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I am not sure who they are, but clearly they are not fans of Angela. I leave the restroom, not giving them a second thought. There’s a bar situated at the top of the rooftop, and there are hardly any guests here, which is a huge plus. I sit myself down, my mouth already anticipating the whiskey that will hit it shortly.
“Whiskey, neat, make it a double,” I say before the bartender even opens his mouth.
“Whiskey is not a very ladylike choice,” a drunk voice says from behind me.
“I don’t know about ladylike, but I know it’s none of your business,” I say, ignoring whoever was talking to me.
“How about you let me buy you a drink, and maybe I’ll put those lips to good work later,” he says as I feel a clammy hand on my back, moving down slowly.
I jump up, but another man appears before I can even open my mouth.
“Go,” he says in a low tone.
“Go fuck yourself, buddy,” the drunk says, but the man only walks towards him and turns his back to me as he lifts his mask, then I watch the drunk man’s face pale. “I didn’t realize,” he says in a horrified whisper. “Mi dispiace.”
“Get out of here before they have to scrape you off the sidewalk tomorrow.”
The drunk staggers off in a hurry before the other man pulls his mask back up and turns to me. I don’t know what to say so I turn back around and don’t say anything.
The stranger sits beside me and offers me a cigarette. I’m not a smoker, but whiskey and nicotine make the perfect mix on social occasions. He doesn’t say anything as he lights my cigarette, but I can feel his gaze burning through me, his charcoal eyes devouring me to the point that I think the air has turned from balmy to heated. I stare back at him for an inkling of recognition, but I can’t place his face anywhere. His stare almost brands my skin, and I know I would never have forgotten that indecent feeling of somebody almost stripping you down with just a mere look.
Without saying a word, he already has my full attention. There isn’t anything about him that particularly stands out and he isn’t by any means the tallest or broadest person I have ever seen. However, his presence radiates power and control. He stands just over six foot and is built, not overly so but enough for me to notice that his biceps are bulging out of his crisp white shirt. With the mask on, it is difficult to tell his age, although he does have a slight smattering of gray peppering his dark hair, which adds to his overall appeal. The bartender serves me my drink, and the stranger orders the same watching me with interest as I sip delicately.
“Don’t be shy.” He smirks.
“Drinking it in one go wouldn’t be very ladylike,” I say, sipping with exaggerated motions.
“You should only be a lady with a gentleman,” he replies, a smile playing on his lips.
“Are you a gentleman?” I say curiosity getting the best of me.
“In the right company, perhaps,” he says as his smoldering eyes meet mine again, and I feel a strange whirring in my abdomen.
One of the feathers from my masquerade mask is sticking out and I pull on it in irritation wishing I could take the whole thing off.
“I take it you’re not a fan of the engagement theme.” He muses.
“I’m not a fan of marriage in general,” I say, thinking of my own impending nuptials.
“I thought all women were romantics,” he says, smirking.
“Marriage is a transaction, it just depends on which end of the deal you’re getting. You’re going to get screwed, one way or the other,” I say, draining the tumbler.
“Hopefully, the good way,” he says as his eyes catch mine, and I feel my pulse race. His pewter eyes never leave my green ones, and for the first time in a long time, I feel the heady rush of attraction flooding my body and this is without seeing his whole face.
“Well, if you’re a gentleman, I guess being a romantic comes naturally?” I ask, cocking my eyebrow at him.
“As I said, I’m only a gentleman in the right company,” he says in a low tone but keeps his eyes fixed on me.
“The right company? What kind of company do you normally keep?” I ask another question, throwing out my one cardinal rule of not asking questions.
“You wouldn’t want to know,” he replies easily.
His phone vibrates on the bar top. Naturally a burner phone by the look of it, and I observe with interest as he fires off a couple of messages. I have always had a strange fixation with hands, and his are perfectly masculine in every possible way. I watch on as his deft fingers maneuver, flexing across the phone pad. I come to realize that I had been staring at him with my mouth almost open the entire time, so I turn to face the bar to avoid further embarrassment. The two girls I had seen in the bathroom earlier snorting cocaine are in high spirits, still gossiping about one thing or another.
“—She’s dead if he ever finds out.”
“—I can’t believe she would risk it.”
