Lucy and Her Wicked Three (Atrium Sex Club #1)

Chapter 1

Lucy

A single bead of sweat drips down my forehead. Like a vacuum, the surrounding sound disappears, and for a single, solitary moment, I can ignore the pressures of performing for the world, my flaws, my fears, my ever-present anxiety. Inside my head, there's quiet, an absence of sound.

I wipe the lone drop of sweat away before it hits my eyes, only for another to take its place, while my LuluLemons wick the sweat off my body like a $180 athleisure bodysuit should.

"Tap it! Tap it! Let's go, people! Let's go!" The instructor yells, and just like that, the room rushes back. The sound, buzzing at first, morphs into an overwhelming pulse of heavy breathing, grunts, and motivational shouting, carrying with it all my insecurities.

It's hard work, trying not to compare myself to everyone around me. That's why I'm here busting my ass, because nothing zaps my joy-thieving anxiety like a workout from hell.

Sweating bodies, all cycling to nowhere, flood back into my vision. My racing heart steadies, and I can breathe again, though I regret the gasping breath, drawing in the stench of high-end perfume, hair spray, sweat, and body odors.

"What in the hell is wrong with you?" Portia hassles me. I glance to my right; she's lifting her butt up and down off the spin bike, her quads flexing and stretching beneath her sculpted bike shorts each time the instructor yells tap . I can barely catch my breath, I don't know how her scrawny ass can even talk right now.

"What do you mean?"

"You look like you've got an enema shoved up your ass."

If I could reach over and give her a friendly shove, I would. Not to knock her off the bike but, you know, to maybe make her stumble.

"Nice," I rasp. The instructor shouts for us to increase resistance, and though my legs are burning, I do it.

"Only you can smile like a psycho through this shit," Portia continues.

That's what happens when you're anxious, tired, and wired, and you still manage to plaster a smile on your face worthy of an NFL cheerleader for hours on end. Eventually, the cracks in your veneer start to show, and your friends look at you like you've got something shoved up your ass.

"I'm fine," I grit, though I feel anything but. I need this workout. The exercise helps keep me sane; it's half the reason I work out this hard. The other half is to appease my inner mean girl who's a harsh critic of how I look compared to my friends or other people online, afraid that if I let myself slip, my boyfriend might notice I'm only human.

Usually, I post videos of my workouts, but I'd never post one this intense. It's not supposed to look like hard work, right? It's supposed to be easy. Like I woke up like this.

We lift up again from our seats, adjust the resistance dial, then sit back down, sweating and swearing like one unified pack as we pump our legs and cycle on.

The instructor—referred to only as Sorceress in class, though I'm pretty sure her real name is just Amy—shouts, "Okay, people, one last push!" Her voice booms across the room, clear and deep through the little headset microphone that drapes neatly across her deeply tanned, angular face. "You can do this! That pain you're feeling? That is your pain! You own this! Everything outside this door may be out of your control, but this right here, the sweat and burning and muscles aching, this is yours! You are powerful! Yes!"

For what feels like an hour, but likely only another minute, spurred on by the instructor's inner Tony Robbins impression, we pedal on the highest resistance before finally slowing to a cool-down pace. There's a collective groan all around me, and I wipe the remaining sweat from my forehead and down the contents of my water bottle.

Clutching my phone, I follow the tired crowd out of the slowly emptying room, splitting off to one of the many locker rooms to clean up. CycleSorceress is part of a workout co-op; every floor in the small three-story renovated building is home to some of the city's most elite yoga, spin, and barre classes.

The white hardwood floors, soft lighting, velvet chaise lounge, and rows of well-maintained and stocked showers make the locker room feel more like a spa than a place where people rinse the sweat off their bodies.

Thirty minutes after showering and getting distracted by cheek-kissing and side-hugging half the women in the room like we're old friends, even though I barely know them outside of their online personas, a locker slams shut beside me. Portia has managed to not only finish getting dressed quicker than me, but she looks flawless in her high-waisted linen pants, pink silk crop top, and simple gold jewelry, which sits bright against her dark skin.

Self-consciously, I loosen the neck of my chunky, oversized knit sweater, wishing I had brought something a little more fashionable to wear to lunch. I know these are our brands. I'm the health and wellness one—eating right and exercising and breathing techniques and inspirational quotes—but sometimes I'm jealous of Portia, whose entire online platform is just looking hot and wearing couture.

"Is Delaney coming to lunch? I can't believe she skipped spin class again ."

I shake my head. "Not sure, I haven't talked to her in a few days. She's been so weird lately, don't you think?"

