by R.S. Grey
I kick my door closed and drop them carefully on my bed. First, I open the big one. The ribbon is silky between the pads of my fingers as I release the bow and slide the top of the box to the side. Inside, there’s black tissue paper for miles. I pull apart the layers gently, like an archeologist handling a delicate artifact. Finally, I reach the bottom and lay eyes on the dress. My breath catches.
It’s silky and black, just like the box. The name on the label catches my attention: Vivian Palermo. She’s a local Austin designer whose dresses usually retail for the price of a prize pony—I know because Ellie and I saw one hanging inside Nordstrom last week and started drooling until we saw the price tag. My dad might have money, but that doesn’t mean I do. I work for every dollar I have, so while designers like Palermo hang abundantly in my imagination, they are nowhere to be found in my closet.
Until now.
I carefully extract the dress from the box and hold it up.
A laugh erupts out of me before I can stop it. Something is wrong. The dress is nothing more than a slip, really. The thin straps give way to a plunging neckline, and though the skirt seems like it will fall to a decent length on my thighs, it’s deceiving—the short fringe on bottom won’t conceal a thing once I have it on. It’s a modern take on a 1920s flapper dress, and I’ll be lucky if I make it through the night without at least one boob and most of my vulva being on full display. Thanks for nothing, Beth.
In the smaller box, I find a pair of Manolo Blahnik stilettos. The heel is sky high and thin, completely impossible to walk in save for the slender ankle strap. The shoes are delicate and sexy, and I want to find them as ridiculous as the dress, but I don’t. Even if James asks for the outfit back, I won’t forfeit these. They’re mine now.
The outfit I described to Linda back at Milk + Honey was nothing like this. I was anticipating some kind of dress worthy of a gala or fundraiser. This dress, despite its beauty, is more fit for a Halloween superstore. I cringe at that thought; I’m not giving it enough credit. The designer knew what she was doing, and as I slip it on—just to see how it fits—I’m not sure how I feel about it. I spin and take in the dress from every angle using my thin floor-length mirror. It fits like a glove, tight across my chest and stomach before it flares out slightly below my waist. I add the shoes, because well, I have to, and when the whole ensemble is complete, I feel like someone else, someone who wears dresses like this and accepts party invitations from total strangers. I’ve had my fair share of wild nights and spontaneous adventures, but never with someone like James. I know I’m out of my league, and that only intrigues me more.
In the end, the dress stays on, but it gets concealed beneath a giant wool coat. It’s early summer, so I’ll burn up the moment I step outside, but the alternative is walking through the halls of the co-op in nothing but a wisp of silk.
There’s no phone call or text waiting for me at 8:30 PM. No new emails either. So, once I’ve checked and rechecked my makeup and hair and adjusted my dress so it’s concealing as much as possible beneath the coat, I head downstairs.
His Porsche is waiting at the curb in front of the co-op—I know because half of my roommates are pushed up against the living room window, trying to get a good look. When I make it to the bottom of the stairs, I pause and listen for a second.
“Who is that?”
“Batman?”
“I don’t know. He just pulled up.”
“Do you KNOW what kind of car that is?”
“Jerry, since when do you care about cars?”
“Is someone selling drugs for the cartel?”
“Oh shit, what if he’s here to collect on debts or something? Should we, like, hit the deck?”
Ian is among the small group of twittering numskulls, and he’s the first the see me. I pull my coat closed. He glances from me, to the waiting car, and then back.
“I think your carriage is here, Cinderella.”
Half a dozen heads swing in my direction. I put on an awkward smile and wave as I scurry toward the door.
“Brooke!” one of them yells after me. “ARE YOU SELLING DRUGS?”
That question is followed by an audible oomph. “No, you idiot. Look at her. She’s going on a date.”
“Huh. Must be some place fancy…”
“Can you ask him if I can get a ride in his car when he drops you off?!”
