man, Miss Marley.

Jules: But I’ll be worth it.

With a delicious sigh, I clutch my phone. I want to linger in this heady moment where I’m aching for him. Only there’s too much to do, so I set my phone down on the bureau, but a text from my father from earlier blinks up at me.

Like a pair of eyes, watching.

He’d hate me even more if he knew what I was about to do. I spin around and ignore it, yanking off my wig and the wig cap. A minute later, I’m under the stream of water, scrubbing, washing, rinsing.

I’m out of the shower in no time, lotioning up, then swiping on lipstick and mascara.

Nothing more.

I grab a canvas bag and toss in a pair of panties, a tank top and leggings, then a toothbrush. He invited me to spend the night, so presumably, he wants to kiss me in the morning, but morning breath is real. I don’t like being dirty (except the good kind of dirty), and there’s no way I’m asking a guy I don’t know to borrow a toothbrush.

It’s just best to be prepared.

I want to be prepared to play our roles, too, so I dress the part, zipping up a black pencil skirt, buttoning a tight white blouse, and sliding into heels.

I twist up my hair, and even though I still have my contacts in, I grab a pair of costume glasses. They feel like armor.

I check the time. The car will be here in ten minutes, so I unlock my safe and take out my journal, reading the quote on the card. Then I answer the question Willa asked me every night when we were kids. What did you do today? Every night, I told her. I still tell her, but now I do it in a veiled way because I have to.

Stars on my ankle. A fist against the wall. Jay Gatsby, obsessed with me. A late-night invitation. A dangerous choice.

I close the book, lock it up, then grab my phone. A new message flashes on the screen.

Finn: You smell incredible.

I read it twice because that’s what it takes to absorb his meaning. Heat washes over me. What the hell am I getting myself into with this dominating, dirty man?

No idea, but I can’t wait to find out.

But as I race down the steps of my building, I keep thinking about my dad’s text. I should open it. I should write back. He’ll worry I’m dead.

I stop on the landing, closing my eyes briefly, breathing past the flash of terrible images from years ago.

I open my eyes and click on the text. He sent me an article about the best mutual funds, along with a reminder: We need to talk about your retirement planning soon. You started an account, right?

Um, no, Dad. I’m focused a tiny bit more on that little thing known as rent.

As I head toward the foyer, I dictate a reply. Working on it!

He replies immediately. We can talk about it in the morning. Do a Zoom call after I run, and I’ll share my screen and we can look at options.

Dude, I am not zooming with you in the morning.

Surely, I’m an asshole as I reply. Too busy with script reading tomorrow! Gotta work on that track record. Maybe Sunday.

My stomach twists as I reread my lie. But it’s the cost of a cover-up.

There’s a text from my mom from earlier too. She sent me a social clip of a fashion designer making a Regency ball gown, one of those sped-up videos that shows the arduous process in fifteen seconds. Saw this and thought of you! What are you up to this weekend? I’m at a wine festival and it’s fabulous!

Without answering, I head to the street, feeling like I’m sixteen again and sneaking out with Willa. But I don’t want to think about my family. I don’t want to think about me either. I don’t want to think terrible, annoying, awful thoughts.

I just want to… feel all the pleasure I’ve denied myself for the last few years.

I push open the front door of my building and dart down the steps, scanning for the black town car Finn’s sending—when I walk right into a man.

Oof.

I blink, then shake my head, relieved. “Oh. Hi.”

It’s Ethan. He’s one of Layla and Harlow’s besties, and over the last few years, he’s become a good friend of mine too.

I set a hand on my chest, where my pulse is still racing. “Thank god it’s you. I thought it was my parents,” I say, which sounds ridiculous to say out loud, especially at eleven-thirty on a Friday night.

“Sounds like you’re up to no good,” he says, busting me just like that.

But one look at his stylish jeans, cuffed twice at the ankles, and tight shirt, clearly meant for a hot date, gives me playful ammunition. “I could say the same about you.”

He shrugs, smiling. “Just finished a gig. I’m heading to my girlfriend’s place for the night.”

“Say hi to Tessa for me.” She’s a drummer in another band that’s all the rage in the city—though his band, Outrageous Record, is pretty hot too.

“I will.” He takes a beat, giving an I’m waiting look. “I told you where I’m going. Your turn.”

Giving up secrets is so dangerous. They can slice your heart. Before I speak, I weigh this one.

I’m not going to tell him who Finn is or how we’re connected. But maybe I can say a little something. It felt good to share with the girls at poker the other week. I also want to tell my friends. It makes this clandestine fling feel more real—and more daring too. I like being naughty Jules, racing off to a sex-cursion.

“I’m going to a sleepover as well,” I begin.

His hazel eyes twinkle. “With a man?”

I laugh, half shy, half thrilled. “Yes.”

“Well, well. Virgin Society no more, I take it?”

That’s the name Harlow, Layla, and Ethan gave themselves a few years ago when they all carried V-cards. “Seems that way.”

“And who is this masked man?”

Ethan can’t know how close he’s come to the truth of how I met Finn. Still, I feel seen with this comment. Safely seen. Maybe because I can answer truthfully enough. “I met him at a party. He’s sometimes a gentleman and sometimes not.”

Ethan’s smile turns wicked. “The best kind of man.”

I laugh. “I’d have to agree.”

“And is there something more going on with him?”

“No. It’s just a one-time thing.”

“Nothing wrong with that, but he better treat you like a queen in bed,” he says, like a protective guy friend should.

“I think that’s at the top of his agenda,” I whisper salaciously.

“Smart man.”

The sound of a car parking has us both turning our heads toward the curb.

Ethan whistles at the sleek town car. “I like his style already.”

I’m giddy at the sight of the vehicle. But I’m really giddy at what it represents—Finn whisking me away to lavish me with pleasure in his bedroom.

When Ethan meets my eyes again, his brows lift with concern. “Should this stay between you and me?”

I love that he asks. That he’s conscious about what I would share with others and what he’s privy to thanks to a coincidental encounter. But this conversation has already given me a taste of what I’ve been missing for years—confessions with friends. “You can tell them,” I say, a little buzzed at the possibility.

Ethan pumps a fist, then leans in to kiss my cheek. “Get it, girl. Get it good.”

I say goodbye, then duck into the backseat of the car.

Not two minutes later, my phone lights up like a Vegas slot machine with message after message.

Harlow: Jules! You and your secret life! I want details.

Layla: I want dirty details.

Harlow: And I want to know how long you’ve been holding out on us, you bad girl.

Layla: Sounds like you’re going to be very bad tonight.

Harlow: The best kind of bad. Now, TALK. What are you wearing?

Layla: Um, my pet, the point is she won’t be wearing much of anything.

Harlow: I meant like right now.

Jules: I promise to share the dirtiest of details tomorrow night. That is, if I can walk.

I spend most of the quick ride texting with them. Each time we connect like this—like we did over poker, like we’re doing now—makes me hungrier for more friendship.

But when I reach Jane Street, I put my friends behind me. I thank the driver, get out, then stare up at the gorgeous brownstone.

Finn’s on the balcony on the third floor, watching me, a tumbler in his hand. He’s wearing a dress shirt and a tie, loosened. Playing the part. From down here, though, I can see the desire in his heated gaze.

I vow to put everything else out of my head for the rest of tonight.