Hidden Desire (Masked Desires #2)

1. Chapter One

one

Selena

“This is bullshit.”

I delete the paragraph I had just typed and stare at my now-blank screen. Rubbing my shoulder, I lean against the back of my chair and sigh. I need to send this story to my editor in an hour, but I don’t have anything ready.

When I first moved to Sunnyvale to work for an up-and-coming online social lifestyle website and podcast, I thought my life was going in the right direction. I had studied journalism in college in New Mexico, and my articles and stories had always been a hit. Now, I am feeling imposter syndrome.

Hard.

“Think, Selena. Think,” I mutter to myself.

Great, now I’m the crazy person who talks to herself.

This shouldn’t be so difficult. I was tasked with finding something sexy and salacious in Sunnyvale to attract more visitors.

It’s an assignment from the local city officials who reached out to our site and podcast to help with tourism.

Sunnyvale is a beautiful beach town nestled outside of Los Angeles.

It features a small college, amazing sports teams, golden beaches, and, of course, perfect weather.

However, the one thing I haven’t been able to discover is something that would add a little spice to my story.

So far, all I’ve got is a fun and flirty article about a local nightclub that opened a few years ago and is co-owned by a hot millionaire and his wife, who also owns a bakery across the street.

They have a really sweet deal going on, but it’s not the torrid affair I would have liked.

I read over what I have so far and groan.

It’s fine, but not the spicy details I was craving.

My editor will like it, but it won’t push me to the next level.

What I really want is not just to write the stories, but to do the live interviews.

To run the podcast and become the face of the stories I share.

My phone vibrates on the desk next to me, and when I glance down, I see that my mom is calling.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, and try to find some cheer in the words.

Her voice comes thin and throaty, buried under exhaustion. “Selena. I didn’t wake you?”

“No, I’m up,” I say, though I haven’t gone to bed before midnight since college.

She sounds like she’s smiling, even if it hurts. “Writing late?”

I look at the notes, at the mess that is my life in miniature, and answer, “Just chasing a deadline.”

There’s a pause, the kind only family knows how to fill, then: “They’re lucky to have you.”

I feel my stomach cinch, tight and awkward, like a balloon twisted into a giraffe. “You’re sweet, Mom.”

A cough, muffled. “Your father would be proud. He always said you’d be a star.” Her voice cracks, maybe from the memory, maybe from the double shift at the café. Dad passed away when I was a senior in college. It’s been difficult for both my mom and me, but we are getting through it.

I force a smile and let her picture it. “Still working on it.”

“You always do.” She lets a moment pass, then changes the subject, because she knows me too well. “There’s soup in the fridge. The green kind. Take some for lunch?”

“I will. I promise.”

“Te amo, mija.”

“Love you, too.”

The call ends, leaving a quiet that feels both lighter and heavier. I set the phone down, face-first, and let my jaw clench until it aches. I force myself to keep writing until I’ve finished the article. Reluctantly, I send it to Marcy, my editor, and just hope and pray it’s good enough for now.

Outside, the waves scrape against the shore, relentless, unbothered by my ambition or failure.

Crawling into bed, I stare at my phone and scroll through social media. I should close my eyes and try to get some sleep, but I'm just too wired right now.

It’s two, maybe three in the morning, when the dregs of the internet really come alive. The local Sunnyvale subreddit is as dead as the highway after midnight. Instagram is an endless parade of filtered bonfires and latte art. I hover between tabs, skimming for anything with flavor.

A post on a private Facebook group for “South Bay Nightlife—UNCENSORED” catches my eye. Username is a string of numbers, the avatar a blank blue head, the post only a sentence: if you know, you know. Shadows don’t exist until they do.

I almost skipped it. Probably a bot, or a drunk. But something about the lowercase, the blunt weirdness, the refusal to explain itself—it hooks the animal brain. I click the profile: no posts, no photos, just this single offering to the void.

I opened a new tab and Googled “Shadows club Sunnyvale.” Nothing in the first four pages but the standard detritus: sunglasses, dance troupes, a YouTube channel with three subscribers. I try “Shadows private” and get creepy pasta and an escort service in Riverside.

The Reddit thread takes longer to find. It’s a comment buried beneath a post about local businesses that went under during COVID. The thread has been nuked, most of the comments deleted, but in the back-alley of the thread is one survivor:

Message 1: Was there once. I will never talk about it publicly. It is not what you think it is. It is more.

Message 2: The upvotes are negative, like the poster is being punished for saying anything at all.

Intrigued, I find myself falling down the rabbit hole. I’m sure it’s just a crazy person’s ramblings that are drawing me in since I am beyond exhausted and in desperate need of sleep, but I can’t stop the mania of wanting to know more about him.

My hands are trembling. Not the usual caffeine shake, but a pulse that runs through my wrists and fingers, a nervous current that feels almost like hope.

I click through every variation I can think of: Shadows Los Angeles, Shadows private, Shadows club vetting.

There is nothing official. No address, no Yelp reviews, no press releases.

But in the rotten heart of the internet, among the posts that never get more than two likes, I find the shape of a rumor:

Shadows is a club for people who don’t belong anywhere else. Or it’s a test run for an invite-only cult. Or it’s a front for something darker—trafficking, kink, black market. Every post contradicts the last.

Finally, there is a picture on a password-protected local forum.

Two photos attached to a post by a user called.

The building is black and windowless, a modernist rectangle behind a riot of hedges and wrought iron.

The angle is from a moving car; the foreground is blurred, but the sign is clear: nothing: no logo, no number, just the door.

The second picture is the same building at night, one light above the door lit up like a pinprick in a blackout.

I screenshot the images and words.

A dog barks outside. I jump, nearly knocking over another mug. The adrenaline sharpens everything.

I go back to the original Facebook post. I message the number-string user:

Me: Hi, saw your post about Shadows. Can you tell me more?

I hover for a minute, second-guessing. I hit send anyway.

I go back to my desk and, almost without thinking, grab a sticky note pad and write:

SHADOWS in all caps, twice underlined. I slap it to the top edge of the monitor.

I opened a new doc, titled it “Shadows Preliminary Notes.” My fingers move without input from my brain:

No physical address. No phone number. Only stories. Vetting process implied. Connected to LA nightlife? Mafia connection?—unlikely, but rumors fit the profile—black building, possibly in Palos Verdes or Torrance. Find a link to Sunnyvale.

I type until my hands ache. The ocean outside is invisible now, but the sound is bigger, closer, as if the waves are right up against the window.

I stop, finally, when the sky behind the hedges begins to bleach out from navy to faint orange. The apartment is a mess, my hair is sticking to my face, and I have not slept. But the sticky note stares at me with purpose.

For the first time in months, maybe years, I have a feeling.

Something is happening. I will be the first to see it.

This could finally be my big break!