Page 3 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

Celeste

I’ve been awake for all of fifteen minutes, and already, Madison is in my kitchen making a mess.

“Did you know breakfast margaritas are a thing?” she calls over her shoulder as she flips a pancake.

I blink at her from my spot on the couch, where I’m swaddled in my blanket. “That sounds made up.”

“It’s not.” She gestures toward the cocktail glass on the counter. “It’s just a margarita, but in the morning. And with orange juice.”

“That’s just a regular margarita with scurvy prevention.”

“Exactly!” She winks and takes a sip before flipping another pancake.

This is our weekly brunch tradition, but instead of going to our usual spot, brunch has come to me, complete with Madison’s questionable cooking skills and concerning drink choices.

Honestly, I’m just grateful for the company. The past few days of recovery have been boring. Netflix has asked if I’m still watching too many times to count, and the only thing keeping me entertained is the occasional painkiller-induced hallucination.

Madison plates a stack of pancakes and slides them onto the counter with a flourish. “Voilà! Gourmet brunch.”

I squint at the pile. “Why are they all different sizes?”

She shrugs. “I got bored. It’s abstract art really.”

Before I can comment on her pancake Picasso, the front door swings open, and Emmy walks in, looking exhausted. Her five-year-old son, Levi, is attached to her hip with his arms wrapped around her neck.

“Sorry I’m late,” she mutters, dropping her bag on the counter. “This one couldn’t go to school today because he’s…” she trails off as her son blinks up at her with big, knowing eyes. “…Sick.”

That’s code for something.

I sit up and wince as my stitches protest. “Sick?”

Emmy nods. “Mmhmm. Sick.”

She runs a hand down her face, and I know that look. That’s a mom on the edge look.

Pulling back the blanket, I pat the space next to me on the couch. “Come here, kiddo.”

Levi wiggles out of her arms and toddles over, climbing under my blanket like he’s done a million times before .

Emmy reaches into her bag for his tablet and a pair of kid-sized headphones.

“Here, honey. Watch something, okay?” She places the headphones over his ears and smiles.

“Put these on so you don’t hear all the bad words Aunt Madison’s about to say.

” Turning back, Emmy waves a finger between us.

“And before you say anything, don’t judge me.

I know I was all talk when Sasha was born about no screens and ‘we’re only doing Montessori wooden toys,’ but you have a second kid, then come back to me. ”

Madison and I hold up our hands in surrender.

“No judgment,” I say.

“None,” Madison agrees.

“Is he watching something?” Emmy asks as she slumps onto a stool.

I glance down at him. “Yep. Can’t hear a thing.”

“Good.” She exhales. “He’s being bullied.”

Madison and I immediately snap to attention.

“Again?” I frown. “By who?”

“Same little punk in his class. I’ve been to the school twice, and nothing’s changing.”

“Have you talked to his parents?”

She gives a deadpan stare. “The parents are bigger shits than the kid.”

I tighten my grip around the little guy. “Give me a name. I’ll kick the mom’s ass—” I glance down at my stomach. “—once my stitches are out.”

Madison takes a long sip of her margarita, then sets it down with a thunk. “Alright. Enough of this.” She grabs a pancake from the plate, shoves it into her mouth, and marches over to the couch.

I eye her warily. “What are you doing?”

She ignores me and gently tugs the headphones off Levi’s head .

He blinks up at her. “Aunt Madison?”

She lifts him onto the couch until he’s standing. “Okay, kiddo. Listen up. Is someone at school bothering you?”

Levi’s eyes dart to his mom before he nods.

Madison cracks her knuckles. “You’re going to learn how to fight.”

Emmy throws up a hand. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m not suggesting you start the fight, but you finish it.

You need to show them you’re not a target.

” Madison pulls him off the sofa and then drops into a crouch until she’s eye-level with him.

“Okay, lesson one: The Art of Intimidation. You’re small, but that’s fine.

Size doesn’t matter when you have confidence. ”

He watches as Madison straightens her back like a drill sergeant.

“You want to stand up straight. Like this. You need to own the space.”

He mimics her and squares his tiny shoulders.

“Good.” Madison grins. “Now, when they try to mess with you, you hit them with a stare-down.”

She demonstrates by locking eyes with me.

“Whoa,” I say. “That’s intense.”

Emmy sighs into her hands. “This is a disaster.”

“Hush.” Madison waves her off. “Alright, kid, now try it.”

Levi puffs out his chest and gives Madison the fiercest glare his five-year-old face can muster.

She gasps and places a hand to her heart. “That was terrifying.”

He giggles, and I can practically see his confidence growing.

“If that doesn’t work,” Madison tells him, “Plan B is crazy eyes. ”

“Not the crazy eyes,” Emmy echoes.

“Yep. If they won’t back off, you go full psycho. Make weird noises. Start singing nursery rhymes, but in a whisper. Maybe throw in some random facts like, ‘ Did you know sharks have been around longer than trees?’ Freak them out. Practice with me. Give me crazy eyes.”

Levi widens his eyes and whispers, “The sun is actually white, but it looks yellow because of the atmosphere.”

Madison clutches her chest. “Jesus Christ, that’s haunting!”

