I never thought I was claustrophobic, but this place feels like a cold, wet grave, and I’m willing to claw my way back out if I have to.

“I know it looks sketchy, but just trust me—once we’re inside, you’ll be much happier. I promise.” Carson’s face is solemn and I roll my eyes.

“You said you’ve never been here.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then how can you promise me anything?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. I thought it would make you feel better.”

As the line moves forward, I realize people are disappearing behind a thick black curtain. When we get to the front, I try to peer through a crack in the fabric, but it’s completely dark on the other side, too.

“Names?”

A man with thick, glittery eye makeup and a black derby hat stares at me expectantly.

I blink at him. “Um—Hyacinth?”

Carson pushes past me.

“Hi,” she says, giving the doorman her most winning smile. “Carson Tucker. Party of three. And our password is ‘leather.’”

Password?

I turn to ask her about it, but she’s still grinning at our sparkly host. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Carson’s preferences always trend a little more artsy than mine. That, and she’s a sucker for Twilight’s twinkly vampires.

The doorman scans the screen of a tablet, then looks up. “IDs, please.”

Each of us flashes our license and Sparkle Guy presses a rubber stamp against the backs of our hands. Once we’ve been vetted and stamped, he gestures to the black curtain and gives us a polite little bow.

“Right this way, ladies. Enjoy yourselves.”

Carson gives him a lingering look, but Rainey shoves her forward through the curtain. As I follow behind them, I realize why I wasn’t able to see through to the other side—there are actually more curtains, all thick black velvet with a silver thread running through the fabric. We get to the fourth or fifth one and, this time, the curtain moves for us, pulled up and back by some kind of mechanical arm.

“Good evening. Welcome to Cave.” A woman is standing in front of us, wearing the same glittery makeup and hat as the doorman. The only difference is that she’s naked—like naked-naked—save a metallic green body-painted bikini.

Rainey gives her a slow, wide-eyed once-over. “You look awesome. Where can I get that done?”

“Vestibule number four is the body-painting station,” the woman says pleasantly. She gestures to the space behind her before launching into a clearly practiced spiel. “As you explore, please remember to be mindful of the people around you. Everyone’s privacy is imperative. Per the club regulations, you should not give anyone your real name, but an alias you can identify yourself with. For example, my alias is Ivy.”

Of course it is.

I guess Carson senses my discomfort, because she grabs my arm and pulls me over to the side as another group enters in behind us.

“Listen,” she says, gripping my shoulder, “this place is a fantasy club. It specializes in getting people to lose their inhibitions in a safe, anonymous way.”

“A what club?”

“A fantasy club,” she repeats, gesturing to the room around us.

Now that my eyes are adjusting to the dim light, I can see that the space is massive. Down a handful of steps, there’s a faint blue glow coming from the base of what looks to be a wide, circular bar. At the surrounding tables, I can just begin to make out the outlines of faces and bodies; it’s as though they’re manifesting from some kind of alcohol-induced mist. There’s a girl wearing tight leather pants that are laced up the sides like a corset. A handful of men in suits sit at a high-hat table, while two men wearing denim and rocking Mohawks are walking back past the bar and through a dim entryway. Which is when I notice the hallways.

There are eight of them, all dark and all narrow, jutting out and away from the main area like the legs of a spider. Above each entrance is a sign. When I squint, I can make out a few of them.

Bondage.

Body Art.

Power Exchange.

And the somewhat less terrifying Dance Floor.

Rainey points at the closest sign—Power Exchange—saying, “People come here to explore their interests.”

“Interests?”

I’m not trying to sound like a moron. I think I just need to have it spelled out for me. I’ve got a healthy imagination, but never in my wildest dreams would I have ever thought I’d end up being in a place like this.

“Sexual interests. Fetishes,” Rainey supplies helpfully. I stare at her, then at Carson, who shrugs.

“There are different areas of the club where you can try different things—you can get your body painted, like our friend back there, or try wearing a blindfold. If you’re feeling a little more daring, I’ve heard the handcuffs and restraints are a pretty popular station, too.”

I’ve never actually felt my heart stop before, considering I’m alive and all, but I’m pretty sure it just did.

“You brought me to a sex club?” I sort of squeak. “Are you insane?”

Carson holds up both hands.

“It’s not a sex club—I swear. It’s just a place for people to try something new and have a drink or two while doing it. Look around—most people aren’t wearing costumes or getting tugged around on leashes or anything. Part of the fun is just being here. It’s like Halloween in Fell’s Point or Mardi Gras in New Orleans. It’s an experience.” I bite down hard on my lip and look around again. As more and more people filter in through the curtain behind us, I can’t help but admit that they do look a lot more like me than they do like Poison Ivy or Sparkle Boy. There are plenty of jeans and skirts and collared shirts.

Of course, there are also a few women sporting the same kind of sexy boots Rainey convinced me to wear tonight. Unlike me, however, most of those women are clad in patent leather from head to toe. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry—before, I was worried about looking like a prostitute. Now all I can think is how I must look like a dominatrix.

“I swear to you,” Carson says now, holding a hand over her heart, “we’re just here to look around. You only get in with an invite, and my brother’s friend Micah is one of the bartenders. He’s the one who got us on the list.”

“Come on, Cyn.”

Rainey is bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. It has the unintended consequence of making her blond hair bounce on her shoulders—and her boobs bob up and down within the confines of her tight black top.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” she insists.

“Uh, except my to-do list.”

“Well, yeah,” she grins. “Except for that.” I examine my fingernails; my French manicure is glowing in the black-lit area around us.

“So, what you’re telling me,” I say slowly, “is that we are at this freaky club and I’m supposed to find a hot guy to bring home? What if I end up with a toe fetishist or someone who wants to tie me up?”

“You won’t.” Carson sounds confident. “You read people better than anyone I know. You’ll be able to see through all the bluster and bullshit covering up some kind of weirdo and his penchant for vinyl boots and riding crops.”

I snort, then shake my head.

“Fine. Let’s just get a drink before I lose my nerve and bolt out of here.”

Rainey lets out a whoop and throws her arms around me. “We are going to have so much fun!”

I hug her back weakly, then watch two men in dog collars walk past us.

What in the hell have I gotten myself into?

We step down into the sunken bar area, and I try to slow my breathing. Even the act of getting a drink in this place has the adverse effect of making me feel like I’m stepping in front of a firing squad.

“Three Long Island Iced Teas,” Rainey tells a female bartender, who is clad in some sort of blue rubber suit that leaves nothing to the imagination. She cocks a well-sculpted brow at the three of us.