Page 9 of Cruel Pleasures

Hurst Manor.

So huge and extravagant, it takes up more than a quarter of the land.

My already unsettled stomach roils as I peer at the inky black wall boxing us in on all sides. Both restricting and endless at the same time. The unknown dark that could be hiding anything from the naked human eye.

A living, breathing, entity of its own in the most gooseflesh-inducing way.

I shudder and pretend I don’t see the shapes appearing in the storm clouds. Another blinding flash of lightning later, and the shape’s gone. It’s morphed into another one. Nature’s version of a magic trick disguised by the deluge of rain and violent cracks of thunder and lightning.

I’m dropped off outside the bed-and-breakfast. The only one on the isle still seemingly open. It takes me no more than ten minutes to check in and make my way up to my room.

I flop backward onto the sunken bed in my room and attempt to find any sense of calm I can. Every second I try my thoughts refocus to Lyra.

The reality of what I’m about to get myself into sinks in. I could be in over my head. I could be out of my depth and not even realize it.

“Fuck,” I groan, scrubbing both hands over my face. I spring up, a flash of clarity hitting me. “I need to take the edge off.”

In the past, when I’ve felt this way and my anxiety reached untold levels, I’ve sought out Jeremy, my fuck buddy. I’ve gone to nightclubs and danced the night away as a means of ridding myself of the toxic energy.

Jeremy’s a thousand miles away, which means…

“One frozen margarita,” I say minutes later, smiling at the bartender. I slide the last twenty I have on me across the bar counter. I’ve wedged myself into the stool between two groups of patrons.

The others in the Oasis are busy socializing and soaking up their last night as tourists on the Isle of Hurst.

Meanwhile, I’m just beginning mine.

The first sip of my drink feels like I’ve come alive again.

I slurp on the straw, relishing the instant brain freeze, and turn my gaze on the bar floor. It’s full of people in their 20s and 30s, their vacation outfits on display. During the rare slight pause in the din of conversation, the torrential weather outside makes itself known.

No amount of aggressive downpour will deter these tourists from their night out.

The party continues. The music’s turned up and the bar feels warmer than an oven.

I’m at the halfway mark of my margarita before I know it. The occasional wandering patron makes eye contact with me, sometimes giving a nod or a polite smile. I always return the gesture from the perch of my barstool, the overseer of the bar.

I see it all.

Are any of these people guests at the Midnight Society event? Most of them may be vacationers, but they’re vacationers with loaded bank accounts.

I can tell just by looking at them—trust fund babies and children of the privileged and powerful.

And then there’s me. An imposter among fake spray tans and horse-sized veneers for teeth.

“Interesting creatures, aren’t they?”

Breath tickles my ear, the voice coming from right beside me. So close, I jump in my seat and turn my face. I find myself half an inch apart from a man with kind eyes and sandy hair poking out from under a ball cap.

Blinking, I say, “I feel like I’m at the zoo.”

He tosses out a throaty laugh and, if possible, leans even closer. “I would’ve said aquarium. All the water…”

“Oh. Right!” I feel myself laugh to match his, my cheeks rounding. “Aquarium is probably more accurate, isn’t it?”

“Just stay away from the dolphins. They bite.”

I quirk a brow at him. “You can’t be serious. Don’t you mean the sharks… or jellyfish because they sting?”