or beautiful to get in…
I tug at my ratty old T-shirt to make a V-shaped neckline. Courtesy of an unusually large chest, I never wear anything that revealing. But I had just unpacked the black dress I got on sale last year. The one that showed a lot of cleavage… Could I pass for Rebecca Hartford? Or at least beautiful enough to gain admission?
“An adventure before the real one starts on Monday,” I tell my masked reflection.
I once heard it said that women have three forms of showers. The first, a quick body wash. The second, a quick hair and body wash. The third? That’s the date-shower, where things get scrubbed and shaven and deep-conditioned.
As it turns out, I’ve discovered a fourth shower, the help-I’m-going-to-an-elite-sex-party shower. It has a lot of elements from shower number three, like shaving and scrubbing, but includes a few minutes of panicking on the shower floor.
My mind clings to the words I’d read online, that women have all the power. If I don’t like it, I’ll leave. The Halycon Hotel is one of the nicest in the city, so it’s not like I’m walking into an organized crime syndicate.
At least I tell myself that.
It’s nearly ten-thirty when I arrive at the hotel. My high heels click on the floor as I walk to the reception. My invitation and mask are both safe and secure in my clutch, ready to be whipped out in lieu of an ID.
“Good evening, miss,” a hotel attendant says. His eyes dip to the deep V of my black dress before returning to my eyes.
And that’s why I usually wear high necklines.
A flush rises on his neck. “You’re here for the private party?”
I tug my coat shut. “Yes.”
“The elevator to your left,” he says, “and straight up to the thirty-second floor. Have fun, miss.”
“Thank you.” And because I can’t resist, I add, “I plan to.”
I ride alone in the elevator, my eyes tracking the ever-increasing number of floors on the display. It’s become a surefire way to keep my fear of heights at bay. Focus on the floors I’m passing and soon enough, it’s over. I still breathe a sigh of relief as I step out.
Showtime, Freddie.
I put the mask on and tie the silken strings together, ignoring the way my heart runs amok in my chest with nerves. The scene that awaits me is exceedingly normal. An empty corridor and an open doorway with a pretty, dark-clad woman in front, her face radiating calm professionalism.
She tucks an iPad under her arm. “Welcome, miss.”
“Thank you.”
“One performance has already concluded, but the next one should be starting just now.”
I nod, like I understand what she’s referring to. “Terrific, thank you.”
She holds her hand out with an expectant look in her eyes. “Right,” I say, digging through my clutch to hand her my invitation card. Don’t ask for ID, don’t ask for ID…
But she just looks it over and gives me another smile, this one more friend-to-friend. “Welcome, Miss Hartford. Don’t forget to check your phone in on the right, after you enter.”
“Of course.”
She pushes aside the curtain blocking the door. The contrast is sharp from the bright corridor outside to the dimly lit, smoke-filled rooms beyond. A scent hangs in the air… something thick, like magnolia and incense.
A man dressed only in a pair of black slacks and a tie, no shirt to cover up the broad chest on display, welcomes me. “I’ll check your coat, miss.”
“Yes, thank you,” I say, shrugging out of it. He hangs it up and returns, a hand extended. “Oh! Right.” I hand him my phone.
His answering smile makes me think I’m not masking my nerves as well as I thought. “I’ll put your phone right here,” he says, opening one of a hundred identical security boxes. “The code is automatically generated, and you’ll get a printed receipt with it… here you go. Only you know this. Don’t lose it.”
“All right,” I murmur. “Awesome.”
He gives me another encouraging smile, this time tinged with humor. “Enjoy yourself, and remember that we’re here at any time if you need help or you have any questions.”
“Thank you.”
Gripping my clutch tight, I walk into the main space. The first impressions strike me in flashes. White lace and high heels. Drapes of black silk from the ceiling. Men in impeccably fitted suits and dark masks.
People mingle, some standing, some reclining on sofas. A beautiful woman strolls past me in lingerie. It’s the imposing kind, with garters and thigh-highs.
“Champagne, miss?” a waiter asks,