"Very. More of an asshole than usual, too. She borrowed my moto jacket, the one I got in Paris, like a month ago, and will not give it back. I'm going to have to break into her apartment or something."

"Maybe she's just goin' through a hard time. One of us should talk to her, see if she's doin' okay."

Portia sighs. "You're welcome to talk to her. You always liked her more than the rest of us did."

"Now, come on, that ain't fair. We've all been friends for years," I remind her.

"We've tolerated her for years. There's a difference. You're too nice, Lucy." That's not true, but Delaney hasn't been around much lately to defend herself.

I finish getting ready, checking my makeup in the mirror, which has barely smudged; lashes in place, primer base coat and contouring on point, barely a freckle in sight.

Following Portia out of the building, we walk a few blocks to the cafe, getting a table right away, despite the lunch rush.

I set my vintage Valentino bag down next to some artfully arranged white coffee mugs, the chrome espresso machine spraying steam in the backdrop, and snap a few pictures. While flipping through the black and white noir filters, the server comes over, and we rattle off our lunch orders: fenugreek salads, one almond shortbread to share, and Chaga oat milkshakes with a shot of espresso.

I never take a bite without taking a picture, so I rearrange the leafy greens before eating. After posting, I feel an immediate rush when notifications pop up with instant likes and comments.

Seeking validation through social media is a difficult habit to break. Not that I'm trying that hard to break it. It's too easy, too quick, too convenient. I allow five more minutes of scrolling before forcing myself to close the app and check my messages. My heart lights up when I see Mateo's name, but it dims when all he says is he'll be home late tonight. No explanation why.

I don't want to be that person. The one who doesn't trust her partner and demands to know who, what, and where. It takes effort to slip my phone back into my purse and keep eating.

I love Mateo. I'm obsessed, wild, crazy, madly in love with him. Sometimes I think he feels the same; when he holds me like I'm a treasure and it seems like, in those moments, he's as deep down in love as I am.

Other times, I feel like he's holding back, hiding parts of himself, like I barely know him.

And, every so often, he'll give me this intense and scrutinizing look, like I'm an unsolvable math problem. I don't know if Mateo loves me as much as I love him. I don't know if he saves that hidden half of himself for someone else.

Which only makes me feel like I'm not enough. Maybe if I worked out more, went on another cleanse, or changed the volume of my eyelash extensions...

Maybe if I just tried harder, then he wouldn't realize I'm actually incredibly average, and everything he sees is a facade. That I'm an insecure, hot mess.

Something's missing in our relationship. There's a small, empty space between us, the chasm growing wider the longer we're together.

A sudden ringing in my ears brings a rush of heat rising up my chest. I lift my sweater, waving it away from my body to generate some air. I always get hot when I get anxious.

Before I can spiral, I pick up my phone and open my social media accounts to distract myself from having an anxiety attack for no particular reason at all.

We're on our fifteenth outfit change, and I'm running on caffeine and green juice and about to fall over.

Ziva yells at me to turn and walk away from the camera, showing off the intricate material of the athletic strappy yoga bra and leggings that make my ass look like it can shake, all while staying magically lifted and firm. The photographer and lighting assistant move in sync around us, like a choreographed dance, while Portia and I pretend to laugh like we're playing in the sun, even though we're posed in front of a stark white backdrop. Who knows where they'll drop our images in the editing room.

"Okay, we're doing good people. Let's move on to the last set. Change over!" Ziva shouts, clapping her hands, and all the assistants reemerge from the depths of the low-lit room, outfits in hand.

One assistant, Becca, manhandles me, stripping me down, and I try to help, but she slaps my hand away.

"That's supposed to be my job," a deep, sexy—also very annoyed—voice grumbles from behind me. Becca, spooked, stands abruptly, job half-finished. I take pity on her and tug my feet out of the obscenely tight material and, pants-less, turn to face Mateo. He's not smiling, but he never smiles, and lucky for both of us, mine turns genuine. Squealing, I jump into his arms, and he catches me.

"If you didn't want to see another woman undress me, you shouldn't come to a photo shoot." He's got nothing to worry about, I've only got eyes for him.

Mateo merely grunts in response, gripping my bare hips with his strong hands.

"Ugh, I hate you both. Get a room."

Mateo ignores Portia, who's being manhandled by her own assistant, and leans down to kiss my forehead. Reaching up, I lovingly brush his hair back, sliding my fingers through the thick, dark strands. It's a little messier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it all day in stress.

"What are you doing here?"

"I got out a little early, thought I'd come find you."

