“I’m keeping mine with me,” she says, giving the man a frosty look. “In case I need to make an emergency call.”

“Yeah, let’s change the settings.” I unlock my phone and hand it to him; Solange does the same.

His expression bland, he fiddles with our phones, and in less than a minute, returns them to us. “Done. I’ll unlock them when you leave.”

“You won’t forget the password you used?” I ask.

“I won’t forget the password I used.”

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?”