Through the patio doors, a nun, a stripper, and a handful of vampires step into the room. It feels like the beginning of a bad joke.
“Where’s Raylene tonight?” I ask. Raylene and Rhett met a few months ago and they’re going strong. They’re a Boomerang success story—if you’re of the mind that a serious, committed relationship is the end game.
Rhett shrugs. “She’s meeting me here. Actually, I think I saw her outside as we were coming in. I’ll go find her in a minute.”
Something in his voice makes me focus on him. “Everything all right?”
It’d be a shame if it wasn’t. I’ve never seen the guy so happy.
“Oh, yeah. We’re good. We’re great.” He lifts his banana daiquiri to his lips and lowers it without taking a sip. “I was just wondering how things are going with you.”
I know where he’s heading with this, but I pretend not to. “Good. Big week coming up with Quick Enterprises at the office. We’re ready. Before the year’s over, that money’s going to be mine. It’ll be ours, Rhett.”
“Yeah, no doubt. We’ll get Quick on board. They’ll be begging us to invest.”
“Damn right.”
“Right.” Rhett scrapes a hand over his buzz cut. “But I was talking about you, not the company. You know, because we’re coming up on the holidays and everything.”
I take a sip of my whisky, buying myself a moment.
Like Cookie, Rhett’s been with me since the beginning, four years ago, when I was a nineteen-year-old kid starting Boomerang out of a storage unit in Oxnard. He was twenty-eight, not my head of HR yet. Back then, he did whatever needed to get done. Creating Boomerang kept me sane after Chloe, but I was still struggling in those days. And Rhett sees everything; he always has. He learned more than he should have, which makes him the only person this side of the Mississippi who knows something about my past.
“All fine, Rhett.” Then I tip my chin to the bodies grinding to the music. “Hey. Go have a good time, Tarzan. Your girl’s probably waiting for you. Go trick or treat with her or something. If you get a choice, choose treat.”
“Okay, Adam,” he says, smiling. He knows I’m done with this conversation. “I will. But you have fun too, okay?”
When I smile back, my Zorro mask digs into my cheek. “Of course.”
Rhett’s eyes narrow like his lie detector just pinged, but he heads outside.
I watch him thread through the crowd toward the patio doors.
He’s right. I should make an effort, but darkness is creeping in on me. I need a few minutes to let it fade.
You know, because we’re coming up on the holidays and everything.
I shake my head.
Yeah. I know.
Across the room, I spot Mia and Ethan, my ex-interns. Mia’s dressed as Marilyn Monroe, her rack spilling out of the white gown. Ethan’s in a vintage Yankees uniform—Joe DiMaggio—and they’re all over each other. Ethan can barely keep his hands off her, which is understandable. She looks incredible.
Seeing them together makes me happy for them. Then it makes me hungry for a woman’s body.
Sex, like surfing, is always a good thing—and exactly what I need.
I slip my phone out of my pocket, scrolling to Julia’s contact info. She uploaded her acting headshot as her photo, and she looks good. All shining red hair and red lips. She looks better than she does in real life, but she’s a knockout either way.
She’d come over if I texted her; she always does. But something stops me. Maybe I’m getting a little bored. Or maybe it’s her jealous streak—a recent complication. I’m not up for dealing with it tonight.
I like to keep things light. At fun-level. Sex level. As soon as a girl tries to claim a drawer at my place or asks for the security code on my phone, which Julia recently did, it’s the beginning of the end. I’m not interested in anything deep or lasting or even . . . real.
Chloe ruined that for me. She destroyed the part of me that ever wants real again.
Damn, I need to get laid.
Looking around the room, I consider Army Girl again until I see that she’s doing some Irish Riverdancing. While she’s taking a shot.
Hilarious, but she’s not for me.
I look toward the door and stop.
Stepping into the living room with a whip in one hand and a tail gathered in the other is the epitome of my every fantasy.
