{"product_id":"lucky-night-isbn-9780593800836","title":"Lucky Night","description":"\u003cb\u003e“[A] crafty new locked-room thriller of adultery and disaster . . . a fresh take on middle-class marital malaise . . . Kennedy’s page-turner brings [our] fundamental human fears into the blazing light of a towering inferno.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo people, one hotel room, and all the choices and complications that make up a life.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter six years of a stolen hour here, another there, tonight is going to be different for Nick Holloway and Jenny Parrish. They’ve booked a room in a new luxury hotel in Manhattan, where they’ll spend the entire night together for the first time. Expectations are running high for this brief reprieve from ordinary life: they both need a good bout of ravishing sex and witty conversation. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut that’s not what they get.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause they’ve barely gotten started when a smoke alarm goes off. Nick is annoyed, but not worried about what must be only a minor glitch. Jenny is anxious, guilty—is karma coming for them at last?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis existential page-turner seamlessly shifts between Nick and Jenny’s perspectives as the reality of their situation becomes apparent, and all their secrets, evasions and regrets come spilling out. Stripped of their defenses, disagreeing about everything, these two flawed, funny, very different people are forced to be honest—with each other and themselves—about what they want, all they stand to lose, and whether their affair is really as casual as it seems.“[A] crafty thriller of adultery and disaster [and] a fresh take on middle-class marital malaise . . . As the writer and therapist Esther Perel has said, ‘death and mortality often live in the shadow of an affair.’ Kennedy’s page-turner brings those fundamental human fears into the blazing light of a towering inferno.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A page-turner, this locked room thriller takes place in a luxury New York City high-rise, where a middle-aged couple is meeting for their monthly extramarital tryst, when a fire alarm goes off. Convinced it’s a false alarm and reluctant to leave their bed for the snowy world outside, they stay put until it becomes too late to leave. Part \u003ci\u003eTowering Inferno\u003c\/i\u003e, part confessional, the story is engaging, blazing hot, and ultimately satisfying. I finished it in one night and am already casting the movie in my mind.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kennedy returns with another nuanced, thoughtful look at infidelity that takes place over one harrowing night. . . . It’s well-worth watching the layers of Jenny and Nick’s emotional armor being peeled back as the tension between them and the danger mounts in Kennedy’s increasingly gripping and emotional novel.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eLucky Night \u003c\/i\u003estarts out as a funny, sexy story about an affair, but it deepens into something darker and more urgent. Eliza Kennedy’s novel treats love like the life-threatening emergency it sometimes is, a force both destructive and illuminating.”\u003cb\u003e—Tom Perrotta, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An electrifying love story that defies all expectations. \u003ci\u003eLucky Night\u003c\/i\u003e alternates between profound intimacy and terror, between claustrophobia and pleasure, and illuminates our conflicting desires for safety and the sort of exquisite connection that makes us feel alive. A dazzling novel.”\u003cb\u003e—Jenny Jackson, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003ePineapple Street\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eLucky Night\u003c\/i\u003e is a tautly sexy, savage fever dream of clandestine passion and mounting fear. Kennedy keeps her pair of lovers on the knife’s edge between fantasy and exposure. It’s a tour de force of dramatic tension and revelation.”\u003cb\u003e—Kate Christensen, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Great Man \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eWelcome Home, Stranger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Two characters locked in a hotel room having an affair go at it when every mask and protective layer is stripped away, and they are at their most vulnerable. Fun. Sexy. A little ‘dangerous.’”\u003cb\u003e—Jay Ellis for \u003ci\u003eElle's\u003c\/i\u003e \"Shelf Life,\" author of \u003ci\u003eDid Everyone Have an Imaginary Friend (or Just Me)? \u003c\/i\u003eand actor on \u003ci\u003eInsecure\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eEliza Kennedy\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of two previous novels,\u003ci\u003e I Take You\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eDo This for Me\u003c\/i\u003e. Her nonfiction and essays have appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Glamour\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Real Simple\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eCosmopolitan\u003c\/i\u003e. A graduate of the University of Iowa and Harvard Law School, she lives in Hudson, New York.\u003cb\u003eOne\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDo you hear something?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHmm?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNick.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHmm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThere.\u003c\/i\u003e She turns her head toward the door. \u003ci\u003eWhat is that?