Sure. Yeah. Whatever. I say what I need to before I rip open the front door and spill out onto the paved walkway. The driver’s side door of the Porsche opens and James steps out wearing a fitted tuxedo. James in a tux is the human equivalent of ice-cold milk with warm chocolate chip cookies. On their own, they’re each pretty great. Together, they’re otherworldly.
His hair is styled more formally than I’ve seen it, the short waves tamed and smoothed back. He’s sharp edges and dark brows, almost more intimidating than handsome—almost. I don’t want to overplay just how devastatingly handsome he looks. I mean, the heavens do crack open and tiny angels do start singing from above. That part is real, but I’m not sure if the earth really does tilt on its axis or if I’m just feeling unsteady perched on these Manolos. I’ll have to confer with a seismologist at a later date.
James steps forward to catch my hand before I step off the curb, and though it’s meant as a polite gesture, it becomes abundantly necessary as I step down and lose my balance, teetering on my heels for a moment. I blush. I’m a five-year-old girl who raided her mother’s closet. No, worse—I’m a woman 11 years his junior. I half-expect him to come to his senses, drop my hand, and drive away in his very fast, very sexy car, but instead, he smiles down at me.
“That’s some coat.”
His tone is teasing, and his hand is still wrapped around mine. I’m sweating. I want to rip the coat off and swallow big gulps of air. I want to look away from his clean-shaven jaw and come-hither eyes, but I can’t. Moth, flame.
“Well…” I counter. “This is some dress.”
I’m breathy, like the way I sound right after really good sex.
He nods and drops my hand, but his smirk doesn’t budge. “I asked Beth to send me a link so I could see it, but she said it should be a surprise.”
I love Beth.
“I’d like to see it now,” he continues, “but I’m assuming you want to wait until we aren’t in full view of your…housemates.”
I cringe as I turn around to find even more of my roommates crowded around the window, peering out. They wave excitedly and Jerry mouths, Ask about the ride!
“Yeah…they’re kind of an eclectic bunch,” I say fondly.
“I’d love to meet them, but we’re running a little late.”
Of course. I nod and turn back to the car. He leads me to the passenger side and opens the door for me. I’m very aware of the fact that I’m about to get into James’ car. Not three weeks ago I wondered what it would be like inside, and I’m not disappointed. There are buttery leather seats and a fancy-looking computer system on the dashboard. “I Can’t Go On Without You” by Kaleo—a sexy, crooning rock song—is playing from the speakers.
James: 1.
Actually, James: 6. The tuxedo counts for at least 5 points.
He slides behind the wheel and glances over, his gaze locking with mine as he asks if I’m ready to go. There’s a hidden meaning to his question, I’m sure of it, but instead of running for my life (while I still have one), I smile and nod. “Let’s go.”
As he pulls away from the house, I fire off a quick text to Ellie.
BROOKE: I’m in James Ashwood’s car at the moment. If you don’t hear from me by morning, don’t bother sending a search party. Wherever I am, I want to be there.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It takes 10 minutes to get from the co-op to the party, and James takes two phone calls in that time. The first is from Beth, who calls with important news about a distribution center in East Asia. I only follow every other word, and that isn’t enough to clue me in on what’s going on. The second phone call is even more coded, though
it doesn’t seem intentional. I consider myself a lover of language, but I don’t speak techie.
We pull up to a red light and I turn to meet his eyes.
Sorry, he mouths.
I offer him a small smile and a shrug. It’s not a big deal. I almost prefer this. With him on the phone, I don’t have to worry about making small talk. I can just sit here and think deeply about what to do with my hands. He turns back and focuses on the road. I do the same for a moment, but it’s not long before my gaze wanders back to him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I take in the details I’ll be too busy to notice later: the perfectly crisp edge of his tuxedo shirt, his tan hands as they grip the steering wheel, the fit of his pants against his hard thigh. I can’t go higher than his shoulder; he’ll know I’m watching him if I do. It’s too bad, because I’m desperate for a look at his profile—I know it will punch me in the gut—but instead, I turn my focus out through the front window and revel in the sound of his voice. It’s deep and low, and during his second call, it turns gruff. I’ve never been so intrigued by the way someone speaks, but then again, I’ve never been in a car with James.