I don’t know where to look first. There’s just too much I want to focus on. Her long legs. Narrow waist. Perfect breasts. The way her hips roll as she weaves through the crowd. The girl’s got everything. Everything about the way she looks is perfect.
Catwoman.
Chapter 3
Alison
I’ve skied double black diamond runs and been kicked in the chest by a horse, but walking up a steep hill in five-inch heels and skintight leather might take the prize for the most challenging physical experience of my life. Finally, though, I’ve made it and am swept in through the wide open door of the Gallianos’ home.
Even though I’m masked and costumed head-to-toe, I feel strangely naked. Or, I realize, incomplete. It occurs to me that it’s because my hands are empty. I’ve got my cell phone and a lipstick tucked into the sleek Catwoman utility belt hanging low across my hips, but I have no briefcase, no horse bridle or gym bag. And most of all, I have no hostess gift. I never show up without a gift. My mom taught me that.
I guess the prospect of this night had me more rattled than I let myself believe. But I can’t do anything about it now unless I want to go back outside and dig into the lush pathway landscaping to present the Gallianos with their own wildflowers.
Instead, I follow a blonde in a long gown with miniature dragons perched on her shoulders into the chaos of the party. We move through a short entryway into a massive living room, with towering windows that meet a high ceiling crossed by sleek ebony beams. The furniture is luxe, a combination of midcentury and art deco, and the walls are decorated with photographs, some I recognize from art appreciation classes in college and a few I assume to be Pearl Bertram’s: bold, impressionistic, and hugely riveting.
People fill the space, but I spot Ethan right away. Amazing after more than a year that I’m still so tuned into him, like I have some automatic sensor still calibrated to his frequency. He’s wearing an old-fashioned baseball uniform and stands in a cluster with some other people—a muscular guy in a loincloth and two petite girls in what look like red pajamas. Well, sexy Lycra pajamas with cute blue fur cuffs at the ankles.
He’s got his arm around a petite blonde, and it takes me a second to register that it’s his new girlfriend, Mia, dressed as Marilyn Monroe to what I now realize is his Joe DiMaggio. Every bit of her fills out the classic white halter dress. She looks amazing in the platinum wig, too, though I can see she’s having trouble containing her unruly dark hair, which she has to keep tucking back beneath the blond waves.
The music and conversation fade away as I watch them together. They’re each talking to other people, but they’re connected too, their bodies touching, his hand absently brushing the bare skin of her shoulder as he laughs at someone’s joke.
I know I should go to them, say hello and meet the others, who may be coworkers at Boomerang. But something keeps me riveted to my spot. Suddenly, I feel shy and stuck outside what seems to be Ethan’s contented little circle.
The way he stands, so aware of her, so grounded and firm, makes my throat tighten. The disastrous last few months of college rush back to me. Not only Ethan and the night I betrayed him but the crashing spiral that followed.
I breathe and push the memories away. Come on, Ali, I tell myself. This is a party. And you’re Catwoman. She doesn’t stand around, moping. She’s sleek and powerful and gets the job done. At least that’s what Philippe said when he sold me on the idea. And that’s my plan for tonight.
I’m grateful for my mask. Standing here, I could be anyone. Behind all of this leather, I’m anonymous, though of course, the wh
ip, the high heels, and the gleaming form-fitting leather keep me from being inconspicuous. That’s all right. I don’t mind being looked at, and I don’t mind looking. What thrills me is the power to decide what I reveal of myself, and when.
A hulking gorilla sidles up to me and nudges me with a furry elbow.
“Drink?” he says from somewhere deep inside the costume and hands me a crystal glass filled with punch. It’s about the size of a small fishbowl with bits of fruit floating on top like belly-up goldfish.
“Sorry,” I tell him with a smile. “I don’t take drinks from primates I don’t know.”
“Well, let me grab you one from the bar,” says the gorilla. “You can watch the bartender pour.”
“I’m really okay.”
Across the room, Mia rises on tiptoes and pulls Ethan down for a long kiss. The people around them smile, look away politely, but they’re locked in their own little world, together.