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe turns too, buries his nose in her hair and inhales.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot too deeply. He doesn’t want to be weird about it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIt’s an alarm,\u003c\/i\u003e she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat’s that scent, grapefruit? Verbena? It’s delicious.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNick?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat is verbena, anyway? An herb. No. A flower.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething to do with tea?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDo you hear it?\u003c\/i\u003e she says. \u003ci\u003eSort of a faraway ringing?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAway. Far, far away. Like her voice, drifting toward him, looping and weaving through the glow, the fuzzy-edged haze of animal contentment that descends on him in these moments, sprawled on this bed, any bed, various beds at various times, always with her, breathing hard, limbs splayed, the glow hovering over him like a . . . like a what?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNever mind. This isn’t the time to strain for comparisons. A question has been posed, his attention sought on a vital point of acoustic interpretation. He rouses his wits. Come on, boys! Look alive! Letsgoletsgoletsgoletsgolets—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe raises his head. Listens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe alarm stops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe drops back on the pillow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIt’s nothing, \u003c\/i\u003ehe says. And now it’s over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStand down, men. The troops trudge back to their barracks, their card games, buffing their boots. His hand comes to life—just one, the rest of him still flattened, demolished by that astonishing, that really unbelievable—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe searches the folds of the duvet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBut what was it, do you think?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe finds her hand, lifts it to his line of sight. Nice hand. Lovely hand. My roving hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOne of this joint’s exclusive amenities,\u003c\/i\u003e he says. \u003ci\u003eAn orgasm gong.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAn orgasm gong,\u003c\/i\u003e she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe feels the joints of her fingers. The rounded edges of her nails.\u003ci\u003e It’s the newest thing,\u003c\/i\u003e he says. \u003ci\u003eThe staff ring it whenever two guests come simultaneously.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe laughs, her low, throaty chuckle, and the glow, which had thinned perilously as he was called upon to react, to think and speak, rolls over him again, thick and orangey-pink. Why orangey-pink? He doesn’t know. He’s just reporting here, okay? Just telling it like it is. Like how she’s turning to him now, resting on her side so that her beautiful breasts stack vertically, decline beautifully, breastily bedward—thank you, oh thank you gravity, all hail the Earth’s rotations!—and her face hoves into view, smiling at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJenny. It’s been too long.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow all he needs is her touch, the lightest, the least—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe drapes a leg over his.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh hail!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe can’t bear it. Steady on, men. What a relief his thoughts in these moments are private, not broadcast to the world, or to her. Whole joys. He’s an island, blissed out but well-fortified. Because happiness like this is asinine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWho rings it?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHmm?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWho rings the gong?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’s resting a hand on his hip. Tapping her fingers lightly. To taste whole joys. He feels each tiny tap. The weight of her hand. Full nakedness, something something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe gong\u003c\/i\u003e, he says. \u003ci\u003eRight. Well, as you might expect, they don’t assign this crucial task to any yahoo rolling in off the street. It’s the responsibility of a special employee. Carefully recruited, meticulously trained. They call him Gong Boy.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe laughs again. That husky chuckle!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe is purely, stupidly content.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe online reviews rave about him, \u003c\/i\u003ehe says. \u003ci\u003eYou’re going to start seeing copycat services in all the major hotels, but for now, this is the only gong in town. Hey, would you mind . . . ?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe knows what he wants, and no, she would not mind. She slips a hand under him to scratch the nape of his neck. He shudders the length of his body, down and up, and down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhole joys right here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA whole shitload of whole glowing joys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIt didn’t sound like a gong,\u003c\/i\u003e she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eTrue, but that’s Gong Boy’s genius.