He hangs up and apologizes again, but I assure him it’s fine.
“I’ve been trying to figure out where you’re taking me.”
He smiles. “It’s just around the corner.”
He’s not kidding. A moment later, he pulls over to the curb on 5th street, gets out, and rounds the front of the car. The valet opens my door and I step out just as James is handing off his keys, but before the eager-faced teenager can get behind the wheel, James holds up his finger for him to wait.
I glance to the valet and then back to James.
“Want to leave that in the car?” he says, pointing to my coat. “I doubt they’ll have a coat check inside.”
Of course not—why would they? It’s a million degrees out here.
I blush and reach for the top button. I’d forgotten I was even wearing it. It was slightly chilly in James’ car, but now the humidity and heat have set in and I’m almost thankful to get rid of the thick wool—that is, until I catch the valet’s eyes nearly bugging out when he gets a glimpse at my dress underneath.
I hate Beth.
I can’t even look at James. I know he’ll see how uncomfortable I am wearing this out in public. Maybe I should have rooted through my closet for another option, but now it’s too late. I’m here and I’m wearing the dress, so I might as well embrace it. I stand tall and push my shoulders back. My silky hair falls over my shoulder and down my back.
James steps forward and takes my hand, blocking my view of the valet. His grip is warm and strong as he leads me away from the curb.
“You look beautiful,” he says, low enough so I know the compliment is meant only for me to hear.
I love Beth.
The building we walk up to is simple: a one-story made of black brick with no name and no windows on the facade. Ahead of us there’s a single black door serving as the main entrance. It’s oversized and shiny, flanked by black pillars and two bouncers on either side.
A gray-haired man nods to the bouncer on the left and the hulking man steps back and opens the door. No one speaks or makes eye contact as we pass. It’s the weirdest experience of my life, and I’m half-convinced I’m about to step into some creepy illuminati meeting with Robert Langdon.
We step inside and James lets go of my hand so he can lead me down a long hallway with his palm pressed to the small of my back. I can feel the warmth of his touch through the thin material of my dress, and I’m glad I left my coat in the car.
Whoever designed the facade of the building clearly had a hand in the interior as well, and they subscribed to the notion that black is back to being the new black. The hallway is monochromatic: black marble floors, black walls, and black metal orb chandeliers. At first, my heels clacking against the marble is the only sound, but as we continue toward another door at the end of the hall, low, bluesy jazz music starts to spill out.
There’s another bouncer. Another man with a subtle nod and no words exchanged.
The second door is whisked open, and finally, we’ve arrived—or rather, we’ve gone back in time.
My dress makes much more sense as we step into a room decorated as a 1920s speakeasy. Heavy chandeliers burning large Edison bulbs illuminate the black and white checkered marble floors. A long bar on the left is lined with thousands of backlit liquor bottles. Tufted dark leather sofas surround low coffee tables, and a few refurbished whiskey barrels serve as cocktail tables. A 12-person jazz band performs on a small stage across from the bar. I can’t tell how far the room extends. It’s more of a ballroom than a bar, and when I press up on my toes, I think I spot gambling tables at the other end.
“What is this place?”
The question is meant to be rhetorical, but James answers anyway.
“The best kept secret in town.”
…
I can’t remember if James ever told me he was taking me to a hoity-toity fundraiser or if I assumed that on my own. Looking back, I don’t think he ever misled me. Still, he didn’t willingly offer details about tonight. As we make our way through the room, James is continuously stopped by men with hearty laughs and strong handshakes. Without much context, they remind me of my dad’s friends. They’re movers and shakers in Austin, and maybe if I were in that world, I’d recognize them. It’s clear from the suits and the watches and the beautiful women that they have all done well for themselves; I don’t think they’d be in this room otherwise.
