holding out a tray of flutes. Just like the man working the coat check, he’s shirtless.
“Yes, thank you,” I murmur. Walking through the throngs of people in a dazed sort of wonder, I think I see people I recognize. It’s difficult to tell with the masks, but not impossible, and a few have discarded theirs entirely. One woman is a news anchor and I’ve seen her on TV dozens of times. A tall, broad-shouldered man has the face of a football player. If I’d been more sports interested, his name would have come to me, but as it is I settle on furtive glances his way. Bottles of champagne with golden labels line an entire wall.
This is wealth like I’ve never seen it before. It’s a rich person’s playground, a study in how the wealthy amuse themselves.
Then I see it.
The performance.
There’s a raised stage in the middle of the room, and what’s taking place on it makes my high school drama club’s rendition of Macbeth look like child’s play. Two lingerie-clad women circle a man on a chair, his hands in cuffs behind him. One runs proprietary nails over the man’s sculpted chest, the other sliding her hand up his bare thigh.
My eyes are glued to the scene.
And yet all around me, guests of the Gilded Room continue to mingle in varying states of undress as if three people aren’t currently engaged in very public foreplay in front of us.
A masked woman in her mid-forties walks past me, pulling a man along behind her by his tie. She shoots me a triumphant look. “The next performance should have pyrotechnics,” she says.
I give her a weak smile. “Just what this party needs. Fire.”
“I like you!” she calls over her shoulder. “Feel free to join us later!”
Join them, wow. I smile into my champagne and look across the room, hoping to spot more famous people. There is no way my friends will believe me, but I still want to make sure this night turns into the best anecdote possible.
My gaze lingers on a man on the other side of the room. Like most men here, he’s in a suit, but he’s one of the few not wearing a mask. Not speaking to anyone, either. He just leans against the wall and watches the performance with arms crossed over his chest.
Looks like he’s sitting this one out.
I turn in my empty glass of champagne for a full one and lean against the wall opposite him. There’s nothing familiar about him, and yet I can’t seem to look away.
His gaze snaps to mine, and the laser-focus makes it clear he’s well aware of my staring. He raises an eyebrow.
My lips curve into the universal sign of hi, there. It’s the smile you give a man in a bar to let him know you want him to come over. It’s brazen.
A group of guests stop in the middle of the room and it sunders our eye contact. I look down into my champagne with a heart that’s suddenly pounding. I’d come here to observe, without any plans of participating…
But a girl can flirt, can’t she?
When I see him again, he’s no longer alone. A woman runs her hand down his arm in a manner that would be easy to read even if we weren’t at an elite sex party.
I push off the wall and take a lap of the room. There’s a steady, pounding beat emanating from the speakers, heady in its power. More than a few of the mingling guests have moved on from simple conversation, and I pass by a man taking off his partner’s bra while discussing New York real estate.
I find a dark corner of the space to retreat to, far away from the couples in varying states of undress. I’ve never watched other people… well. Perhaps it’s time for me to declare this little adventure finished.
That’s when he appears by my side, a crystal tumbler in hand.
Brown hair rises over a strong forehead and the square of his jaw covered in two days’ worth of stubble. Up close, it’s even harder to look away from him.
He raises that eyebrow at me again, but says nothing. He just leans against the wall beside me and we gaze at the crowd in silence.
I take another sip of my champagne to keep my nerves at bay. Who is he? A media mogul? A celebrity I don’t recognize? The scion of a political family? For the night, he’s a stranger, just like me.
“So?” I