Chapter 8
PAIGE
“That guy over there is begging for some kitty Cat action.” Cat points at someone I didn’t even notice, wearing a T-shirt with luminous teal writing across his chest that reads, Ask Me Anything.
“What are you going to ask him?” I enquire, knowing Cat won’t struggle for ideas.
“If I can sit on his face.”
Called it.
That woman’s mind and tongue are sharper than a Hollywood prenup.
Laying her hand on my thigh while I laugh against the lip of my wine glass, she checks if she can go to him. “Will you be okay if I leave you here?”
Holding on to her as if she’s my life raft isn’t healthy, and cutting the cord to let her explore is what’s needed. “Of course, go, and enjoy yourself.” It’s something I am struggling to do myself. Even if I’m not having fun yet, I’m not stopping Cat from having some.
I’m at war with myself. I want to relax and have fun, but I’m battling the chaos within. From the minute I stepped into the main event, I’ve been desperate to return to the holding room where we had to leave our cell phones and purses inside a secure locker.
My nerves aren’t just from being in a dark room with strangers, but from worrying about Alfie’s well-being.
Restlessness and protectiveness are stopping me from getting on the fun bus with Cat.
I should be using my senses, the mask to hide my identity, and the dark so I can enjoy tonight, but instead, all I care about is the safety and well-being of my little man, who is at home with a stranger.
I know she’s not a stranger, but that’s how it feels.
And I know Alfie’s not mine; I didn’t go through all the pain and give birth to him or carry him in my womb; however, some days, it often feels like that.
Never have I experienced a love quite like it.
Crossing one leg over the other, I nervously bounce my foot up and down. If I could quickly check my phone or check in with the sitter, maybe then I’d be able to relax.
“Don’t you dare leave without telling me,” Cat warns.
“I won’t.”
“And if I see you running. I’ll know it’s you because of your tattoo.”
Having a UV glow-in-the-dark tattoo last year doesn’t seem like such a bad idea now.
As I approached the big four-o last year, I decided to get a tattoo.
Cat said it was due to me having a midlife crisis; maybe I was, but I loved it then, and I still do.
While I’d always wanted to have a tattoo, I also wanted something more discreet that wouldn’t stand out on my pale skin.
That’s when my tattoo artist suggested a UV one.
You can still see it in the daylight; it’s just more discreet, but it comes alive under the light on evenings like tonight.
Cat kisses me on the cheek before she strides across the room with purpose.
All eyes are on her, and I can’t help but admire her confidence as she wiggles her hips, exaggerating the sway at the guy whose focus is glued to her.
I don’t think she needs to do that. Whoever that guy is already looks like he wants to eat her alive, maybe even devour her.
Wearing a neon-yellow bandage dress tonight was a smart move on her part. She looks like a human glow stick under the UV blacklight. At least that means I’ll be able to find her easily before I leave, which I plan to do in the next ten minutes if I don’t gather the courage to talk to someone.
I clutch the drink in my hand so tightly I half expect the glass to shatter and slice into my palm, which, honestly, sounds like a much better option than being here. I’ve never felt so wildly out of place.
It’s like I’ve stumbled into an erotic dreamscape, where everything is charged and alive with energy, and every shadowed glance carries weight.
I hazard a guess that hidden touches and conversations with a hint of naughtiness about them are lurking in every corner as the low murmured chatter continues to fill the room.
Neon flashes from the masks, furniture, and the clothing worn by the patrons cut through the nearly dark room, causing bright jolts of motion and color to deepen the surreal atmosphere.
I’m captivated watching elegant female figures drift by in bunny masks traced with pink lashes, while fox masks, with eye holes lined in an electric blue glow, make them look like they’re on the hunt.
It’s official; I’m totally out of my depth. I have no idea why I thought this was a good idea because all I want to do is get the hell out of here. It doesn’t matter that no one knows who I am; I do, and this dating in the dark stuff is so not for me.
I’m fucking petrified.
