Page 12 of Under the Lies

Late for what? I want to ask but my lungs are struggling for air by the time we reach the sidewalk.

It’s not until we’re at the crosswalk, waiting for the signal to change that I ask, “What’s this place called?”

I don’t think she mentioned it before.

Brin looks at me, tension in her eyes as she hesitates. “The Underground.”

My eyes widen. Now I understand why she didn’t say anything.

The light changes but I’m rooted in place.

The Underground.

A renovated mansion turned gambling hall with a 1920s style. Polished and elegant, the gambling hall is dolled up with elaborate chandeliers that drip from the ballroom’s ceiling. Blacks and golds, that shine when they catch the light, decorate the space.

It’s hypnotizing. It’s beautiful. It’s alluring. It’s opulent. Jazz music mixes with the chatter and poker chips falling onto the tables.

I can’t believe I’m here.

A cigarette girl in an all black dress walks by and Brin snags two champagne flutes off her passing tray.

I take it, knowing I’m going to need more than champagne to get through the night.

Brin, unknowingly, has brought me to the den of anxiety.

The Underground belongs to Noah Kincaid, stamped with the Kincaid Enterprises vintage feel.

This ballroom, the mansion, is like stepping back in time.

“I feel severely improperly dressed,” I tell Brin as she links our arms together. “I should’ve at least worn my beaded shift dress.”

“The one from Halloween five years ago?”

I nod.

“Lucky bitch,” she murmurs with love in her words. “I don’t think I’ve been able to wear a single thing from when I was eighteen.”

“You still look fabulous.”

“Of course I do. I just had some really amazing pieces I wish still fit. Screw what’s hot this season, I hear vintage is in.”

I laugh, taking a sip of the fine bubbly. Only in this city can five years be considered vintage.

“Can you believe we’re here?” she asks, her grip tightening around my arm.

No. “No.” I can’t. “Your parents actually bought memberships?” The monthly fee for one person is basically a year at an Ivy League, let alone two.

Brin shrugs, not concerned in the slightest. “It was Mom’s gift to Dad for their wedding anniversary two years ago, but really I think it’s because Dad was having too much fun at their swingers club so Mom wanted to find them a new hobby.”

I stare a Brin for a beat, unblinking. I don’t even notice I stopped walking until Brin tugs on my arm again, walking us in the direction of the closest card game. Sometimes I forget that I’m from this world and that the news of a swingers club shouldn’t be shocking to me. It totally is, though. My six years away opened my eyes to how closed off our little city actually is.

It’s a whole great and messy world out there that makes this place look like a different planet.

“I just can’t believe your parents still refuse to get a membership.” Brin takes a dainty sip from her flute. She’s barely touched hers while I’m almost done with mine. One more sip and I’ll be ready for my next one.

“Really? You can’t think of one glaringly obvious reason?” I give Brin a look over the top of my glass. “I can give you a hint. It rhymes with Snoah Mincaid.”

“More like Mclaid.” She snickers. In a more serious, but not quite serious, tone Brin adds, “But they’re still holding grudges? They’re missing out on all this.”

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