The towering gates of Frank Pyton's mansion loom before us.
Besides the long black cloak, Kimberly is now wearing a wig as well. She's visibly tense — much more than I am.
I press the intercom, and a moment later, a damnably ambiguous voice answers, one that gets on my nerves the instant I hear it.
Philip Serghel.
"You're late tonight, my dear Axel."
"Something came up."
Yeah. Something called a night of wild sex on the grass.
We were supposed to finish by midnight so we could be here by one — the time I usually show up. But truth be told, at midnight we were still naked and tangled together in Central Park, rolling around in a puddle of Kimberly's orgasms like pigs in mud.
"And who's your little friend?" Philip asks.