I swallow and turn my attention back to the gorilla, who’s now attempting to pour the drink into his own mouth. It spills down the crevices of his rubber mask and onto the fur of his costume.
“Shit,” he says. “I’m hopeless.”
“Well, it’s probably tough to drink with all that costume in the way.”
“Tell me about it.”
“How about a straw?” I suggest. Ever the problem solver.
“Awesome thinking!” he exclaims, absently scratching his chest, gorilla-style. “You sure I can’t get you that drink? I mean, it’s a party. Even superheroes need a night off every now and then.”
Ethan laughs at something, the sound cutting through the party noise and pulling me to look again, to watch the two of them together while they laugh at one another’s jokes. Touch one another.
Suddenly, a drink seems like a good idea after all.
I bid farewell to my friend the primate and head to the bar.
The bartender gives me a smile as I approach. “What will it be, Catwoman?” she asks. On the counter rests a giant silver punch bowl, festooned with cobwebs.
“What’s the punch?”
“Something called Jungle Rum Blast,” she says. “Try it.” She dips in a ladle and gives me a heavy pour of the concoction.
I sniff. Fruity with the tang of bourbon in there, too. “What’s in it?”
“It’ll be quicker to tell you what’s not in it,” she replies with a grin. “Trust me; it’s fantastic.”
I take a sip and then a longer one. The punch tingles down my throat. It’s perfect—a little tangy, a little fruity, and with a decent kick. Oh, why not? I have a designated driver. And nine lives.
Before I know it, I’ve downed the entire drink, which is probably two servings. The bartender hands me another, filling my cup almost to the rim, and I drift away, sipping the drink.
Warmth spreads over me, and the music and conversation envelop me in a pleasant web. I start to move through the crowd. The floor feels a bit spongy now. Or perhaps I’m spongy. It’s tough to tell.
Once again, I decide that I really need to say hello to Ethan, to let him know I’m here and that I’m fine. We can be friends. We’re friends now. It’s good.
On the way over to him, I’m halted by the sight of a guy dressed all in black with a black mask like mine. Zorro, I realize. I can’t see his face fully, but what I can see is chiseled and beautiful. Sharp lines, full lips curved in a half-smile.
I feel his eyes on me as I take in his powerful body in tight-fitting black trousers and a black peasant shirt laced over a broad chest. I don’t know if it’s the punch or the heat of his gaze, but I feel more alive, more myself, somehow. And God, I feel sexy. Philippe knew what he was doing when he talked me into this costume. But then, he always does.
I’ll finish this drink, I decide, and then I’ll go say hello to Zorro. No harm in mixing a little fun in with my work, is there?
I’ve only taken a few sips when a girl dressed as The Riddler pushes through the crowd gyrating in the middle of the room. She rushes up to me, the question marks covering her green dress swimming before my eyes. “My nemesis!” she cries.
People around us laugh. And then I’m laughing. The music throbs around us—“Blister in the Sun,” one of my favorites.
I take another sip and look around the room. A guy dressed as Harry Potter grinds up against a nun. Sailor Moon, a cowboy, and a girl dressed as Eve dance in a tight little threesome, breaking apart and coming back together, occasionally making some creative—and R-rated—moves with the rubber snake Eve had coiled around her shoulder.
Vampires and ghosts and superheroes surround me. It’s surreal and perfect. No one knows me, but now I feel a part of things anyway. The spirit of the room intoxicates me. It’s filled with laughter and good will.
My mother’s charity events never feel this way. Those are like being in a room full of scientists, lined up to scrutinize and mentally catalog your every move. This feels like a party, like the ones I used to go to with Ethan, the ones where I was scooped up and welcome because I was with him.
Before I know it, I’ve put down my drink, drawn up to full height and tapped The Riddler on her shoulder with the handle of my whip.
She turns to me, and I tell her we have a score to settle.
“Dance-off. Now!” I hear myself say. I’d forgotten how good this feels. This heavy, pleasant warmth. The unknotting of all that makes me Alison Quick, daughter and current disappointment. That girl’s not here. It’s only me and my mask, and here I can be anyone I want.
