The 27 Club

by Kim Karr

Genres: Family Life; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

You might think you want to be a member-but trust me, this is one club you don't want to join. It's not a place where people go to live out their deepest, darkest sexual desires-there are no handcuffs or blindfolds.



The 27 Club only admits those who die young and tragically. Having just lost my brother to the club, there is no doubt: I'm next. This is my destiny . . . and I was ready to yield.



But then I met Nate. He awakened a sensuality in me that had never been explored, never satisfied. I knew then that I could no longer accept my destiny. Nate's presence controls me. I'm overwhelmed by his touch, his words; my every thought is consumed by desire. I believe he was brought into my life for a reason. Nate doesn't believe in destiny, but I do. And if there's a way to cheat it-I must.

Release date: March 3, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 448

Sample

PRAISE FOR THE CONNECTIONS SERIES

ALSO BY KIM KARR

PROLOGUE

Zachary Flowers | August

Let’s be honest.

Nightclubs aren’t about dancing. They’re not about drinking. They’re about the chase—about scoring.

So any guy volunteering to wait in line and sweat his balls off to be given the privilege to pay a ridiculous cover, squeeze his way through a jam-packed bar, spend twenty-five dollars on a Red Bull and vodka, and scream over the blaring music—all with no guarantee of getting laid—is out of his fucking mind.

I mean, come on!

The corner joint has just as much potential as any fancy-ass club, if not more, with its far less discriminating patrons and cheaper drinks.

Nate’s mouth stretches into a huge-ass grin. “We’ve arrived.”

“No shit.” If Nate’s a-little-too-excited announcement hasn’t alerted me, the flashing lights of the neon sign that read THE BALLROOM certainly has. Fucking A, the sign nearly blinds me. One glance out the window and I’m ready to turn around and go home. The line is just as I expected—miles and miles long. I consider making a quick exit with a more than friendly “Peace out,” but something makes me stick around.

Nate slows the car to wait in traffic and grips my shoulder. “I almost forgot. Happy birthday, my friend.”

I shrug his hand off me. “Fuck birthdays. I still can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

The CEO of Skyline Holdings, who also happens to be my best friend, pulls his decked-out Range Rover up to the curb. “Come on, man—it’s not every day that a guy turns a year older.”

Yeah, twenty-seven—what a great fucking year to look forward to.

Generation after generation, several members of my family have died—not all of them, but enough of them to warrant concern—at the age of twenty-seven.

My great-great-great uncle jumped from the roof of a building during the depression; my great-great aunt’s daughter drowned in a lake; my grandfather died in the Vietnam War; and my mother overdosed.

All were twenty-seven.

All died tragically.

Based on those odds, there’s a very good chance I could be next.

So yeah, like I said—great fucking year.

“You know what they say, don’t you, Z?” Nate’s enthusiastic voice brings me out of my sullen disposition.

“I think I do, Nate, but please tell me again.” I try to suppress the sarcastic tone oozing through my words, but it isn’t easy.

Some douche bag wearing a red jacket pulls Nate’s door open and Nate practically howls at the moon, “Live life in the fast lane!”

My door swings wide seconds later. I step out while reaching into my pocket to retrieve a pack of Marlboros, needing a quick one before we enter the nonsmoking zone. “I hope that’s just what you’ve been doing, because I might just kill you after I wait in this line.”

Nate hands the valet a wad of cash and waits for a ticket. “Please, you know me better than that.”

I can’t stop my lips from tilting upward. “I should have guessed you’d have an in,” I mumble while sticking a cig between my lips. “How’d you swing something like this?”

He shrugs. “A friend of mine works close by, and she wanted to introduce me to someone.”

“She?” My brows wiggle in excitement.

Nate just shakes his head at me.

Whatever.

Typically, Nate’s an all business or all play kind of guy; so coming to a club doesn’t fit his MO. Skydiving, the track, a quick trip to the casinos in the Bahamas—that’s more his speed. I was wondering what brought this outing about, and now I know.

