Page 102 of Pierced

Anyway. It’s party night and I’m dressed like a Halloween goddess. If a Halloween goddess looks like the Myrtle Rothschild version of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I decided that if every woman at this party will be wearing the little black dress, then I’m going to be wearing the floor-length gown version.

I’m the first to arrive at the Le Man building because I need to double-check the details with Maggie. We played phone tag all week and I finally just told her to make decisions herself because I was too busy saving the magazine.

But I want it to be perfect. It is, after all, my first foray into the world of glossy magazine photoshoot parties. Speaking of which, that was one of the details I ended up dropping into Maggie’s lap last week after the first photographer canceled. And the dessert. I assumed Maggie is clever enough to hire Eden’s father to provide the baked goods, but I haven’t seen Eden all week either, so I’m not even clear on what the dessert table will look like.

I’m just going to assume it will be spectacular and delicious.

When I enter the building I am pleased to see the security staff dressed in tuxedos. So far, so good.

“Good evening, Ms. Rothschild,” one greets me as he checks my badge and collects my invitation. “Maggie is waiting for you in the second floor lobby.”

I thank him, hand my coat off to a woman in the coat check who is wearing a perfectly acceptable little black dress, and then head for the escalator, feeling pret-ty good that this party is gonna go off without a hitch.

The first thing I notice is the music. A string quartet being piped through speakers.

Nice touch, Maggie. Nice touch.

And there she is! “Maggie!” I call. She’s talking to the catering staff—all of whom pass my dress-code requirements—but turns when she hears her name.

“Myrtle,” she says, coming towards me with both hands outstretched. She is done up right.

“Wow,” I say, letting her clasp her hands into mine and give me a squeeze. “Love the dress.”

“Yours too. This is”—she puts a hand on her heart and blinks her eyes three times fast—“the most spectacular Halloween party I’ve ever planned. Such a vision, Myrtle. Such a vision.”

“Thank you,” I say, beaming with happiness. “But the hard work was all you, Maggie. I love it.”

“The photographer is here and he’s just great. He even threw in a photo booth at no charge. How fun is that?” She giggles.

My brow furrows. “A photo booth?” I ask.

“Yeah, you know. Those old-fashioned things you see in the mall? Where guests can go inside and make funny faces.” She leans in, cups a hand to her mouth, and whispers, “Or, you know. Do other things.”

I tap my perfectly manicured fingernail to my chin, trying to think if I’ve ever seen a photo booth at a cocktail party before. “Hmmm,” I hum.

“What? What’s wrong?” she asks. “You don’t like the idea?”

“Well,” I say, cringing. “I’m not certain it fits with the theme, that’s all.” Her face falls. “But I’m sure it will be great. And I’ll love it,” I say, giving her a boost. She did pull this whole thing together in less than two weeks. And I really appreciate her picking up the slack while I was busy this week. So we had one miscommunication. No big deal.

“Good,” she says, relieved. “I think you’ll like it.” Then she glances down to the main lobby below and she says, “People are arriving. Do you want me to give you a quick tour before everyone comes up?”

“Yes,” I say, my excitement back. “Lead on.”

She walks over to the nearest set of double doors, pauses, then opens them with a flourish like she’s turning letters on Wheel of Fortune.

Inside I see… a cage. With a girl inside wearing…

“What the…” I step into the auditorium, which has been transformed from top to bottom. Literally, top to bottom. Because tables have replaced the chairs, but they’re not dining tables where people sit. Unless the people want to get a good long look up a girl’s little black dress, that is. And from the ceiling hangs yards and yards of thick strips of black satin fabric, creating… peekaboo rooms, I guess.

There must be a fan somewhere, because the thick satin strips are flowing back and forth, giving me little glimpses of women and men doing… what the fuck are they doing in those peekaboo rooms?

“Ta-da!” Maggie says. “Don’t you love it?”

Love it? I’m not even sure there’s a word to describe what I’m feeling. Or seeing, for that matter. Oh, every woman in a cage is certainly wearing a little black dress, that’s not the problem. The problem is that they’re wearing undergarments I can see and they look like they just walked out of my dungeon. Or have plans to visit it later. Take your pick.

“Ummm… what the hell is this?” I ask, trying not to freak out, because the first guests are now opening other sets of double doors and entering the… the… sex club? Because… “Holy shit, what are they wearing? Why are they all dressed like that?”

And then I look at Maggie, and her mouth is moving, and she’s forcing a smile because she can see this was not my vision, but I can’t hear her, because, yes, there’s Josh Washburn cracking a whip in the direction of a woman, who I hope is his date, because I think he actually touches her ass with that thing. She whirls around, hand covering her giggling mouth. Wearing a dress cut so low I can clearly see her red and black bra. She has on stockings and thigh-high boots. And then Josh—“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “Is he going to handcuff her to that cage?” I whirl, turning back to Maggie. “What the hell is going on? This was supposed to be a black-tie affair! This looks like… like a succubus sex club!”