Emory spears me with a glare and takes her flustered boyfriend’s bicep in hand.
“Relax, Quince. She’s kidding. Greer never had a porn career. Only a sick sense of humor.”
I smile and stick out a conciliatory hand. “Nice to meet you, Quince. And now I’m one-hundred-percent interested to know which tapes you watched in high school. Hefty Jugs? Tight Taints? Bangin’ Blondes, perhaps?”
“I’m sorry,” Quince mumbles. “I think I just swallowed my tongue.”
“Jesus Christ, Greer,” Emory grumbles. “Can I not take you anywhere?”
“What?” I shrug. “I’m just making friendly conversation.”
“It’s fine, Em,” Quince says. “I’m kind of in love with her now.”
I can’t exactly see Emory’s face clearly under her Taylor Swift mask, but I don’t have to. She is undoubtedly ordering a voodoo doll of me from an Etsy shop tonight and stabbing it right in the vagina.
“No, no, she’s right, Quince. You guys are adorable together, and it really is nice to meet you. I’m surprised but honored that you’ve heard of Hudson Designs, and I appreciate the excitement about my work. I’m also digging the Kanye, Taylor Swift couple irony you have going on here.”
“That was Em’s idea,” he says admiringly and tucks her closer to his side. The two of them lock gazes and sway toward each other with fairy-tale precision.
And I officially need a drink.
I excuse myself pretty easily since they’re ensconced in their canoodling and slink toward the long marble bar along the windows on the far side of the ballroom. Free drinks are one of the bright spots of attending this party, and I fully intend to enjoy the opportunity to consume them.
The line is long and the people are chatty, so I take the time to retreat deeper into myself. The bartender works the crowd and smiles readily with everyone, and he seems like the kind of easygoing guy I could get along with.
His name tag glints in the light, and I ready myself to regale him with charm by studying his name.
When I finally belly up to the cold gray stone, I lean my elbows into the counter and announce cheekily, “Chardonnay me, Kevin.”
Kevin’s eyebrows pinch together, and his fun-loving demeanor suddenly seems a lot less fun. “My name’s not Kevin.”
What?
I glance back to the name tag I was so sure had set me up for success and read it again.
Karen. Her name is Karen, and Karen is a girl.
Dear God, I need to get my eyes checked.
“Heh. Whoops.” I laugh nervously. “I have…uh…cataracts. And you look lovely tonight, Karen.”
Her scowl is scary, but I’m not leaving without my Chardonnay. I tap my fingernails on the counter as she prepares it, and I watch with an eagle eye for spit or poison.
Thankfully, the open setup of her workspace makes it hard to achieve either form of sabotage, and she slides the half-full glass toward me.
Her intense loathing of me won’t make getting another drink easy, but maybe I can sweet-talk Emory into switching masks with me in the bathroom before I need more.
I turn to leave the bar and smack right into a hard wall.
“Excuse me,” a tuxedo-wearing Albert Einstein says. I can’t see his face, obviously, but the fit of his formal wear is superb. I can feel the hot muscle of his chest through the expensive fabric as I force myself to step away.
I smile flirtatiously on instinct, but it’s not until he speaks again that I realize he can’t see a goddamn thing thanks to Beyoncé.
“Are you okay?” The mask does a good job of muffling his words, but it does nothing to disguise the deep, rich, masculine edge of his timbre.
“Oh, sure, sure. Just a little elementary particle interaction,” I tease flirtatiously. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“What?”
Jesus. Don’t tell me my eyes have failed me again.
I squint through the tiny holes in Beyoncé’s rubber skin. “Aren’t you supposed to be Albert Einstein?”
“Yeah.”
I frown under my mask. “I was referencing the theory of relativity. Albert’s kind of famous for it…”
“Oh. Yeah, I just went with the first mask I found.”
Wow. Note to self: don’t be lured into the trap of svelte physique, Greer. He may be pretty, but some people really are all looks and no brains.
Not even bothering to formally excuse myself, I turn and head for the darkest corner I can find. Luckily, it also happens to be right outside of the kitchen—perfect for getting first selection of hors d’oeuvres as the servers bring them out on shiny silver trays.
When I’ve had almost more than my dress was built to accommodate and the waiters start to subtly shield the trays with their arms upon exit, I mosey back toward the dance floor and try to find Emory and Quince.
I’m due for a new drink anyway.
Thanks to Quincy’s size and Emory’s blue tulle gown, I locate them effortlessly. They’re swaying in the center of the room with champagne glasses tucked close to each other’s backs, and interrupting them in the name of alcohol suddenly doesn’t seem like such a good idea.
Emory’s been searching for a man of worth for nearly as long as I have, and in the process, she’s dated some real dogs.
With a parade of cheaters, gamblers, drinkers, and a few money-hungry clingers, she’s sampled from quite the mixed bag. She even married one in Vegas for, like, fifty-five hours just like good ole Britney Spears, but her parents’ lawyers got it annulled before he could ruin her life.
From what I can tell, Quincy seems different. A little goofy, sure, but altogether a really good guy.
She deserves to have a romantic New Year’s Eve with her long-awaited Prince Charming.
Even if it means I have to suffer through the rest of this party sober…fucking hell.
“Excuse me,” a man says as he runs into my back thanks to my decision to reroute midstride. Flashbacks of Ignorant Einstein turn the corners of my mouth down into a grimace as I turn to face him, but upon inspection, I’m thankful to find a different scientist entirely—Walter White of Breaking Bad.
He’s tall. Fit. His shoulders are the perfect kind of broad beneath his well-fitted and dapper tuxedo. Even though I have no idea what his face looks like beneath the mask, the rest is a welcome sight for my eyes.
“My bad, Walt,” I apologize. “I’m the one who switched directions.”
He laughs and rubs a tanned, long-fingered hand across the black-and-white material at his chest. “Well, in that case, I Better Call Saul.”
I smile at that, Beyoncé and her rubber-masked cockblocking be damned, and look to the ground self-consciously.
My feet feel like they’re bleeding, my dress might as well be painted on, and I’m starting to sweat under this stupid mask, but finally, the evening seems to be looking up.
“Would you like to get a drink?” Walt asks, and I can’t contain the fervor in my nod.
“God, yes.”
He holds out a hand to indicate I should lead the way when I remember my little mishap with the bartender and the possibility of, you know, poison.
“Ah, hell.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh. Well, see, I didn’t make the best impression on Karen earlier, and I don’t really think she’s going to do cartwheels at the idea of serving me again.”