A girl.

Nate and a girl.

My curiosity is piqued. For the five years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him with the same girl twice. In fact, he’s a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy.

Over the flare of the lighter, I study my friend as he circles around the car. Nate Hanson, a freak of nature—a geek and a god all in one. A guy who gets what he wants without even trying. And oddly enough, he just doesn’t take advantage of all the beautiful women at his feet like he should.

I couldn’t even tell you the last time he got laid.

Mind-boggling.

Me—I’m the complete opposite. I take what I can get whenever it’s offered.

With a deep inhale, I let the smoke slowly slide from my lungs. Nate meets up with me on the sidewalk and I can’t help but tell him, “You know, I’m actually looking forward to tonight.”

He looks over at me. “Glad to hear it. Now let’s go inside so we can start celebrating.”

I roll my eyes at that.

Enjoy the beginning of the year I might die?

Hard to do.

The thought of new beginnings strikes a chord somewhere deep within me. I look right at him. “Starting tonight, I have a new motto to try out.”

He raises a brow. “Oh yeah? Let’s hear it.”

“Screw living life in the fast lane. How about: Live like you’re dying?”

I haven’t told Nate what this year means, but I will soon.

Seemingly unfazed by my changing our long-adhered-to motto, he grins at me. “Sounds like a great plan. Let’s get started.”

That’s the problem—I don’t have a plan, but I need one for the first time in my life.

Nate walks toward the entrance, ignoring the fact that the back of the line is miles in the other direction.

Horns blow as a pack of chicks with banging bodies walk by, taking my head with them.

I love women—every single one of them.

God knew what he was doing when he created them.

In fact, I think fucking would be the thing I’d miss the most if something happened to me—if you can actually miss anything after you die, that is.

Nate looks over at me. “What’s the smirk for?”

My head snaps back, and I point behind us. “Didn’t you just see them?”

He raises his shoulders as if he doesn’t have a fucking clue what I’m talking about.

“Never mind. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and I think this might be the year I finally settle down.”

“You’re fucking nuts. You know that?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Never said I wasn’t.”

“Who knows, Prince Charming? Maybe you’ll meet the love of your life inside.”

My mood having lifted with my outlook on life, I respond, “That’s the problem. How to pick just one when I love them all?”

He picks up the pace. “Come on. Keep up with me, will you?”

I exhale my last puff, looking for a place to put my cig out before catching up to him. A skirt walks by with legs longer than any supermodel. “Fuck, she’s hot.”

Nate shakes his head. “You’re one horny motherfucker. Screw finding your Cinderella. Face it, you could never settle for just one.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I can’t help it though—there’s nothing like the touch of a woman. And at least I take the time to admire what this beautiful city has to offer, unlike some people I know.”

He shoots me a glance. “Waste of time, man.”

I grab my chest and stumble backwards. “Yeah, so you’ve said many times. Your philosophy on romance always breaks my heart.”

“Well, get used to it. You should just stop searching now because if you do find someone, she’ll only end up breaking your heart in the end.”

The truth is, I’ll only break hers if my fucking legacy ends up fulfilling itself. But I already decided that I can’t live this year thinking that way. Instead of crying the blues, I tell him how I feel about his outlook on love. “You kill me, man, you really do.”

“Gives you something to talk about.”

My cell vibrates, and I pull it out of my pocket. I glance at the screen and can’t hide my grin. It’s a text with a picture attached of my sister next to a chocolate birthday cake. Chocolate because it’s her favorite, and she’ll be the only one eating it.

Nate glances over. “Your booty call for the night?”

I glare at him. “No, it’s my sister wishing me happy birthday.”

Zoey has called me about five times today. I usually go home for my birthday, but running the gallery full-time means I just can’t swing it this year.

He grabs my phone to look at the photo. “Why is it she’s never come to visit in all the years I’ve known you?”

