12. Mask of the Wolf #2
“Which two?” She told me a little about them.
Three could pass for brothers with similar heights and bodies.
The two others aren’t as tall and have opposite physiques.
A soccer player compared to Rugby. Only two wear the same mask every time.
The wolf and the serpent. I hear the wolf is a jolly flirt, and the serpent only ever hooks up with the same woman. Camila.
“The bulky Lord and the one who wore the lion mask,” she answers.
“How can you not know who they are? I would think you could guess who’s who by their accents?”
She bends and rests her elbows on the counter. “That would be nice, but too easy. They switch accents just to mess with everyone, so you never know who you’re talking to. But I’ll let you in on a secret: the Americans can’t do a British accent very well.”
I gape at one of the sexy Lords at the bar in his blood-red velvet jacket and Greek god mask, complete with gold feathers as hair. “No wonder you can’t figure out who you were with.”
“I know which two it wasn’t and that’s all.” She taps the cheek of my mask that’s made of gold lace and jewels. “You should get your red feather and see if a Lord bites.”
My cheeks heat with nerves, even as warmth pulses between my legs. “I’m good.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
The bartender sets my tray in front of me. Before I return to serving, I ask Noah, “Did you just come over here to talk to me?”
“Yep. You’re allowed a break. I told you. Just let Camila know first.”
Camila always wears a mask of Nefertiti. From what I’ve learned, her job is to manage while mingling and hanging onto the arm of the Lord in the serpent mask, marking her territory.
I’ve only seen her twice tonight, but I don’t spend much time in one area so I wouldn’t.
After another thirty minutes, I decide a break would be nice for my aching feet.
I’m not used to wearing heels for hours or at all.
I drop off my tray and search the crowd for Camila.
None of the guests are short, which makes me feel even smaller than I already do.
Katia, a petite Russian server, is around my height, but the two of us seem to be the exception here.
Men wear black tuxes, with a few in all white.
The women are dressed in designer clothes tailored to their gorgeous figures.
Some outfits look like costumes while others are elegant gowns or slinky mini-dresses.
I have no idea what anyone looks like behind their masks, which is a bit creepy, but also a bit comforting.
I don’t have to worry about accidentally offending someone by looking at their face or meeting their gaze.
The wealthy are weird like that. Not all, but most.
I spot Camila’s mask and head for her near the mirror to the Crimson Chamber. She’s standing between two Lords who could pass for sexy twins. One is wearing a serpent mask and the other a wolf.
It is incredibly awkward to have to interrupt their trio to see if I can leave, but I have no choice. It doesn’t help that I feel like a hobbit about to greet giants.
I wait for a break in the serpent’s story.
When that doesn’t happen, I swallow my nerves and approach them from the side.
The serpent waves his champagne glass in exaggeration, taking me by surprise.
I try to dodge it, but his forearm smacks me in the face, shoving my mask half off.
I stumble back and trip on my heels, falling to the floor with an “Oof.”
It takes me a second to get my bearings. My wig feels like it’s hanging to the side.
“Are you all right?” The serpent Lord asks in a Scottish accent. He grabs my arm when I try to stand. “Let me help.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say and struggle for a minute to get to my feet. My wig falls off. Shit. I try to catch it as I stand, but fail. Dark chocolate hair spills from my bun and over my shoulder. I gasp and glance up, staring directly into the mask of the wolf.
His entire body stiffens. I’m so fired.
The serpent Lord, who’s still holding my arm, says, “Are you hurt?” He doesn’t sound mad or concerned, more like he’s asking to be polite.
Camila steps forward, cutting off my view of the wolf. Everything about that Lord’s demeanor says he’s furious with me.
I secure my mask in place and bend to get my wig, but Camila beats me to it. “I’ll make sure she’s fine,” she says to the wolf, like he’s the boss.
Not good. I don’t want to lose this job. In fact, more than anything, I want to try to make it work. Fat chance of that now.
Camila puts her arm around me as if to shield my identity from the crowd, who don’t even seem to notice, and ushers me out of the ballroom.
We walk down the hallway toward her office. The whole time, I apologize, praying she doesn’t fire me.
My knee burns for some reason. I glance down. A drop of blood is on my leg, and my tights are ripped. I hold in a groan. Just my luck.
Camila follows my gaze and stops. “You did get hurt.”
“It’s nothing. I can clean it up, change my tights, and be back on the floor in no time. I promise.” Please don’t fire me. “I’ll also nail my wig to my head,” I add.
I have a ton of hair and struggled to get the wig to fit properly, even with Noah’s help.
She puffs air from her nose and stares at me for a long moment—well, Nefertiti stares, which is much more intimidating.
This is it. The moment that ends it all and sends me back to the job I may lose anyway. I’ll have to use my legal name to get hired somewhere new, unless I can find something else full-time under the table. Part-time is easy to come by for that type of pay.
My knees begin to shake. “Am I fired?” I blurt as a thick lump forms in my throat.
Camila lets out a sympathetic sigh, and her posture relaxes. “If the Lords aren’t upset over this, I don’t see why you can’t stay on.” She holds out my wig.
I take it and let out half of a relieved breath.
“I’ll go talk to them. When you’re ready and on your way back, text me. I’ll meet you in my office.”
Not out of the woods yet. “Thank you.” I force myself not to run to my room. The last thing I need is to fall again in front of her. Not that clumsiness sent me to the ground in the ballroom.
As soon as I’m in the staff area, where masks aren’t required, I rip mine off. On the walk here, stupid tears formed in my eyes. I don’t cry over stuff like this. I push through and move on. I survive. Crying makes me feel weak and pisses me off.
My steps turn to stomps. At my room, I shove open the door and stop cold.
The Lord in the wolf mask stands near my bed with his arms crossed.