It’s the beautiful women that catch my attention the most though. They smile knowingly at me when we’re in a small group together, as if I’m in on the secret. At first, I’m not, but I catch on fast.
The first couple we stop and chat with is comprised of an overweight man nearing 60 and a sexy, young blonde. He’s wearing a wedding ring; she isn’t. The next couple, though much closer in age, follow the same pattern—he’s wearing a ring, but she isn’t. Scantily clad cocktail waitresses pass through the crowd delivering moonshine cocktails and old fashioneds—or for men like James, bourbon on the rocks. They’re beautiful and blinding, eye candy for the men here out on the town with their mistresses. That’s what they are, mistresses, and perhaps I’m one of them.
“Ah, Michael, there you are,” James says as a new man approaches our group.
He’s younger than most of the men here, close to James’ age. By his side is a striking black woman wearing a fitted tuxedo jacket and pants, clearly designed with her lithe body in mind. While at first the outfit seems conservative compared to most of the dresses in the room, she chose to forego a shirt beneath the jacket so it looks more like a low-cut top. It’s daring and bold. She looks like she just stepped off the runways of Paris, and with that face and those legs, chances are she probably did.
The men exchange handshakes and then James introduces me to Michael’s date, Celeste.
“It’s a pleasure to meeting you,” she says with a soft French accent.
Ah, so she’s my target for the night, the whole reason I’m here in the first place.
She holds her hand out for me to take, and her palm is silky smooth. I’m not a tiny girl, but Celeste still has a few inches on me. My model theory grows more roots.
“Enchanté. I love your outfit,” I say in French, grateful that I don’t have to lie.
Her eyes light up.
“Vous parlez Francais?” she asks, intrigued.
I nod.
“Ah, I was worried I would have to keep quiet tonight,” she continues in French. “My English isn’t very good.”
I open my mouth to continue our conversation, but Michael beats me to it.
“James, it seems you found a beautiful French girl as well,” he says, his eyes pinned on me. “Who is this delicate creature?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It’s not that Michael is bad-looking; it’s worse. He has all the attributes women usually look for accompanied b
y an air of unchecked arrogance. I’m not a girl, and I’m not a “delicate creature”, and most importantly, I haven’t been found.
James glances down at me, his expression unreadable. “This is my friend Brooke.”
I know most women don’t want to be referred to as a friend while they’re supposedly on a date with a man, but for some reason, the word strikes me. In this setting, where we’re surrounded by every form of debauchery known to man, I’d rather be James’ friend than his date. It holds more weight, and I think Michael realizes it for a split second before his smile twists into something more sinister.
“If you’re only James’ friend, I’d love to get to know you better. Care for a drink?”
I hold up my cocktail. “I’ll let you know when I’m dry.”
“Smart girl,” Celeste says in French. My gaze whips to her and she shrugs and looks away. “He’s a controlling prick.”
“Then why are you here with him? As his date?”
Her eyes slice back to me. “There’s a little more to it than that.” She inclines her head to James. “You of all people should realize that. Friends, eh? Does that word mean something different in English? Because this man can’t take his eyes off you.”
Michael nudges James jocularly. “Why do I get the feeling they’re talking about us?”
Celeste offers him a sugary smile and then leans over to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. “Because we were, mon amour, but don’t worry, it’s all sweet things.”
That’s enough to placate Michael, but I can feel James studying me. It’s like the heat of a thousand suns burning into the side of my face, but I refuse to glance over. He brought me here, stuck me in this room with these people for one purpose, and she’s standing right in front of me.
“Come freshen up with me?” I ask Celeste.
She steps away from Michael.
He reaches out for her hand, holding her back for a moment. “Don’t be gone too long. It drives me crazy when you disappear at these parties.”
There’s an edge to his tone, and I suspect that’s the controlling side Celeste was talking about.