Pocketbook Parties 소설 & 이야기

“Does it contain the purpose of the party?” “No.” “Why?” “Because I don’t know what it is.” That part was the truth. But the bigger truth was I hadn’t paused for a moment to look at the bigger picture. Parker Agency parties were normal. But this year’s was a month earlier than the others. Jack always held the parties a few days before Christmas. One for only his human staff, and the other for his pack.

They call it Secret Parties, even though it's not really a secret. Every party pertaining to the Goldstone entertainment industry was 'Secret Parties". They were private, anonymous, glamorous, and most of what's happening inside was illegal. There are at least half a dozen secret parties held every night in Goldstone. Wrapping up a shoot, be it an advertisement for top brands, or a movie, an end to a fashion week, or whenever a celebrity decides to throw one was a good enough reason for such an event.

Those were his contributions for the moment. He thumbed the pocket of his track pants and let his shoulders drop further into the wall and thought about nothing in particular with focused dedication. The party thing would have interested him three weeks ago. Even two weeks ago. He had a reliable relationship with that particular category of evening, the loose, crowded, loud kind where the night ended with someone warm and willing and the morning reset everything back to manageable. It had been the most efficient system he'd ever developed for keeping himself on an even keel.

"Hmm…" "Well…" we trailed off at the same time. Neo makes it a tradition to throw three parties each semester. The parties are usually just wild, freaking loud, and stupid, like a nightclub or a casino. It's always intense and although it was fun, it wasn't entirely my style. When his parties weren't that kind of wild, it was like college and different high school jocks coming together to watch soccer or football with strippers or girls for sex entertainment. Yup, he's intense with his PG18 parties.

at me. I took a deep breath and knew they would only do worse if I did not act soon. Pulling Megan behind me, I reached into my bag and grabbed a bottle of champagne. It was to celebrate my daughter’s coming of age. However, I shook it violently and twisted the cork. The foaming torrent drenched the men before me and soaked Melanie, as well as Crystal, from head to toe. The sudden explosion of liquid sent them stumbling back in surprise. After that, I took the windproof lighter from Megan’s hand. Flicking it on, I charged straight at them.

The silence was punctuated only by our quiet murmurs, our shared yearning for a past we never knew, a future we desperately wished for. Later, amidst the twisted metal and rubble, James stumbled upon a tattered book, its cover mostly torn away, revealing only a few words—'The Chronicles of Atheria'. The title alone conjured images of a world far removed from our own, a place of magic and wonder, of brave knights and epic quests. The pages, brittle with age and decay, contained fragmented stories, glimpses of a civilization that had flourished before the catastrophe. It spoke of vibrant cities, of advanced technology, and of a society that lived in harmony with its environment.

The pack house bustled with activity. Laughter and the rhythmic thrum of music spilled through the open doors, beckoning everyone in. Tonight was Logan's annual summer solstice party, a chance for the pack to unwind, celebrate, and maybe even find a little romance under the full moon.

It was Sunday, the day after the party. Layla was relaxing on the sofa, smirking as she thought about the Christmas parties from Saturday. They had all been at Katelyn’s house for the rest of the evening. The thought of her panties in Alec’s pocket all night had made her hot and excited. At one point in the evening, she had looked over at him, and he gave her a lightning-flash wink, and his hand roamed around in his pocket.

over every fucking thing. That’s why I said yes when my friend Marisol texted me about this rooftop thing in Bushwick, it wasn’t some random bar night. It was one of those invite-only lesbian parties the girls in the know whisper about, the ones with the password at the door and the guest list that gets passed around in DMs. They call it “Siren” and it happens like twice a summer. Everyone’s hot, everyone’s queer, and nobody’s pretending they’re there to network.

Like someone pressed mute on teenage existence and we were only thing about the same thing repeatedly As if that wasn’t enough, Chuck had this dumb rule where everyone had to drop their phones in a small basket so we could “stay present.” Ridiculous, right? Everyone just sneaked back to the basket every ten minutes to check their messages. The party was in Chuck’s basement, one of those unfinished ones where the walls echo and there’s always a faint scent of wet socks and cigarettes. Old speakers blasted music that kept glitching every three minutes. Snacks were everywhere, and someone spilled an energy drink on the beanbag, so it smelled like a mix of sugar and defeat and if that wasn't eno