I shrug. “Mimi was sick most of the time, so it was just easier for me to go home.”

Zoey is the single most important person in my life. She’s the ray of sunshine you can see through the clouds. She’s the light at the end of the tunnel. She has always believed in me when no one else has. She has also always kept me moving forward when there were times I thought I might not be able to.

I owe her everything.

All I want is for her to be happy.

She deserves it.

I’m hoping she’ll find happiness as soon as all the shit she’s had to worry about is taken care of; then she can finish her schooling. I need to find a way to help her—soon. No matter what, her name will have the abbreviation “Dr.” before it.

I’ll make sure of it—no matter what. I’ve let her down too many times already in my life not to come through this time.

“The birthday cake is sweet, but it’s time to put sweet away and celebrate for real,” Nate says.

I fire back with a little sarcasm. “The anticipation is fucking killing me.”

“You know what, Flowers? You’re a piece of work,” he laughs.

I laugh along and allow my gaze to wander. Nate patiently waits for the chick in front of him wearing a very short skirt and sky-high heels to pay her fifty-dollar cover. I give her a once-over; but when she turns around and I see her buttoned-up blouse, I look elsewhere.

She’s hot but not my type.

We’re in the heart of South Beach on Miami’s colorful Washington Avenue. The Ballroom has to be the most insane club around. This crowd is unreal. There are hundreds of people anxiously waiting outside to get in, and we get to walk right in. But the chicks here, they might not be for me. Pretentious, bitchy women are the only type I can’t stand. And I can spot them a mile away.

When we finally reach the front, the velvet rope blocks us from going any farther. “Tell Jeremy McQueen I’m here,” Nate says in a stern and even voice.

The giant muscled man looks him up and down. “Your name would be?”

“Nathaniel Hanson.”

The man’s head snaps up. “Sir, nice to meet you.”

Sir? I’m impressed.

Nate pulls out his wallet.

The bouncer dismisses him with the wave of his hand. “Your money isn’t welcome here.”

Sweet.

Nate’s chin dips. “Appreciated, but not necessary.”

Before the bouncer unhooks the velvet rope, he looks right at me and grunts, “Next time wear a tie.”

I ignore him. Do I look like I’ve ever worn a tie? When he doesn’t let us pass, I give in and nod.

The dude finally opens the rope and I quickly move inside. I look over to Nate, who’s dressed in a black button-down and expensive black slacks. “You’re not wearing a fucking tie.”

He shrugs. “Just forget it and have fun.”

I let it go and look around, actually feeling like coming here is just what I need to kick off this new year of mine—the one that just might be my last.

The vibe inside is nothing like I’ve ever seen. There’s a lobby of sorts, with an old-fashioned, huge-ass chandelier. The archways into the bar area are covered in mirrored glass panels with LED lights. There’s a towering ceiling over the dance floor and the area beside it is filled with leather couches and ornate fireplaces.

“Nice! Right?” Nate scans the crowd.

“Yeah. This place is swarming with chicks, and not just pretentious ones.” The club is wall-to-wall tits and legs. Deep-cut dresses, short skirts, and high heels surround me.

It’s fucking heaven.

He lifts a brow. “Knew you’d like it. I’ll grab us a drink. What are you feeling?”

“Beer for now. Thanks, man. I’ll just be here checking out the scene, waiting for my chance to blow out a candle or two.”

He shakes his head before walking away. His stride is full of confidence and, as always, he’s in no hurry. We both stand over six feet but I’m much bulkier. However, don’t let that fool you. I might lift weights, but Nate has trained in martial arts his whole life. Although I’d never admit it, he could kick the shit out of me.

The music booms as I take in the competition—guys in suits, most of them clean-cut like Nate. I stick out like a sore thumb in my jeans, work boots, and black T-shirt.

Like I care.

A group of cute girls are standing together. I zero in on them until I notice one is wearing a crown or some shit like that.

Way too girly for me.

My gaze shifts to a trio of chicks.