The Riddler laughs and does a dance step, swishing her green tulle skirt. “Oh, it’s on!” she says. Grabbing the whip, she tugs me out into the middle of the room, where the crowd makes way for us.
I glance over and see Zorro still standing there, still watching.
My shoes and the constricting leather of the costume make it difficult for me to really move, but I give it my best. I circle The Riddler. She circles me. Others come to fill in the space between us, so that I find myself dancing with Little Bo Peep one minute, my friend the gorilla, the next. We’re clapping and laughing, and the dancing is serious in the funniest way. Eventually, the leather does loosen up a bit more—and I can move. Really move.
Zorro pushes to the front of the crowd and watches me, a tempting half-smile on his face, He’s so hot I’m surprised the floor hasn’t melted beneath his feet.
I start to dance just for him, like everyone else has dropped off the face of the earth. It’s been a long time since I felt this way, my whole being alive to another person. Usually, my body’s about running or skiing or training my horses. Now it feels like its entire purpose is to just be there, in the middle of things, moving to the music while Zorro watches.
I give myself to the music and the movement of my body, but over and over again, I’m drawn back to him. And every time, his eyes are on me. Every time, he greets me with that same devastating grin that cuts right to my core.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I give in and dance his way, running my mink tail through my fingers. I smile at him, feeling light and relaxed and like no one in the world would dare deny me a thing.
“Dance with me,” I say.
“Is that a question?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest. His biceps bulge beneath the flowing black fabric of his shirt, and his eyes, which seem to be a deep, penetrating gray, regard me in amusement.
“No,” I reply, still swaying as the music flows through me to wrap around us both. “Come on.”
He hesitates, and the moment stretches between us. What is he waiting for? Doesn’t he understand how much I need to dance with him right now?
Coming up close to him, I feel the pull of his body, like gravity. I press in closer, then closer still. Smoothing a hand against the silken material of his shirt and the hard contours of his torso, I ask, “Pretty please?”
I step back, and his smile broadens. Finally, he reaches out a hand to me, and I take it.
“Okay, Catwoman,” he says. �
��Let’s dance.”
Chapter 4
Adam
Catwoman and I head to the dance floor and start moving together.
It’s packed around us, people jostling in the crowded space, the smell of alcohol and sweat hanging in the air. Pippa and Sadie dance nearby. Both of them have huge grins on their faces as they look from me to Catwoman, who rolls her body in front of me like she’s made of liquid.
When she glances at me, I see flashes of blue—pale blue, like the sky through my bedroom window in the morning—but it’s her body that has me locked in. I can’t stop staring at her. The leather cat suit hugs her every curve, and she’s gorgeous.
I look up, and find her eyes on mine.
“Hi, Zorro,” she says. Her smile is disarmingly sweet. Surprising, considering the way she’s moving.
Stepping closer, I link my hands behind her back. “Hello.”
She hesitates for an instant.
“This okay?” I ask, but she’s already wrapping her arms around my neck.
“Definitely,” she says.
“Werewolves of London” isn’t a slow song, or even a good song, but we make it work, swaying together. Smoothing my hands down her sides, I feel the shape of her. The roll and shift of her warm muscles beneath my palms is hypnotizing.
“This song,” she says, raising her voice. People all around us are howling at the top of their lungs. She laughs—pink lips, straight white teeth. “It really sucks!”
“Criminal.”
She points to her head. “My kitty ears are bleeding!”
I laugh because . . . Well, that was cute.
She’s tall even without the four-inch heels on her boots. This close, it’s tough not to stare right into her eyes, so I focus on guiding her hips with my hands until we’re moving in perfect sync. She’s slender but strong. Athletic.
Exactly what I like.
As we dance, her weight settles on my shoulders and she comes closer, her chest brushing against mine. Her costume has a deep V that shows plenty of cleavage. Flawless skin. I’m in trouble. This girl has me under her spell.
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