Once we’re inside, it takes me a few seconds to adjust to the eerie glow cast by the overheads. People of all races, ages, and sizes are scattered about in clumps—drinking, laughing, dancing—and I’m reminded of the dozens of relatively innocuous law firm gatherings I’ve attended over the years.

“It’s a regular shmegular party,” Solange says, frowning. “So why the hell did they put us through that rigmarole?”

“No idea,” I say, shrugging. “Maybe one of these people has a security detail.”

“Well, I’m cautiously ready to haul ass if I need to. Just sayin’.” She surveys her surroundings, then points at the bar across the room. “Why don’t you get us something to drink while I scope out the bathroom. I need to adjust my underwear.”

I’m trying to behave tonight, so I pretend I didn’t hear that last part. “What would you like?”

“Water, for now. Until I have a better sense of what we’re dealing with.”

Solange trots down a long hall while I weave my way through the crowd. As I wait my turn at the bar, I check out the home’s interior design, such as it is. The room’s large and configured for lounging, with several couches and chaises positioned in different corners of the space. The terra-cotta walls are bare, which gives the home a newly moved-in feel. Whoever lives here hasn’t settled in yet.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

As I’m giving him my order, someone in the room rings a handbell. Excited chatter follows, and the energy in the room shifts. People sit, stand, and generally rearrange themselves in the space, their expressions charged with anticipation. Then the handbell rings again. A man behind me nonchalantly unzips his pants, and the woman he was chatting with drops to her knees in front of him, reaching for his . . . dick.

My head snaps up, and I search the crowd. Everyone’s either tugging off clothes, kissing, stroking someone else’s body parts, or watching. What. The. Fuck?

I stumble forward, the shock of what’s happening propelling me to abandon the line. I turn back to the bartender. “Bathroom?”

He points in the direction where I last saw Solange, and I sprint toward it, passing a sea of writhing bodies in various stages of undress. So. Many. Ponies. I can’t unsee it. Solange opens the door just as I reach it.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, a look of concern crossing her face when she sees my panicked expression.

I need a moment to regroup, so I pull her inside the bathroom and lock the door.

“Do we need to make a quick exit?” Solange asks as she tugs on the window frame and tries to pull up the pane. It only lifts a crack, and she growls in frustration, then throws up her hands. “What’s going on?”

I brace my hands against the porcelain sink and meet her confused gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “Holy shit, Solange, we’re at a sex party.”