Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
But then, life happened, and I stopped caring so much about what other people think. Besides, everyone has a secret. Some just wear theirs.
Like it’s yesterday, or really a decade ago, I head up the grand stairs, past the twinkling lights curled around the banister. The soft lilt of Cole Porter pulls me closer to the grand ballroom, but so does an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Is it weird to feel nostalgia for a—well, let’s call it what it is—a kink matchmaking extravaganza?
But sex nostalgia is a thing, evidently, and I’m feeling it big time. When I turn into the ballroom and drink in the sight—revelers in top hats and tails, gowns and ruffles, satin and black silk, with masks everywhere—the nostalgia disappears entirely.
I’m not longing for the past anymore. The past is the present once again, and it’s a feast for the senses from the clink of glasses to the chimes of laughter, to the floral perfumes mingling with the buttery aromas of whiskey and the sweet pear scents of champagne.
I inhale it all.
As the mellow notes of “Night and Day” fill the room, a tuxedoed man wearing a simple black mask walks my way, giving an inviting nod as he nears me. “Good evening,” he says in a familiar baritone. “Welcome to The Scene.”
Then he walks right past me.
Damn, this mask I’ve got on is good.
I clear my throat. “What does it take to get a fucking cocktail around here?”
He immediately spins on his heels and shoots me an apologetic smile. “I’ll send a server to you right away, sir.”
I rein in a grin, working the asshole act hard. “How about you take my drink order right now?”
Service is important to my buddy Tevin. But so are manners. I haven’t quite crossed the line yet, but I’m toeing it.
“Of course. What would you like?” he asks.
“Pabst. Served upside down. In a keg. It was the spring of—”
He groans in laughter. “You asshole.” My college friend claps my back affectionately. All is forgiven. “It’s been…” Tevin’s gaze drifts down to my left hand. Naked.
“Yeah, it’s been a while,” I say with some resignation, some relief, then waggle my bare fingers.
He lifts a brow in question. “Are congratulations in order?”
If he’d asked me a year ago when my wife called it quits, I’d have said no fucking way.
But now that the ink is newly dry on the divorce papers, all I can say is a big, truthful “yes.”
Maybe a hell yes. I’m finally crawling out of the black hole of my marriage.
“Then congratulations, man. Especially since you’re back here. So I’d say the drinks are on me tonight,” he says, even though this isn’t a cash bar. We’ve all paid handsomely for the beverages. “Macallan?”
“You know it,” I say, and Tevin heads off to the bar. He runs these parties with his wife, Kiara, who’s surely here somewhere, likely in a costume that makes her easy enough to recognize too.
As I wait for him to return, I hang back at the edge of the ballroom, checking out the crowd. I’m feeling at home a little more, thanks to the vibe. That’s the point. A familiar atmosphere but a chance to meet new people with the same tastes I have.
Like my goddess. There’s something about her…
With a laser focus, I survey the party for the beauty, enjoying that no one recognizes me. Anonymity is a wonderful thing, a lovely escape from the weight of the day and the heaviness of the past. It’s a cloak, too, to search for her.
She’s not mingling though. She’s not at the bar either.
The music shifts to “Rhapsody in Blue,” and I turn toward the grand piano set in the corner of the room, the romantic tune calling out to me.
Yes.
That’s her—behind the keys.
And just look at her. I stare unabashedly at her masked face—those lips, those fucking lush lips—for another few seconds till Tevin returns, hands me a tumbler, then says, “To your return to the land of the living. You were a phantom for some time, man.”
Can’t argue with him there. I lift the glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
An hour or two later, I’ve refreshed my drink, chatted with old friends, exchanged pleasantries with new ones, and tried valiantly, but failed miserably, to not stare at the woman at the piano.
She bites the corner of her cherry-red lips as she plays, moving her body sensually with the music. Her hair, too, is driving me wild, all curls and waves twisted up on one side. She’d better have a break really fucking soon.
I take a final swallow of my Macallan when she looks up again from the ivories. Her masked gaze meets mine from across the softly lit room. Electric candlelight plays with shadows, but even in the half-light, our eyes lock. There’s a catch in the music, a faint pause, then her lips press together.