I spin to face Camden. “How do I look?” I ask, flashing a check my teeth smile.
“Disgustingly perfect,” she says, faux annoyed. “No lipstick on your pearly whites.”
“That’s the worst,” I deadpan, but inside I’m grateful that I look good on the outside.
“I still can’t believe you just happened to have this sexy number in your closet,” she says, her bright eyes traveling in obvious approval from the gold sandals to the white dress visible through the gap in my cape, to the matching glittery headband. The only thing that doesn’t match is my silver anklet. It’s not part of the ensemble, and no one will see it under my dress, but it’s with me. Always.
I strike a playful pose, getting into the spirit at last. “A girl should be prepared for a costume party. I can’t just count on finding the perfect things at retail the night before.” It takes hunting to find my recycled pretties, but I do.
“Next time you find something that screams ‘hot rocker chick’ for karaoke night, get it for me.”
“Done,” I say. I love finding clothes for my friends, and gifting them.
“Anyway, stop stalling. I need to get to work, and you need to go in there. And seriously, thank god Scarlett thought of you and not, like, the grandpa at Bloomingdale’s who plays old songs for shoppers.” Then she gasps. “Ooh, what if he’s in there tonight? In a mask? And he tries to seduce you?”
I roll my eyes. “Enough of you.”
“Exactly. Go, you goddess.”
That’s the idea. My goddess costume seems perfect for the party’s theme—old-fashioned, but with a twist.
The old-fashioned comes from the character I’m playing from mythology—a Greek goddess. As for the twist? Well, that’s just a play on hair. My chestnut hair is hidden under this golden blonde wig, with long, luxurious locks, softly curled, one side twisted in a gold clip.
I’ll blend in best like this, fully in costume. I don’t want to draw attention to myself tonight at the party. I want to do my job, entertaining the crowd, while taking mental notes of my fantasies as they unfold before my eyes.
The voyeur amongst them.
But I have to be cautious. I can’t mingle. I’m not really a guest, after all. I’m staff, and there’s a difference. I’d do well to remember it.
If I pull this off, though, maybe then I’ll get an invitation for real.
With that in mind, and my itty-bitty purse in hand, I head up the steps and undo the button on my light summer cape—I didn’t want to telegraph to all of Park Avenue that I was headed to The Scene—then toss it over my arm. In one smooth move, I slide on the gold mask.
As I cinch it into place, my gaze lands on a man turning onto the block. He’s hard to look away from, since he’s wearing the hell out of a three-piece suit and a phantom mask.
Oh, yes.
Modern suit for the twist. Dark, broody character from literature for the old-fashioned.
A thrill rushes through me. Does he like the same things I think I like?
My pulse skitters with hope, but I won’t find out tonight. I’m here to observe how the beautiful, rich, and naughty like to play. I’m not rich, but I’d like to feel beautiful and naughty.
I quickly switch my phone to Do Not Disturb—I don’t want anyone interrupting me while I play—then climb the final stairs to the mansion.
“Hello,” I say to the bodyguard twins, as calm as can be.
One of them stares at me with hard, unflinching eyes. “Name?”
Scarlett’s warning flashes through my mind. But it’s easy, so very easy to leave behind Jules Marley, buttoned-up, twin-set and glasses-wearing good girl by day.
“Aphrodite,” I say.
The man checks his iPad, then nods. First test passed, and I feel more victorious than I should. With a blank face that hides my giddiness, I give him the secret password. “I read a good book last night.”
Well, I did.
He opens the door. “Enjoy.”
Oh, I plan to.
2
SEX NOSTALGIA
Finn
This is my first evening out in months.
Between late nights with my laptop, closing deals, and reading past bedtime with my seven-year-old—I’m a sucker for the just one more page plea—I can’t remember the last time I went out.
Alone.
When the invitation from the club landed in my email asking if I was interested in reactivating my membership—the one that’d been dead for years—I clicked yes impulsively.
One quick Google search later and I’d ordered the mask and had it delivered to my brownstone in an hour.
God bless New York and instant access to everything.
A masquerade at The Scene sounds like a perfect escape tonight, since my kid’s with his grandparents this weekend. “Bye, Dad,” he called to me so easily as his grandparents drove away.
Dad. I’m still getting used to that word, but it feels so damn right.
And so does this—catching a glimpse of a gorgeous masked goddess heading into the Albrecht Mansion. She looks utterly at home in that costume. Like she is a goddess.
From the other end of the block, I stare shamelessly at the beauty, something I can do freely now that I’m divorced.
Look.
Something I can enjoy again too. The shape of a woman, perhaps soon the feel of a woman.
But she’s gone in seconds, scurrying through the open door to the same destination I’m headed.
Perfect.
I’ll see her inside soon enough. As I near the mansion, my phone trills. I go on alert, grabbing it from my pocket in case it’s Zach or his grandparents, needing something, anything. But it’s not them. They’ve got their shit together.
It’s my lawyer. I’d much rather be off the clock on a Friday evening, but I don’t have that luxury—not when my brother and I are trying to close the biggest deal of our careers, and I’m the lead on it.
“Hey there,” I say as I answer.
“Hit a snag in the paperwork,” my attorney begins, wasting no time.
Fucking love him for skipping niceties. “What’s the story?” I ask as I turn the other way.
After taking off the mask, I spend the next thirty minutes pacing around the block, sorting out details that I thought we’d put to bed. “I’ll send you the new contract late tonight,” he finishes.
“But I won’t look at it till tomorrow,” I say.
He laughs. “Sounds like someone has a good night planned.”
A man can hope.
I say goodbye and end the phone call, then do my best to shove that business deal out of my mind for a couple hours.
Tonight is for escape at last.
With a goodnight text to my kid and a thanks to his grandparents, I silence the phone. I return to the mansion and give the password to security. Once upon a time in my twenties, I used to wonder what the security guys thought about parties that cater to certain tastes.
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?