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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?
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 pastisthe 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.
