to get past.
Ginger swallowed the bit of unease she got every time she knew she was about to slip into a dangerous situation, and then gathered her long gown in her hands and hurried up the steps. She knew how to handle them, even when she doubted herself.
“Invitation,” the first guard said.
Ginger gave him a coy smile, practiced and careful, while she slowly took in his features. He was just an idiot, same as the other guy. Roid monkeys in suits. Thick necks. Probably bounced a lot of the clubs that men like Alfred pretended not to frequent, and shoved their fat fists into anyone who tried to talk to him beyond the VIP rope. Those kind of guys.
She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone, idly flipping through the screen to the invite. It was some sort of bar code that she displayed to the guard.
He took out his scanner and she waited, holding her breath, until it beeped loudly and a light went green.
Then man put his scanner away, then looked off dismissively.
Ginger proceeded to the next man, knowing it was a two-step process.
“Name and I.D?” the man asked. This guy was a little more attentive than the last; his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized her. “And I’ll have to get you to take off your mask.”
Ginger acted vaguely annoyed as she lifted her mask then fished her driver’s license from her purse and handed it to him. “Red Maxwell.”
The guard raised a brow, taking in her fiery red hair as well as her gown. Believe it or not it was the perfect alias, a name that made everyone smirk or do a double take. No one ever believed it was fake, because if you were going to pick a fake name, wouldn’t you pick an inconspicuous one?
But Ginger knew the name would only be for tonight. As would the hair. She always stayed as in the background as much possible, but her grandmother didn’t want her sneaking her into the party. Ginger would have preferred it that way instead of dealing with the guards and the looks from people. She liked to work like a ghost.
The man checked her ID against the guest list. Her grandmother had pulled quite a few strings to get that to happen, something that Ginger also wasn’t too happy about. It meant that there was someone else besides the two of them that knew she was there tonight, that knew about the message.
Her pulse started to go up and she did what she could to ignore it, putting on an annoyed expression, the one the elites tended to have whenever something didn’t go their way, when life uttered a small inconvenience. If something had been fucked up along the way, if her name didn’t clear…
“Here you go,” he said, handing her back her ID. He nodded at her mask. “Enjoy the party.”
Ginger gave him a small smile and put her mask back on.
The doors to the party opened for her.
2
The ball was in full swing when Ginger stepped into the mansion.
Bustling, decadent, opulent, with gilded chandeliers, expensive artwork, and marble floors.
There were well-dressed party-goers in every corner, waiters carrying trays of champagne and canapes, music from the unseen band wafted throughout the halls, and everyone was laughing and talking.
It was a little too loud for Ginger’s liking, but it also meant that everyone else was similarly overwhelmed. Plus intoxicated.
She immediately plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter and had the smallest sip. It was just for show anyway, there was no chance she’d be anything but clear-headed tonight. One slip up could cost her life.
With that on her mind, she slowly made her way through the crowds of masked guests, feeling their eyes on her, while her own eyes were searching for Alfred Carino.
When her grandmother told her she’d blend in with the crowd, she knew it was a ridiculous statement. But though everyone watched as she walked through the halls, like a bloodstain amongst all the white and metallic party gowns and men in white tuxedos, she started to understand what her grandmother meant.
Ginger was Red. From her name, to her recently-dyed hair, to her gown and cloak. All people would remember of her would be her color. They wouldn’t recall her face or her walk or her voice. They would just see a blur of red in their memories, as if the color blotted out every aspect of her being. If she was successful in delivering her