Mateo's schedule is a monster, he never shows up unannounced. He continues, "It'll be long days the rest of the week. There's some speculation about some shifts in the Chinese market this week. We might get caught in the crosshairs." He glances down at his watch like it'll magically provide insight into the problem. I don't actually know or care why the stock market in China is so important to the stock market in the U.S., only that it means some company Mateo works with will have a very good week or a very bad week, and someone somewhere will lose lots of money. That's about the extent of my stock market knowledge.

Mateo, son of Spanish immigrants who came to the U.S. with nothing, became obsessed with making his family money. He's incredible with numbers and predicting financial and market trends, so he quickly shot up the corporate ladder. Then he situated his folks in a beautiful house upstate, and now he rarely sees them.

Like with my work, somewhere down the line, he started for the right reasons.

I feel Becca snapping my strappy bra at my back, like a jockey and his whip, reminding me we're also in a time crunch. Mateo notices and shoots her a look, and by the sounds of it, he's effectively scared her off for a minute. She'll be right back, though; her appetite to outperform the other assistants is stronger than her fear of Mateo's glare. He leans down, arms wrapped around me, and presses his soft lips into mine. Lost and in love, I let it consume me, forgetting where we are and who's around, my tongue dancing with his.

Somewhere in the distance, Ziva starts yelling again, and reluctantly, we let go. Like always, he doesn't say anything, not goodbye, not I love you. He says it all with the intensity of his stare and a final brief kiss on my cheek. Tilting his head toward the door, I nod in understanding. Breathless, I tell him, "I'll meet you out front in a bit." And then he's off.

Portia stands tall beside me, watching him leave. "Lucky bitch."

I smile like a fool. Mateo and I have our ups and downs, but I'm so in love with him it hurts. "I really am."

I can practically feel her rolling her eyes, but it doesn't dampen my newly energized mood. Becca's not-so-patiently waiting, a sour look on her face, with my next outfit in hand. I finish slipping on the romper while Becca fusses with my makeup.

"Anything smudged? Am I good?"

"Practically CGI," she states sagely.

"Perfect. Do I need tape?" My confidence plummets whenever someone suggests I need to be taped or tucked, so I always ask first.

"Nope, it's perfect. But they're a little short, so they might ride up when you walk. Just keep that in mind."

Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I brush off the exhaustion and stretch my smile wide.

It took another hour of posing and fake laughing, but eventually, Ziva called a wrap, and we were done; my perky smile was fraying, and I couldn't manage more than a perfunctory "Love y'all!" before bolting for the door once released from my duties.

I find Mateo leaning against the brick building, his lean frame, dark hair, and olive-tone skin cast in ominous darkness in the streetlight's shadow. He's tapping furiously on his phone, oblivious to my admiration. Portia busts out of the door behind me, the sound finally compelling Mateo to look up. His ever-present scowl softens when he catches me staring.

Reaching out for me, I step into his embrace, and with an arm slung over my shoulder, we follow Portia down the street. She and I already had plans to grab a drink and meet up with Delaney, and Mateo's used to just tagging along beside me, getting in any time we can to spend together since he's always so busy.

My exhaustion wanes under the support of Mateo's arm while we stroll. He's still dressed from work, wearing a crisp navy suit, looking dapper as fuck. He makes my legs go weak. Despite the number of times I glance up just to get a glimpse of his face—five-o'clock shadow, thick dark eyebrows, wide soft lips, coal black eyes—watching him never gets old. I wonder if it ever will.

"Lucy!"

"Huh? Oh, what? Sorry," I giggle sheepishly while Portia rolls her eyes, smirking and shaking her head. Determined to be a better friend and pay closer attention, I step out from under Mateo's arm, but he snags my hand and holds it while we walk.

Portia handles the cracks in the sidewalk like she's teaching a MasterClass in runway.

"How do you get away with wearing an extra six inches while we're doing an athletic shoot, anyway?"

Portia snickers, "Please, no one's exercising in this dress." She flaps the skirt piece, exposing the tiny little shorts beneath the skirt material.

"Truth." It's too cute to get sweaty in, even if it didn't cost hundreds of dollars.

We round the corner, turning at the next block, approaching one of our local haunts. It's the same high-end bar where I met Mateo.

That night, I was celebrating landing an advertising deal with a vegan meal prep company and took myself out for drinks. And there was Mateo, sitting at the bar with a coworker of his, who kept getting distracted by the bartender's tits falling out of her top.

