Chapter Thirteen #4
There, I spotted, down the way by a few paces, one of the men I heard throw a comment at Paris. He wore ripped jeans and a studded leather jacket that might have appeared cool had he not been so old. She must have noticed him following her and slowed in her steps.
I didn’t move towards him, however, because he didn’t look to be the sort allowed inside the establishment we were entering; a bruised ego would hurt more than a bruised cheek. And would last longer.
I waited until he met my eye before sending him a barely-there smirk and allowing the door to close behind me.
I was just as much a part of the lower class as he, if not more so, except I didn’t find solace in behaving like a degenerate.
Letting my eyes roam over the entrance lobby, I found Paris waiting by the host stand.
They were right, The Gallery was something out of The Great Gatsby.
All glitter and glam, gold accents on walls and original paintings hanging high.
From where we stood, I could see the second floor, held up by pillars circling the ground floor, and a dome-shaped ceiling visible overhead.
The chandelier in the middle didn’t rival any I’d seen at Castle Hill, but it was still just as excessive.
From the armchairs to the decoration, it was all unbridled. I’d never imagined I’d be entering an establishment such as this and be seated without a second glance.
The hostess smiled politely and greeted me when I joined them as she looked for any more guests of the Saltford-Windsor party in the book in front of her. She nodded and looked up. “Follow me and I’ll take you to your seats.”
Paris smiled. “Wonderful.”
We followed her through the dimly lit, and clearly fully booked restaurant, as she led us to the back, pushing a heavy set of curtains to the side before leading us further down a hallway.
The din and assault of cutlery against plates we’d been previously surrounded with turned muffled rather quickly.
Strangely enough, I noticed that the wealthy seemed to have an affixation on imported curtains used as doors.
There were candles lining the length of the wall for every few quiet steps we took on the carpeted floor. She stopped in front of a door and pushed it open, and the bickering we’d begun to hear cut off into a deafening silence as we entered.
The nice hostess parted quickly after that with a short, “We hope you enjoy your dinner here at the Gallery.”
Once the door clicked shut, Paris let out a sigh. “Oof, it’s quite chilly out there.”
The private room was a smaller version of the restaurant’s main floor, with a domed ceiling and just as many unrestrained gold accents and crown moldings. It felt as if the designer were trying to recreate a French chateau before the revolution.
Paris threw her coat carelessly on an unoccupied chair of the large round table, and I shrugged off my own before hanging it on the coat hanger in the corner.
I took the empty seat next to hers, Wolf already seated on my other side, and watched Rain eye Paris from above the rim of her glasses like an old high school teacher ready to dress code her.
“Men bring their wives to establishments like these, not their mistresses.”
Paris didn’t look offended in the slightest, only smiling wider as if Rain had complimented her, and jutted her hip out to show herself off. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re both unmarried. Or else, they’d have thought your supposed husband double booked.”
The black dress beneath the heavy coat was tight and short, but Paris didn’t mind.
Rain looked as though she wasn’t willing to dignify those words with a response, only peering back down at her menu stoically.
I wondered, for a moment, if anyone would ever speak to Rain in such a way before the Founder’s Society. When she reigned supreme, and the board didn’t demand she equate herself with others.
August cleared his throat. “So… what’s good on the menu?”
Ajax rolled his head back and spoke through a groan as he cracked his neck. “It’s pretty bland for all its exclusivity. I say get the burger.”
I blinked at Ajax, and August did the same. It was the first time the athlete said anything remotely helpful towards him.
Maybe Thaddeus was onto something.
“Usually you’d start with an appetizer, though,” Wolf added helpfully.
“I think we should be taking this time to strategize.” Rain cut in, softly placing her menu down on the rich wooden surface.
“Strategize on what?” Ajax said with an antagonizing tone, and I could tell that he had picked up on what she might have been insinuating. If Rain must treat us as equals, she sure as hell wasn’t going to make it quite so simple. I’m sure she’d try establishing a hierarchy of sorts in due time.
She sighed heavily, as if to say, “some people just aren’t as smart.” Instead, she settled for, “There is much to be discussed.”
“Ajax,” I interjected. “What sport do you play again?”
“He plays football.” Paris scrunched her face at the words as if she were spewing poison.