One is dressed in leather.

More my speed.

I’m just establishing eye contact when a raspy feminine voice whispers in my ear, “You new here?”

My neck whips around. A vision of utter splendor is standing next to me—an exotic woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and an olive complexion that practically glows. She has ruby red lips and high cheekbones and looks like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra. Mimi made me watch that movie at least fifty times—it was her favorite.

I can’t move.

I can’t talk.

I’m completely taken—bewitched.

“Ummm . . . yeah, it’s my first time,” I manage to say.

“I can always tell a new face.”

The knockout that I can’t believe is still talking to me is wearing a low-cut blouse and a hip-hugging skirt.

Hot. Totally fucking hot.

Pulsing, searing heat goes straight to my cock.

Fuck me.

My dick is throbbing and my heart is beating at double speed. “Do you come here often?”

Holy shit! Did I just use the oldest line in the book?

She laughs. “I’m here a lot and I’ve never seen anyone quite like you in here before.”

My headshake is subtle. If she were anybody else I’d have responded by talking shit or walking away.

“I didn’t mean that how it came out.”

I shrug. “I get it.”

She pulls her hair to one side.

It’s then I notice her nametag.

It has THE STYLIST printed on it.

“So tell me—do you work here?”

Her smile wanes as she fumbles to remove the name tag. “No, but I work close by. I forgot I was wearing this.”

“Oh yeah? What do you do?”

Her eyes catch mine. “It’s complicated.”

My brows draw together. “Mysterious.”

“It can be.”

“Do tell.”

She bites her lip in contemplation, but before she can respond a beer is shoved in my face and the person holding that beer wraps his arm around my girl’s shoulder and kisses her.

Every instinct in my body goes live wire and the urge to punch, to kill the motherfucker, roars loud in my ears until I hear a deep, familiar voice.

“I see you’ve met Gisele.” Nate grins at me.

Fuck, he knows her!

“Z, this is Gisele. Gisele, this is my friend Z, and tonight is his birthday.”

“Happy birthday.” She smiles at me, and I know immediately what I want for my wish.

Gisele better not be Nate’s girl.

I extend my hand, but when she places hers in mine, I have an urge to kiss it rather than shake it. So I do.

My lips against her skin ignite a fire within me.

Gisele gives Nate a knowing glance. “Jeremy is at the bar. Over there.” She points. “Leather jacket. Tall.”

He looks over his shoulder. “Thanks. Excuse me a minute.”

I take a sip of my beer. “Let’s grab a table.”

She nods. “Follow me. It’s quieter in the back.”

Her walk is just as captivating as everything else about her.

Through the crowd of people, she makes her way easily to a high-top table over in the corner. When we sit, she crosses her stocking-covered legs in such a way that I catch a glimpse of her bare skin and the garter just above it.

My eyes widen.

I have an urge to reach over and stroke her there.

I can barely stop myself.

I redirect my gaze up to her face. “You were saying?”

She laughs, obviously having noticed my distraction. “How about we start with you?”

“Okay. What do you want to know?”

“What’s your real name?”

“Zachary Flowers, but my friends call me Z.”

“Z? Not Zach?”

I nod.

She giggles. “I like Zach better. Do you mind if I call you that?”

“Nope. Call me whatever you want. Only my sister has ever called me Zach.”

She smiles. “So, Zach, what do you do for a living?”

I smile back, loving the shape of her lips and the sound of her voice. “Right now I’m managing Nate’s father’s gallery.”

She takes a sip of her drink, then licks her lips, allowing her tongue to slip out and lick off the alcohol. “So, are you an artist?”

I nod, too absorbed in what she’s doing to speak.

I’m staring—I know I am.

But once again, I can’t help it. Her lips are like a perfect kiss left on a napkin—heart shaped, red, and beautiful. Her body moves with a confidence I’ve never seen in a woman.

The cocktail waitress arrives with a tray of shots and sets them in the center of the table.

