She smiled in the dark, amused by her contribution to the dialogue. She’d identified the man in the dark almost instantly by the shape and smell of him. They’d been a few seats away from one another at the wedding table, separated only by Joe.

“It’s me, Jimmy Fee, from your table. You’re Bee’s friend, right? The one with the old guy?”

Vicki grimaced in the dark.

“He’s not old, and I’m not with him—or, not romantically at least. He’s Bee’s uncle. We’re friends.”

“Hmm,” Jimmy purred from the shadows. He took a step toward her. “So you’re here alone?”

“Yes,” Vicki said, instinctively taking a step back, suddenly aware of the stairs right behind her. She saw him come toward her, and she felt herself take shallow breaths. She thought of the line in Flowers in the Attic she’d memorized: “I had the strong dancer’s legs; he had the biceps.” She’d reread that scene so many times that she’d almost detached the page from the binding.

Jimmy grabbed her hand in the dark. “Be careful,” he said. “Don’t take a tumble.”

She wasn’t sure how they started kissing, but it was quick, within seconds of him taking her hand. Up close Jimmy Fee wasn’t much taller than she was, thanks to her formal shoes, which boosted her an extra three inches. With their mouths at the same height, all Jimmy had to do was lean forward.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” Vicki murmured against Jimmy’s neck as he began to lift the bottom of her dress, implying that they might do whatever they were going to do standing up, without removing much of their formal wear.

“That’s not going to work,” Vicki instructed once she realized that he wasn’t going to answer her concerns about his girlfriend. “I have tights on.”

There was a massive couch in the center of the room, one large enough to sleep a tall person rather comfortably, but both Vicki and Jimmy knew that this type of sex wasn’t for furniture. It was meant to occur on the floor. That’s where V. C. Andrews would put it. They bent down so they could lie on the wood in front of the couch and removed just enough of their clothing—her shoes, tights, and underwear, and his pants and boxer shorts—to start the process. He had a condom in his wallet. Of course, she thought to herself, imagining that a guy like Jimmy Fee was always prepared for sex because it probably happened often enough, in attics, at bus stops, in bathrooms, and maybe on planes.

As it started, Vicki stared at the ceiling, wondering how she’d allowed this to happen. The last time she’d been in this position with someone she wasn’t dating seriously, she was a senior in college at a group house off campus. She’d been taking advantage of a temporary break from Rich by sleeping with an illustration major in her graphic design class, a guy she would never speak to again. Mike Chadwick. Or was it Steve Chadwick? She couldn’t remember the guy’s name, but he had a tattoo of Tigger from Winnie-the-Pooh on his shoulder.