Page 25 of Lucas

I lob a piece of popcorn in my mouth and slip behind the screen. On the way to my desk, I grab a cup of steaming black coffee, even though I had two cups before I left Lucas’s apartment. Gourmet, not the stuff we buy for the office in bulk at Costco.

That’s when I spot the small package on my chair. It’s paperback novel-sized, wrapped in brown paper, and marked only with my name on the front. The lettering is thick, nearly disguised, but not quite—Lucas has a distinct way of writing the letter “E”, kind of half-printed and half-script. My pulse ratchets up.

“More story research?” Marnie says, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow. Of the three of us, she’s the most put together. The Queen of the Thrift Store, a master of coupon clipping, and a firm believer that self-care is more important than almost anything—sometimes food. Even in the midst of financial crisis, her nails are painted, eyebrows waxed, and hair freshly colored. This week she’s a ginger. It’s a little too light for her complexion.

“Must be,” I say, wishing I could melt under the floor. If it wouldn’t be too conspicuous, I’d fire off a text to Lucas, reminding him that he isn’t supposed to send items to my office. My partners are reporters—curious and observant by definition—and I’m already under suspicion.

Carefully, I peel back the paper on the mystery package. There’s no way I can avoid opening it in front of Liz and Marnie, both of whom are now hovering over my desk like damn spy drones.

“This is the second parcel in two days,” Liz says, ruby lips pursed with forced amusement. “You’re holding out on us, Eden.”

God, if they only knew.

My palms go clammy. “It’s just a book I ordered,” I say, running my finger along the spine of an antique copy of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road. Jesus. If it’s authentic, it would have set Lucas back at least a couple thousand bucks.

I didn’t order this novel, but there must be a reason Lucas has.

“Ugh,” Marnie says, rolling her eyes. “You love those literary classics. I’m more of a J.D. Ward kind of girl. Give me rogue vamps in shit kickers any day.”

Her voice fades to white noise.

Leaning back in my chair, I open the book, squinting at the carefully handwritten inscription.

Last night was for me—tonight it’s all about you. Meet me at the White Horse—9 p.m. sharp. Bring the book.

* * *

A goateed, bespectacled man sits on a stool, a newer copy of the same Jack Kerouac book that Lucas sent to me in his hands, preparing to read aloud.

We are seated at a table in a dimly lit bar amidst many other people here for this showcase, celebrating the noted author’s most famous work.

I shift in my seat and cross my legs. My mouth goes dry. I take a sip of champagne while the overhead lights dim.

Seconds later, a bright spotlight shines on the man as he begins to read in a loud, melodic voice. I glance at Lucas, who whispers, “Reminds me of a college lecture.”

I almost burst out laughing but everyone else here is remarkably serious, and I manage to quiet myself.

The passage is familiar—I’ve practically memorized this book—but then Lucas’s hand drifts from my knee up my thigh, casually slipping under my skirt.

My body tenses. I shoot him a nervous look, but he pretends not to notice, his lips twitching with amusement as he studies the man reading on the stage.

He leans in close to whisper in my ear. “What do you think?”

“It’s…” I struggle to breath as his hand continues its journey up my thigh.“…very exciting.”

“I agree.”

His hand is dangerously close to my center now, and I feel my breath hitching as the threat of an orgasm begins to creep through my core.

I wondered at first why Lucas had thought to bring me here, but then he’d reminded me about my book collection.

While at my apartment, he’d noticed my collection of Kerouac novels nestled among the works of Shakespeare, Dickens, and Roald Dahl.

And I have to admit, something about being at a literary event with Lucas strikes a chord—though I’ve lived in New York for many years, I’ve yet to participate in anything like this before.

I swallow a sip of champagne, my head already growing weightless.

As the man reads on the mic, I try my best not to moan aloud, while beneath the table, Lucas works his magic.