“We didn’t order these,” I let the waitress know.

She shrugs. “That guy did.” She points to Nate. “So do you want them or not?”

“Yes,” Gisele answers before I can. The cocktail waitress scurries away, and Gisele picks up one of the shots.

I do the same. “To new friends.”

She holds a finger up. “No, wait.”

I pause my glass in midair.

She clinks my glass. “Happy birthday.”

I give her a slow nod, drinking her in, every inch of her, and slam my shot back, realizing that when she said happy birthday, I didn’t think about my legacy, my destiny, or the club.

All I thought about was her.

“It’s your turn. Tell me what your name tag means,” I insist.

“Hmmm. . . . That’s not easy.”

“Well, try.”

“Let me put it this way. If you worked with me, a good name for you would be the Artist.”

The Artist. I like the sound of that.

I move closer. “Tell me more.”

“What do you want to know?”

My new motto rings in my ears—live like you’re dying.

And I decide to do just that.

“Everything,” I whisper.

Dr. Julia Raymond | Late May of the following year

Try not to be naive.

In terms of phobia development, we know that phobias are either caught or taught.

If caught, it’s typically due to something happening that the person couldn’t cope with at the time. Whatever it was plants itself into the subconscious.

If taught, it’s usually due to conditioning or receiving misinformation. For example a child may be told, “Stay away from dogs. They can bite and kill you.” If the child already has a tendency to be fearful or anxious, the child will more than likely be afraid of dogs.

Zoey Flowers suffers from thanatophobia—the fear of death—or at least, that was my initial diagnosis when she came to see me five weeks ago.

I’m not so sure anymore.

From the minute she stepped into my office, I was intrigued. Something was different about her. I’d seen her as a patient years ago when she was trying to work out her feelings for her mother. Now a woman, she is still polite, intelligent, and nicely dressed, but when she came in, she wore the type of sadness on her face that only evolves from despair.

“So, Zoey, what brings you to see me today?” I asked once she’d settled into her seat.

She didn’t fidget or make excuses like most of my patients. She looked me in the eye and said, “There’s a very good chance I’m going to die within the next year, and I’m scared. Some days I’m so angry about it, but others I just feel lost. I’m here because I want you to help me accept my destiny so I can find some direction.”

I settled into my seat, selected a pen from the holder on my desk, and set it next to my pad of paper. In my head I had already diagnosed her—classic case of thanatophobia. “What makes you think you’re going to die?”

“My brother died a few weeks ago.”

I said nothing and waited patiently.

“Before you think I have thanatophobia, I want to tell you my fear is not irrational.”

Typical response, I thought. “Go ahead.”

A tear leaked from her eye, and I handed her a Kleenex. “Years ago my great-aunt told my brother and me that our family was cursed, that generation after generation of family members have died young and tragically at the age of twenty-seven. She called it the Twenty-Seven Club and she told us her daughter had joined it along with many other relatives. My brother and I thought she was crazy. Although we were aware that our grandfather had died at twenty-seven—he died in the line of duty—and our mother had died at twenty-seven—she overdosed—we didn’t give much credence to her statement. It just sounded absurd.”

Phobia—taught, I thought to myself.

I scribbled on my notepad the number—27.

“You said your brother recently passed. How old was he?”

She averted her gaze this time. “He was twenty-seven.”

Phobia—caught, I jotted down.

“And last week was my birthday—I turned twenty-seven.”

This got my attention.

“Well, it certainly does seem very coincidental. Let’s back up a little. You said your great-aunt first brought your attention to this . . . phenomenon. Did she give you any more information—family history, mental health issues, anything that could shed some light?”

A small frown presented on her face as she thought back. “No, I was just a teenager then. And like I said, I thought she was crazy. In fact, I never paid any attention to what she had told us until my brother died.”

Not a classic case by any definition.