Ajax’s face tightened when Paris spoke for him, but he nodded, nonetheless. “Yeah, that.”
I could sense the tension radiating off Rain at my shift of conversation.
“You lie a lot, did you know?”
Paris’ voice rang from behind me as we entered the Quarters far too late in the night to consider getting any proper sleep.
I didn’t hold the door for her, letting the heavy wood close behind me. The thud of the door sounded and her muffled groan followed.
“You’re a right git, you know that?”
“Lovely, more questions. Anything else?”
“Want me to dye your hair?” I paused, reluctantly turning to face her, and listening to the retreating steps of the other five members shuffling back to their respective rooms.
“What makes you ask that?”
She shrugged. “Intuition. Besides, this will be a great bonding experience.”
I moved my weight to lean on one leg. “I think we’ve done enough bonding for one night.”
She snorted. “If that’s what you want to call what happened tonight. Besides, there’s always room for more bonding.”
She raised her brows in enticement and—well—that was how I found myself, well past midnight, sitting in Paris Vega’s chair, as she threw a hair-cutting cape over me. “Alright, Alex?”
I watched her through the mirror facing us both. “I never paid much attention to your accent.”
When she’d unlocked her door and shuffled us inside, she removed her heeled boots and slipped into fluffy white sandals right at the entrance before dancing into the bathroom.
I’d stood awkwardly by her door for five minutes before she’d come out in a comfortable-looking night gown, humming the same tune as when she’d entered.
In those five minutes, I’d looked around at the array of pillows and blankets, a fur throw hanging over the side of the twin bed we’d all been assigned, and the slight mess of clothes littering the floor.
The plain dorm certainly hadn’t stopped her from decorating it as best she could.
It was much nicer than mine and much more livable than Marigold’s.
She had all sorts of candles on her nightstand and used her desk as more of a makeup counter than a study area, though I doubt that hindered her ability to receive top marks.
She had a cream carpet placed in the center of the room and an extra closet, though it didn’t seem to provide any help in terms of additional storage when both had all sorts of clothing and accessories hanging out.
She’d tied her hair back and gestured for me to get comfortable.
“Mmm, lots of accents at Castle Hill.” She began sectioning my hair as her lip twitched into a barely-there smile.
I hadn’t noticed how long my hair had grown, how long it had gone without a trim, until she reached for a clip on her desk and slipped it between my strands. “That’s true. But you don’t look English.”
“Oh?”
Her evasive responses bothered me, but I couldn’t very well blame her. I’d have done the same, sometimes just for the fun of it.
“Yeah, you look Eastern European–ow!”
She let go of the strands she was pulling so tight on. “Sorry.” I scowled but she ignored me completely, too fixated on my hair. “Your… you have white hair.”
The lie rolled off my tongue like it was second nature, “Premature greying.”
She didn’t look like she believed me, the roots looking paler blonde than grey, but she decided not to comment on it, choosing to continue off my previous words, “And you’ve seen enough Eastern Europeans to know, Mr I’ve Never Left America?”
I didn’t let her words burrow under my skin, and I certainly didn’t let myself duck my head in shame. Not everyone had enough money for international vacations. “I’m learning.”
“Oh, you’re learning, are you?”
I rolled my eyes, thinking better and going for the direct approach. “You could always just answer my questions.”
Paris turned to the ceramic bowl filled with cream-based formula and began adding the liquid developer. Her gloved hands, provided by the Clairol box, were quick at work. “You could always ask a question.”
She didn’t look up, busy reaching the perfect consistency before pulling a flat brush from a compartment on her desk.
I sighed but couldn’t help feeling glad. She was a lot like Ajax, and if that was anything to go by, she didn’t mind speaking freely. “Where are you from?”
She pulled at my hair and peered as closely as she could before applying cold liquid to my scalp.
“I’m…” her eyebrows, from what I could see in the mirror, furrowed as she flipped the section of hair under her hands and began applying the dye to the underside.
If Paris ever asked to dye my hair again, I would never hesitate in saying yes. “I’m Scandinavian. Iceland.”
I wanted to tilt my head, but the strong grip she had on my hair wouldn’t let me. “So, why do you speak with an English accent?”
She smiled, but it couldn’t be described as anything other than sad. “I’ve been going to boarding school in the United Kingdom since I can remember. Not much else to pick up on.”