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Heart’s Masquerade
By
Tressie Lockwood
Heart’s Masquerade
Copyright © October 2014, Tressie Lockwood
Cover art by For the Muse Designs © October 2014
Formatting by Bob Houston eBook Formatting
ISBN: 978-1-939151-73-5
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious or used fictitiously. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Sugar and Spice Press
North Carolina, USA
www.sugarnspicepress.com
Chapter One
Niles pulled the limo to the side of the road, and Torrian ran his palms over his thighs for the millionth time. He’d done this before, and yet, his stomach always tightened just before showtime. Anticipation and nervousness came over him. He looked forward to having fun as he always did, the familiarity of the surroundings, the people, the music, even the scents. At the same time, with each passing year, he didn’t feel like he belonged or that the people wanted him there. With that thought in mind, he picked up the mask that lay on the seat next to him. Just once he’d like to walk in without it. If he did, would they turn him away or welcome him back?
“Are you sure about this, sir?” Niles asked from the driver’s seat.
Torrian glanced up and met his gaze in the rearview mirror. He forced a smile. That was a problem as well, a simple smile. More often than not over the last few years, his smiles were aimed, calculated—false. “I’m fine, Niles. Stop worrying. I’ve done this a hundred times before.”
The older man frowned in displeasure. His black leather gloves squeaked as he gripped the steering wheel in obvious frustration. “And every time it’s a bad idea, if you don’t mind my saying.”
Torrian chuckled. “You never bite your tongue, do you, Niles?”
Niles flushed. “I apologize, sir. I was out of line.”
“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t hire you to blow smoke up my ass.”
“No, you hired me to drive you from point A to point B, and to sometimes handle errands for you. I will keep my mouth shut from now on, Mr. Donnelly.”
Torrian raised the mask to his head and pulled it down over his hair and face. “Somehow I seriously doubt that.” He checked the area ahead and behind the car and then reached for the door handle.
Niles tensed. “Sir, perhaps I should park and escort you. If someone realizes who you are or even if they don’t, if they attack—”
“Stop,” Torrian cut in but not without understanding. “I know the risks, but I look like everyone here in South Boston. I’m just a regular guy out to enjoy the party.”
“Every year, you come here to this party when there are plenty in safer areas and among your friends. I worry that you won’t come back.”
“That’s interesting,” Torrian said. “Every year, I think about not coming back.” Niles appeared stricken, as if he hoped Torrian was joking. Torrian offered a slight smile, but he didn’t take back what he had said. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
He touched two fingers to the edge of his mask in a swift salute, then stepped from the car. Niles called to him, but he kept moving and slammed the door. A final check that he had everything, old wallet with real ID but no credit cards, light cash, plain cell phone, nothing fancy.
He’d worn faded jeans and a T-shirt. Maybe he should have worn more of a costume than just the full-head devil mask with huge horns. Most of the men who attended the party didn’t bother over much with costumes. Some didn’t wear one at all. They came for the free food and a chance to look at the ladies who dressed in skimpy outfits. He wasn’t above admitting he liked that part, too.
Torrian thought about his clothes and how he normally wore suits, both to the office and to social engagements. Tailor-made suits, he thought with amusement. What would the people here think if they knew? That he was vain? He supposed in a way he was, but he had bought clothing straight off the rack like everyone else once upon a time. Acquaintances in the world of finance had suggested a particular tailor. He’d thought it pompous and wasteful, but again and again he’d heard how well the clothing fit, how comfortable. From a teenager into adulthood, he’d had to deal with ill-fitting clothing because quite frankly he wasn’t perfect. His shoulders were too broad, and the way they measured up with his torso and biceps, well, he figured when he had the money, why not try a tailor. For one set of clothing that felt right. Now, he admitted if only to himself, he was spoiled. Every suit in his closet was tailor-made and the fit—Andreas was worth every exorbitant dollar he extracted from Torrian’s hide.
A cold wind stirred around him, and Torrian flipped his jacket collar up, then huddled deeper into the material. As he moved along a street with tight houses, all lined up in a row along the block, a giggling couple outpaced him. Upon seeing a lone devil, neither appeared surprised or repulsed.
