“I don’t have to lean on it. It’s part and parcel of who I am. And I know how to use all my tools.”
“But you love to point out your accent. Maybe we need to handicap you. Maybe you shouldn’t be allowed to use it. See how well you fare without it.”
“Yes, just like the Little Mermaid,” he says deadpan, as he knocks back some liquor.
I deal him a skeptical look. “From Camus to The Little Mermaid? That’s how this evening is going to go?”
“I choose the most apropos examples for each situation. In this case, she wasn’t allowed to use her voice to seduce Prince Eric.”
I shoot him a hard stare. “We don’t want to seduce Prince Eric.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But nor do I want to seduce Ariel. I like women who can speak. Who have agency.”
“Who make their own choices. Who are independent and strong,” I say, and I mean it. Our company has always provided equal pay for men and women, and many of our European properties are run by our newest business partner, Scarlett. We brought her on board a year ago, and she’s whip-smart, relentless, and brilliant.
But bets like this aren’t between business partners, per se. The wagers between Daniel and me are only between us, and they’re born from years of friendship. And also, more recently for me, from pain. From the need to move past it. And what better way to move beyond pain than through games?
I raise my glass. “And so, once again we drink to lady’s choice?”
“We bet on lady’s choice,” he adds, raising his glass, stretching his arm across the space between us and clinking it to mine.
I take a drink, then reach into the inside pocket of my coat, running a thumb over a chip. I take it out, showing it to him. “Five thousand.”
“Make it ten.”
We shake on it as we reach Aria, then head inside to the masquerade.
Eyes open.
Ready to find just the right woman.
3
Sage
The ballroom glitters.
A kaleidoscope of lights swirls from the ceiling, with rays of sapphire, fuchsia, and ruby skating across the dance floor, illuminating it, then darkening it.
It’s a mix of nightclub and ball, a cocktail of the two.
Sometimes the music is a waltz, other times it’s R & B or hip-hop. Couples twirl and glide, sway, and press.
From my post at the corner of the dance floor, my eyes eat up the feast of sights. The beautiful people, spinning in tandem. The music reverberating throughout the sumptuous room, accented in gold and marble. And the clothes. Dear God, the clothes. I want to memorize the outfits, to snap photos of the costumes, and gaze at them when I need a hit of beauty. All the gorgeous satins, rustling taffetas, silk tuxes and tails.
But there are no photos allowed here.
Phones were checked at the door so we can be present in the moment, rather than on our devices.
And the moments unfurling in front of me are intoxicating.
All the dancing, all the touching, all the laughing.
Men and women.
Women and women.
Men and men.
Such lushness.
Eliza and I have already indulged in several dances with unknown men in Venetian masks. We’ve made small talk, chatting about the music, the party, the vibe, the decadence of it all. I’m practically floating from the high of the party, vibrating at a higher frequency of pleasure, my skin tingling from this shimmering spectacle in front of me, all my senses alive.
As a new wave of couples moves on the floor, I imagine the words falling from their lips. Whispered promises of pleasure fluttering across bare skin. Dirty words teased from lush mouths.
Someone out there on the dance floor, maybe several someones, will slip away soon, find a dark corner for dark deeds.
The prospect sparks a wave of longing in me. It’s been a while since I felt that kind of sizzle from another person. My skin is craving it, hungry for connection, for touch.
Maybe tonight?
Is that so much to want?
But I haven’t danced with anyone yet who’s lit me up, who’s set my skin to flames.
And the night is turning old, the clock ticking closer to midnight.
Prince Wicked is nowhere in sight.
Shame, that.
But so it goes. Life doesn’t always give you what you want. Mostly, you have to fight for what you need.
For now, I’ll take one last glass of the delicious champagne before I make my way out of here. Now seems like a good time as Eliza glides off the dance floor, having just finished a tango-esque dance with a burly man with a beard.
Not the quarterback.
“One last drink?” I ask my friend.
“I’m always up for a final nightcap.”
I nod toward the man she left behind. “Anyone you like?”
“He’s not too shabby. I don’t mind a little fur on the face.”
“How good of you.”
“I thought so too,” she says playfully, and I know she’s trying to keep her mind open to new men, since risking a play with the athlete on her team roster would be too risky. “I have an early meeting at the stadium, chatting with Nadia and the other team stakeholders about the salary cap, so I might let myself enjoy one or two more dances, then I need my beauty sleep.”
We head to the bar and ask for champagne.
“Coming right up,” the bartender in the bow tie says, pouring a flute for me then one for her and handing them to us. I leave him a hundred-dollar tip. “Thank you so much,” he says, startled, but clearly delighted too.
“You are most welcome.” We step away from the bar, standing against a marble column, regarding the sumptuous tableau in front of us, hundreds of the glitterati here in Vegas.
“Have I told you how fabulous this ball is?” I say to Eliza, bumping my shoulder to hers.
She pretends to consider this, then nods thoughtfully. “I believe you have. About a half dozen times, was it?” A sly smirk curves her lips.
I swat her arm. “Hush. You love it when I tell you you’re brilliant. So I’ll tell you again. Because I’m glad you insisted that I come.”
“Insisted? You make it seem like it was akin to twisting your arm. You were pretty game, if memory serves.”
“Of course I was. There was no arm twisting involved. I’m just grateful. Sheesh. Could you be more difficult?” I tease her.
“I could be, but I’ll relent.” She takes a drink, then scans the room. “Because I think you’ve discovered your new passion.”
I tilt my head to the side, curious. “And what’s that? Beyond the ones you know I have—fashion, dogs, and spicy food.”
“Masquerades. Make-believe. Costume parties, and all the surprises and secrets they offer you.”
She says it like she’s offering me a silver platter of candy confections that will melt on my tongue. “Yes, I do seem to like these parties.” I run a hand down my black satin skirt. “And dressing up.”
“At the last few, you’ve kind of come alive. It makes me happy to see,” she says, her tone genuine, her gaze earnest. All the teasing has been stripped away.
“And I feel happier. So, thank you, and I vote for a party a month,” I tell her. I lift my glass, clinking the edge to hers.