Though the bartender only had eyes for Mateo, he barely noticed her, so laser-focused on the portfolio of work in front of him and, what I now know, scrutinizing the stock market on his phone. So when the bartender finally gave up on him and his coworker wandered off, I walked right up to him and asked if he wanted to have a drink with me. I think he was so shocked to be asked—no coy flirtation, fake giggling, or boobs spilling into his face—that he said yes. And I had his attention the rest of the night.

He holds the door open, Portia stepping in first, with me following behind, Mateo's hand heavy on my lower back. I spot Delaney at our usual table, talking into her phone in selfie mode, live on social media.

"Okay, love you guys!" Delaney kisses her fingers and waves goodbye to her fans. She hangs up, barely acknowledging our arrival. "Oh my god, I'm starving. This was such a shitty day. AllSpace called and changed my advertising agreements again, and I am freaking out."

"That really sucks, D, I'm sorry. Can you request a new contract so they can't keep jerking you around?" I ask, climbing into the high steel chair.

Delaney rolls her eyes. "Um, duh , Lucy." Then she knocks her knuckles against her head, implying I'm an idiot for asking. I wince, but she continues, "I have to check. I need a new agency, anyway. They screwed me over, not giving me more control with my advertisers."

This never surprised me; she always liked to toe the line between edgy and getting canceled, which is kind of an agent's worst nightmare.

Delaney's voice goes up a pitch, "Mateo, maybe you know a good contract lawyer I could talk to?"

Mateo barely glances her way, face buried in his phone. "Yeah, I dunno. Maybe."

I drag my chair closer to him, and he rests a hand on my seat, fingers gently caressing my back. I squeeze his thigh in thanks, knowing he gets bored when we talk about social media.

In her typical frenzy, Delaney talks a mile a minute, chatting with everyone in spitting distance, the servers, and people who walk past our table. If I didn't know any better, I might think she was on uppers, but that's how Delaney is—the life of the party. Most people don't even mind it, and she doesn't seem to get exhausted by the constant output of energy like I would. I envy that about her.

We finally order drinks once Delaney's done chatting with complete strangers. Mateo's back to staring at his phone, likely working or doing absolutely anything to avoid being sociable. It's probably weird to some people that we fit so well together, but then, opposites do attract.

Or maybe I'm just not interesting enough to keep his attention.

I pick up my drink and down it, the muddled fruit at the bottom getting caught in my straw, so I tilt the highball glass and chew on a piece of ice, the room feeling strangely warm, my anxiety spiking for no logical reason.

Portia and I eventually discuss the photoshoot, but my focus shifts when I notice Delaney leaning toward Mateo, placing her hand on his shoulder to grab his attention. Absorbed in his phone, he takes a second to respond, then shoots her a sharp look, and she slowly removes her hand.

I think she's asking Mateo about the stock market since she recently invested, but I can't make out everything she's saying, with Portia talking in my other ear.

Delaney tried to persuade me to get Mateo to accept her as a client, but I repeatedly reminded her that his job didn't work that way; he worked with huge corporations. Even if he were to help a friend, it wouldn't be her. Though I would never tell her that, I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings.

But she's been annoyingly fixated on Mateo over the last few months, and I wonder if this is just another ploy to get close to him.

My chest pinches while Portia gapes at Delaney. We share a knowing look, and I can tell Mateo's doing his best to be nice—for me, I imagine—but there's a line, and she's pushing it. I don't appreciate the way Delaney leans forward, her low-cut dress spilling her chest into his face, or how she giggles and leans closer, lowering her voice to speak into his ear. She can't possibly be asking him about her financial portfolio, can she?

Mateo grunts in discomfort, shooting me a pleading look. His fuse is short, and I can tell he's ready to snap at her, even if she hasn't technically done anything wrong. I hop up off my stool. "Well, y'all, it's been a crazy long day, and I'm about to fall over."

I reach my hand out, and Mateo takes it, climbing out of his stool. He digs a few hundreds out of his wallet and tosses them on the table to cover everyone's drinks and then some.

"Thanks again for today, babe." I lean forward and kiss Portia on the cheek.

"Love you, Lu. I'll see you at brunch Sunday. Don't forget, we're doing that photoshoot after."

"Oh, I might join you guys for that," Delaney adds, her attention back to her phone.

"For sure, D. Love you," I lean forward, and she drops her phone, returning my cheek kiss.

Clutching Mateo's hand in mine, we make our way out into the early spring evening, a hint of humidity trapping the scent of hot dogs, kebabs, and car exhaust fumes all around us. Mateo flags down the next yellow cab that moves toward us, and we head home.