CHAPTER ONE
If I don’t live to see my twentieth birthday,
it’s because my fathers found out what I did on my nineteenth.
~ Chloé
“DID YOU GET it?” Chloé glanced over her shoulder like a thief in the night, before sliding into the passenger seat of her cousin Shayla’s Miata.
Tonight she was on a mission to expand her knowledge when it came to some…personal matters she’d been thinking about lately, and the only thing standing between her and completing that mission was the fake ID her cousin had promised to get for her.
“Are you seriously doubting my abilities right now?”
“Never, but you seemed a little apprehensive the last time we talked.”
“Can you blame me?” Shayla eyed the three-story home looming over where they sat in the driveway. “If your fathers find out what we’re doing tonight—”
“They won’t find out.”
“Yeah, but if they do…” Shayla dragged her index finger across her neck. “It’s bye-bye, Shayla, whether it was your idea or not.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”
“Um, no. I know your fathers. Especially your—”
“Papa. I know. He can be a little scary.”
“A little? I’m pretty sure he’s the reason for the phrase if looks could kill.”
“Oh, come on, that’s just his serious lawyer face. Plus, it’s my birthday. He’s not going to kill anyone on my birthday.”
Shayla shook her head as though questioning her life decisions, and Chloé couldn’t blame her. She’d grown up in a very unconventional family compared to most, and her fathers—yes, plural—could be slightly intimidating.
First, there was her papa—he was a lawyer, and a badass one at that. Then there was her père, who just so happened to be one of the most famous chefs in the world. Last but certainly not least was her dad, who not only ran and organized their entire lives, but was also the most fabulous human being on the planet.
She understood that the idea of facing not one angry father but three often made people nervous. But Shayla had no excuse—they were related.
“Come on, Shay. I just want to have some fun. You know, get a little crazy.”
“Well, an adults-only club is definitely a little crazy.”
“Hello, you have a membership.”
“I’m also twenty-one.”
“Barely. Now stop trying to talk me out of this.” Chloé held her hand out and gestured for Shayla to give up the goods. “Let me see it.”
Shayla let out a sigh and reached for the silver clutch she’d wedged down the side of her seat. “Fine. It’s in there. But don’t pull it out until we’re on the main road.”
“Seriously?” When Shayla just stared at her, Chloé held her hands up. “Okay, okay, Je te le promets.”
“Which means…?”
Chloé grinned as Shayla reversed out of the driveway. “How do you not know this? You practically grew up at my house.” Where French was spoken almost as much as English, thanks to her père.
“French is hard.”
“But you understand all the curse words.”
“Because they’re the ones you use the most.”
That was true. But curse words sounded so much better in French. “Well, Je te le promets means ‘I promise.’”
Shayla frowned as they stopped at a red light. “I’ve forgotten what you were promising. That I won’t end up dead if your fathers find out about tonight?”
“Nooo.” Chloé pulled out the small, rectangular card from the inside of the clutch. “That I wouldn’t look at my fake ID until— Oh my God. Have you lost your mind? This does not look like me.” She held the ID up to the window, trying to get a better look at it under the street lights.
“Well, no, of course it doesn’t look like you. It’s not you. Cheryl’s a friend and said you could borrow it for the night. It just has to resemble you.”
Chloé whipped her head in her cousin’s direction. “Really?”
“I mean, she has red hair.”
“She looks twice my age.”
“Because she is, and that’s exactly what you need to get into where we’re going tonight.”
The light turned green, and as Shayla hit the gas, Chloé took another look at the ID. How in the world did Shayla expect anyone to believe that was her? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all…
“Hey? I’m a member of this place, remember? Tonight, you’re my guest. Chances are, they won’t even ask to see that.”
“And if they do?”
“They’ll think you have one hell of a plastic surgeon.”
“Merde.”
Shayla laughed. “See, I understood that. But seriously, this is our ‘just in case’ plan. Have we ever had to use one of those before?”
No, they’d never had to resort to one of their backup plans in the past, and considering all of the trouble they’d gotten into over the years, that was a miracle.
Too excited about where they were going to let something as pesky as common sense ruin her good mood, Chloé slipped the ID into her purse and decided to let fate lead the way.
Then, as if the universe was listening—
“Oh, oh, turn it up. Turn it up!”
—“We Built This City” blasted out of the Miata’s speakers.
“Are you kidding right now?” But Shayla hit the volume button. “We are supposed to be thinking sexy, not flashback eighties karaoke. Uncle Robbie is such a bad influence.”
Yes he is, Chloé thought with a smile, as she laughed and sang along to the classic tune, picturing her dad karaoke-ing with her. He was exactly whom she needed to channel tonight. He’d never let something like fear stand in the way of him having a good time, and that was one of the blessings—and curses—of being raised by three strong personalities. Every single decision she made was weighed for three possible outcomes. But the one bonus was that she could usually find one opinion that suited her narrative, and Robbie? He would totally do what she was about to.
Hell, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he was a card-carrying member of the place himself.
“Okay. We’re here.” Shayla drew the car to a stop at the curb, and Chloé peered out the window at the quiet street.
“Um, are you sure this is the right place?”
“Yep. Not what you expected, huh?”
“Well…no.”
For months now she’d been hearing all of these salacious stories about The Office—a high-end, invite-only adults club—and when Shayla finally caved and promised to get her in for her birthday, Chloé had looked everywhere online trying to get an idea about the place. There was nothing, though, no online presence at all, and when her search came up empty, she’d built up her own ideas in her head. None of which looked like this.
A tasteful brick corner-lot building with a black door and Casa Marseille lanterns. The place looked more like a residence than a sex club. Where were the flashing red lights? The neon sign with handcuffs and whips?