\u003c\/i\u003e He shoves the pillow up to give her easier access to his neck. \u003ci\u003eAlways trying to be helpful. He interprets the intensity and essence of any given synchronous climax and translates it into sound compositions that accurately reflect the specific event.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere does he come up with this shit? Honestly, it just flows out of him. Like his copious come into her glorious oh the scratching, the scratching, her nails on his skin!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s heaven. He shudders here in heaven.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSo ours was fiery,\u003c\/i\u003e she says.\u003ci\u003e Alarming. Sounds about right.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOpening the door an hour ago—what was it she’d said? And everything that came after. Now, their rituals. The scratching. The idle conversation, grandiose because he knows she loves it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHas Gong Boy ever screwed up?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe cranes his neck, a fresh wave of goosebumps coursing down his arms. \u003ci\u003eIt’s rare,\u003c\/i\u003e he says, \u003ci\u003ebut he does occasionally misjudge the emanations.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat happens?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWell, it’s a serious problem. This place only opened last week. They have a brand to build. When he botches one, management has no choice but to administer correctives.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOh no! What do they do to Gong Boy?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThey beat him with a giant dildo.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe laughs. Jenny laughs! He makes her laugh, not to mention come, fierily, alarmingly. He kisses her. Souls unbodied, or something about bodies, clothes, where the f*** are these lines coming from? It’s on the tip of his . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWait.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething terrible is happening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’s going away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe weight of her leg across his legs, her fingers in his hair, her boob stack nudging his arm—all withdrawn. Why?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe opens his eyes. She’s sitting up, feet on the floor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo! No no no!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat—where are you going?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eTo the minibar.\u003c\/i\u003e She’s standing, stretching. \u003ci\u003eI want to grab a drink.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe reaches out, but just misses her. She can’t leave his side, not now. He needs her close, right after. He is lonely by himself in a still-warm bed. It’s always been that way. He’s never told anyone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI brought champagne.\u003c\/i\u003e He points to the ice bucket on the nightstand, the glasses, all within easy reach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI’d love some sparkling water.\u003c\/i\u003e She moves toward the lacquered cabinets lining one wall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWould you? Funny thing. \u003c\/i\u003eHe scrambles up, propping himself against the headboard. \u003ci\u003eChampagne is sparkling water. With bonus champagne flavor.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe pauses in the center of the room, taking it in. She moves to the window, which is huge, a wall of glass. They’re on the forty-second floor. Manhattan blazes all around them. Between above below. Snow is falling. Beyond the river and New Jersey there’s the faintest smudge of light in the February sky. The world’s glow. Also disappearing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eGod,\u003c\/i\u003e she says. In her faint midwestern accent it comes out Gad. \u003ci\u003eCan you believe this view?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe can’t. Especially when she bends to scratch an ankle. Compensation for the loss of her proximity. One hand on the back of a chair for balance, one foot off the floor, hair spilling over her shoulder. Her ass, pale, rounded, slightly too large for her slender frame, and therefore perfect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGad, he thinks. Help me, Gad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHowever many times you see it,\u003c\/i\u003e she says,\u003ci\u003e it never gets old.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRight you are, my lady.\u003c\/i\u003e The shadowy cleft, the two deep dimples hovering above. The astonishing substantiality of it, its exquisite assness, which he gets to behold, to fondle, to (occasionally, if only superficially) probe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook at her. So at ease when she’s naked. At home in herself, able to wander a room unashamed, baring her remarkable everything. No self-consciousness, no restraint.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pulls the duvet over himself. It’s chilly in here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eJenny. Come back to bed.\u003c\/i\u003e","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302015389925,"sku":"NP9780593800836","price":28.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593800836.jpg?v=1767731956","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/lucky-night-isbn-9780593800836","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}