I burst out laughing.

Madison claps her hands. “Okay, that concludes Intro to Intimidation 101. Next up: Self-Defense Basics.”

Emmy groans. “Oh, God.”

I grin. “Oh, yes.”

Madison rubs her hands together. “Let’s get to work.”

∞∞∞

Levi is close to snoring, sprawled out on my couch after Madison’s impromptu self-defense class. I’ve never seen anything quite like it, and considering I work with corporate executives daily, that’s saying something.

Emmy lets out a weary sigh from her seat next to Madison, rubbing her temples like a woman dangerously close to her limit. “Did either of you listen to this week’s episode of Skeptically in Love ?”

I shake my head. “I’ve been slightly preoccupied. You know, surgery and all.”

Madison shrugs. “Same here, except replace surgery with thriving at life.”

Emmy is already pulling out her phone. “You need to hear this. Hang on.” Her fingers swipe across the screen before she settles on the right spot.

Jo, the podcast host, fills the silence, her tone teasing. “If you’ve got little ears in the room, now’s the time to switch off or connect some headphones.”

All three of us glance at Levi, but he’s out for the count.

Emmy presses play again.

“Okay, brace yourselves, ladies,” Jo continues. “This listener’s letter blew my mind.”

We all lean forward.

“Jo, I had to write in because my life is officially divided into two parts: Before I went to the club and after.”

I glance at Emmy, confused. “What kind of club?”

“Shh, let’s hear her out.”

“I went to a sex club.”

“Oh.”

“It all started with a physical paper invitation. No digital footprint, no public information. You have to sign an NDA at the door before you even enter. If you don’t sign, you don’t get in... which is why I can’t go into too much detail about the logistics or even where it’s located.”

I blink at the phone. “This can’t be real.”

Emmy gestures urgently. “Quiet, it gets better.”

“It’s not what you think. It wasn’t dark or sleazy. It was beautiful. There was a bar, a library, and a garden terrace. And in every room, the energy was the same: welcoming and safe.

“You could choose to sit and observe, talk to people, or, if you wanted, participate. But only if you wanted to. There were no expectations. No pressure. Just choices and rules. Every person there signed the same code of conduct. Consent wasn’t just respected, it was the foundation .

“I didn’t realize how heavy the shame was until I stepped into that space and felt it lift off my shoulders.

I saw that I’d spent years convincing myself I didn’t want or need anything—that it was safer not to want.

Easier not to try. I’ve had partners who didn’t listen or ask questions.

I’ve flinched through kisses, braced myself for pain, and apologized so many times I forgot what it felt like to say yes without fear. ”

My throat tightens suddenly, and my stomach clenches in a familiar, uncomfortable knot.

Despite the teasing and jokes, her words strike a nerve in me. I know exactly what she means. That weight. That disconnect. That hollow ache of wanting something you’ve convinced yourself you shouldn’t need.

I’ve spent so much time trying to turn off that part of myself—the part that still craves intimacy, still longs to feel wanted, safe, and good.

But hormones don’t care about trauma. Biology doesn’t bend for shame.

And lately, I’ve started to feel it again—the ache beneath the surface, the need I’ve tried to suppress.

Not just the sexual kind, though that’s part of it, but the deeper, quieter hunger.

To be touched like I matter. To be seen without judgment.

Not having to apologize for how my body responds, or doesn’t.

“But in that club, something shifted,” the letter writer continues. “When both men approached me…”

“Both?” I screech. “You go, girl.”

“…It wasn’t a performance. They didn’t assume anything.

They asked. Every step of the way. It was slow and grounded in respect.

Not because they saw me as fragile, but because they saw me as a person.

A woman. One with wants and agency and the right to feel good in her own body.

For the first time in years, I did. I felt free. I felt alive. I wasn’t afraid.”

God, I miss that. I miss feeling like I’m more than just something to work around. More than a complication.

The idea of a space like that—one where you can just be, without needing to pretend, where everything is about choice and control in the best way—hits me harder than I expect.

My eyes sting, and I blink fast, trying to hold it together.

“Why am I never invited to things like this?” Madison asks, dropping her head into her hands.

“You barely RSVP to weddings. How could anyone trust you with a sex club invite?”

Madison ignores my logic and is already pulling out her phone. “How would you even search for this? ‘Secret Los Angeles sex club’?”

“The letter said it was anonymous. You’re not going to find it.”

“There are a lot of sex clubs in this city,” Madison mutters, scrolling rapidly.

Emmy arches an eyebrow. “And you’re surprised?”

“Wait, what’s this one?” Madison squints at her screen.

“The Upside-Down Pineapple?” She clicks eagerly, then immediately recoils.

“Oh, God. No. Abort, abort! It’s exclusively for older swingers.

” Her eyes widen in horror. “Why the hell are there pictures? My eyes! I can’t unsee this.

” She frantically waves her phone in my direction. “Celeste, help me. Please!”

I burst out laughing and snatch her phone away before she can traumatize herself further. “This is exactly why we don’t let Madison use the internet unsupervised.”

She covers her eyes. “I need therapy.”

Emmy and I share a look before stifling a laugh. “Yeah, Mads, I think we all need therapy.”