Since Zoey’s return to my office, I’ve spent session after session discussing this incapacitating syndrome that has prevented her from completing the simplest of tasks, like planning what to make for dinner the next day, to the more complex ones like completing her application for her doctorate or even going to Miami to clean out her brother’s things.

She’s lost.

On my own, I’ve spent countless hours researching her condition and discussing it with my colleagues in roundtable discussions. From everything she’s told me, we all agree—her fear is not irrational.

As crazy as it sounds, based on predictability, her fear is logical.

The prescribed courses of treatment were not working though.

She continued to remain adrift.

Her dreams were also getting worse. She dreamed of dying in the simplest of ways. They were always a product of what she did the previous day. This was one of the obstacles preventing her from planning. I’d given her exercises to relax her body and free her mind from getting trapped in her thoughts. Yet, after three weeks, her dreams were still occurring.

I had to change my treatment plan and use unconventional methods.

Rather than focus on what might occur in the future, I decided to go with the accept-your-destiny route. Not in terms of dying, but rather in terms of living.

I fear all this did was manifest resoluteness within this young woman though. Her fear seems to have subsided, and what has evolved is resignation.

Not what I had hoped.

My course of treatment changed yet again when I realized this, and we went to work on getting her life back on track. We started by setting small goals—what she wants to accomplish tomorrow, next week, and even in the fall. Daily sessions did get her to the point where she’s now planning her meals, agreeing to appointments beyond the next day, and returning to her job at the summer’s end.

That was a stride worth celebrating.

Yet, there is a darkness in her I can’t seem to get to. A sadness that has manifested itself so deep, she won’t let it come to the surface. I fear this is a combination of events that occurred in her childhood and her most recent tragedies.

She’s fragile.

Still, yesterday we had our most significant breakthrough.

“I booked my ticket to Miami this morning,” she said.

I clasped my hands together. “How do you feel about that?”

She took a deep breath. “I feel good about it. I want to see where my brother lived and what his life was like.”

“Let’s discuss your trip. What do you hope to accomplish while you’re there?”

“This might sound weird, but I want to prove to myself that what he lived of his life was worth it. I think it will help me move forward.”

Pride shone through in my smile. I couldn’t help it. “So do I,” I told her.

However, at the same time, I was fearful that taking on too much at once might threaten her emotional state. She’s not delusional, but she is fragile. She feels she has nothing to live for, and that concerns me the most. Unless she latches on to a reason to live, her fear concerning the Twenty-Seven Club might just become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

“Thank you, Dr. Raymond, for everything.”

She pulled me from my dark thoughts. “You don’t have to thank me, but please call me if you should need me for anything. I have you scheduled to be back in my office in ten days.”

This beautiful young girl had somehow become very special to me, and I was hopeful this next step would be the breakthrough she needed to look past what might be and concentrate on the present. She needed to live her life and not dwell on the maybes.

“Don’t forget to focus on your inner voice,” I reminded her as she opened the door.

She smiled. “I won’t.”

Your inner voice—it can be a source of amazing strength, wisdom, and guidance if you can hear it.

Luckily for Zoey, she can.

1

Zoey Flowers

In the darkness, it looks more like Pandora’s Box than a place where an artist once lived. Nestled between two houses, each the size of an arena and both lit up like football fields, this much smaller home sits dark and alone—no movement from within, no cars in the driveway, no one living inside.

The picture that appears through the rain doesn’t seem to reflect any part of him. But something of my brother has to be here. Even just a small piece left behind for me to catch a glimpse of.

A rush of melancholy hits fast.

My throat tightens.

I can’t breathe.

Sweat forms on my brow, even though the car is cool.

This isn’t one of my asthma attacks—this is grief rearing its ugly head. The grief I tried to deal with at home in all those therapy sessions. The grief I know I have to accept. But just like accepting my destiny—I’m having a hard time doing this.

Destiny—that hidden power that controls fate. Even though it’s a path I don’t want to be on, I’m not certain I can stray from it.

It owns me—I don’t own it.

My fate might very well be inevitable, just as my brot