“May I take a seat?” A gruff voice attached to what looks like a floating head, because he’s dressed all in dark clothing, appears out of nowhere, making my shoulders stiffen even more.
I’m so unprepared for this. I shouldn’t have come.
“Yes, sure.” Why not? Once he starts talking to me, he’ll realize how boring I am and hightail it out of here. Then I can go home. I shuffle along to let him sit beside me, noticing the tiny neon-pink love heart above his eye that no one else has.
What do I say?
Hey, I’m socially awkward when it comes to dating, I’ve decided I don’t like dating in the dark, I’m shit at small talk, more like hate it, and I want to curl into a ball and rock myself to sleep somewhere over in the corner of the room.
Hell, that makes me sound like a flaky female, which I’m not. I’m one of the top divorce lawyers in the city, and I fight for what is right.
Pull yourself together, Paige.
“Good evening, Bunny.” He cuts the tension I was feeling in one sentence. I already feel better.
And is that a British accent I detect?
It has an American lilt, so maybe I’m wrong. Cat did tell me I could disguise my voice if I wanted, but I’m not faking who I am. If I do this, I’m going to be myself tonight. Unfiltered and real.
“Good evening, Mr. Fox,” I purr. Actually purr.
My voice sounds sultry and drips with a sexual undertone I didn’t think I was capable of.
“Do you like what you see?” I jest, which makes him burst out laughing, and an odd sensation twists in my gut.
His laugh is so genuine and hearty, it’s contagious, and I find myself joining in. It sounds familiar, but it can’t be.
All men sound the same when they laugh, don’t they?
Every Monday morning at Moore he’s protecting himself, and I respect that.
“It’s a little weird,” I admit. This event is more than a little weird. It’s hugely bizarre.
“You smell great, Bunny.” Oh, he’s good, and I like the instant nickname he gave me.
“I’m wearing Tom Ford’s Vanilla Sex.” Hell, why does my perfume sound so boring? I can even feel myself blushing under my mask.
I follow the silhouette of his hand as he places his drink on the table. “There’s nothing vanilla about tonight,” he says.
“It’s scary,” I concede, feeling like I’m swimming in unknown waters and I set my glass next to his.
“Don’t be scared, little bunny. I’ve got you. Just relax.”
“I’ll try,” I agree. “Thank you for the compliments about my perfume. You don’t smell so bad yourself, Mr. Fox,” I say as seductively as I can, keeping my tone low so I don’t give too much away.
He smells like amber, black pepper, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on—it’s woody with a floral edge, maybe vetiver.
It’s heady with a hint of lemon, and I like it.
Maybe a little too much. And I’m certain I’ve smelled it before.
Lifting my drink off the table that glows with a purple hue from the UV blacklights beneath, I take a big gulp of my chardonnay, needing the liquid courage to make this conversation go more smoothly.
“Is that real? Your tattoo. Or is it temporary for tonight?” Mr. Fox’s attention drops to my ankle.
That slow drawl and lilt returns, giving his Californian accent away again.
“It’s real. I got it during a moment of insanity last year when I turned forty.” Shit, was I supposed to say how old I am?
“We’re the same age,” he informs me as I place my wine glass on the table.
“Thank God for that. The last thing I need in my life is a man who is younger than me and still needs his mommy to do his laundry.”
“Well, you’ll be pleased to know, my mom taught me well, and I can do my own laundry.
” He casually shifts the topic back to my tattoo.
“Tell me about your tattoo.” This guy’s a natural at chatting up women; I can tell how comfortable he is keeping a conversation flowing.
No one has ever asked me about my tattoo before, so this isn’t small talk.
Unless he asks me about the weather, it’s game over.
Not that he can see me clearly, but I point to my tattoo anyway. “It’s a Virgo constellation. My zodiac sign.” That’s not revealing too much of myself. I have a few friends who share the same sign as me.
He takes a minute to consider his next question before he asks, “Can I touch it?”
“Yes,” I agree, excited by the thought that his hands will touch my skin. It’s been years since that happened, and I’ve almost completely forgotten what it feels like to be touched by a man.