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“What is it?” he nears the bed; I can tell he’s curious under the mask.
“I don’t… Ugh.” I laugh nervously.
He sits on the bed, a small space between us. I suddenly feel self-conscious. “What?” His voice is soft.
“I don’t usually do this,” I explain. “I’ve never done this before.”
I can’t explain it, but I feel the need to explain. I want to let him know what we’d just done is special to me, and I don’t go around doing it. I wonder if it’s the same for him. Somehow, I doubt it.
“What do you mean? You’ve never had amazing sex with a masked stranger from a masquerade party before?”
I almost say yes when I realize he’s being sarcastic. I punch him again as he laughs.
“You punch, and you interrupt. You’re exactly my—”
“Your type.” I interrupt on purpose.
“I was going to say type to avoid.” He smirks. “See, you’re wrong.”
“Yeah, right. I call bullshit. I’m exactly your type.”
We share another laugh.
“Why did you do it?”
The question surprises me, and I surprise myself more when I answer truthfully. “Someone did something that ruined everything for me, and I came here tonight to try to feel another emotion besides the anxiety I’ve been feeling over the past few weeks.”
He nods slowly without pushing for more information. “I’m sorry about everything.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”
“Still, the world pushes people down. We must be there for each other however we can, so I’m sorry.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my heart skip a beat. He stands from the bed and walks toward the bathroom. I watch his round, lean ass as he leaves, and I think it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Just for the record,” he says without turning around. “It isn’t my first masquerade ball.”
I feel disappointed despite myself. What was I expecting? He’s probably gotten around a lot more.
“But I’ve never done this with anyone else at one of these either,” he adds, then enters the bathroom.
As I hear the shower running, a smile remains on my face. I hurriedly put on my gown and adjusted my mask to fit perfectly on my face. I looked toward the bathroom, and for a second, I imagined going in to see his face. I imagined a world where we went on dates, got to know each other, and ended up together.
I decide against it.
It is better to let it remain a mystery—there is no point in ruining what was already perfect. Besides, I have a job to do—a role that’ll take up much of my time and doesn’t have room for distractions. I have to take revenge on the man who destroyed my life.
With that, I leave the room and close the door behind me.
Chapter two
Tristan
The car jolts, and my eyes flutter open, but the distant sound of explosions does not leave my ears, nor does the smell of grenades. I close my eyes and attempt to sleep again. The sleep I have just awakened from is wrought with bloodied corpses, so I try for another—a more peaceful one without my demons. Unsurprisingly, I fail.
I need a drink.
Two years sober and without fail, anytime I have nightmares about the war, I crave a shot of alcohol—or twenty shots. I don't care; I just want a drink.
