Chapter Three
Scarlett
Ugh, why does he order two drinks? Now I have to follow him to wherever he is going, like a little fucking puppy.
These men and their power trips.
Four more hours, I keep telling myself. I only have four more hours left before we are allowed off the floor.
Those of us who marked X on the list will do the cleanup, while those who ‘hearted’ will be whisked off with their tricks for the night.
I’d clean cat shit with my bare hands if it meant never being used like that.
Some people like sex and don’t care much about who they have it with.
I’m not a prude by any means; in fact, being a ballet dancer, I am naked a lot of the time.
Quick changes, co-ed dressing rooms for the corps—I've seen a lot of dick in my day, and more people than I’d like to admit know what my boobs look like.
But sex… no. I don’t have sex. Or well, I haven’t had it. Not yet.
I’m not waiting for Mr. Right or some bullshit; I just want it to be nice.
I want to have sex with a man I can talk to and who likes me.
Someone who can make love and not just bang it out.
I just… my mom had men around a lot, and I saw them treat her like crap.
I never want that in my life. Ever. I’d rather never have sex than have it with someone who doesn’t respect me as a human being first and foremost.
We reach a table at the far corner of the Diamond Room with a view of the New York streets below. The windows must be triple-paned glass because all I can hear is the string quartet in the corner and nary a honk from outside.
The man is wearing a gold rooster mask. He is tall, like six-five or taller, and has graying hair—not totally gray, but enough to know he is older.
His muscles harden his jacket but aren’t bulging.
I don’t dare look down at his crotch, but the pants don’t hide much there either.
He must be a pretty big guy because there is no concealing the slight slope protruding from his Armanis.
“Would you like me to set your drink on the table, Sir?” I ask, doing my best to sound attentive and bored at the same time.
“No,” he answers.
“Where would you like it?” I ask, feeling frustrated. Fucking power trip.
“Have a seat,” he says without any explanation.
“I’m working.” I flash him a plastic grin. “It’s not permitted.”
“You’re working for me, so sit down.”
He isn’t very nice about it, but I sit and let out a huffing breath. I have passive-aggression down to a science.
“I didn’t realize you owned Satin Catering.” I widen my grin.
“I’ll be signing the check that pays for this event.” He remains cold and aloof as he also takes a seat. I could swear the bulge in his expensive-ass pants gets bulgier.
Sliding the extra drink over to me, he asks, “What’s your name?”
“Red Mask,” I answer. “It’s a masquerade ball; we don’t do names.” I offer another snide grin. “And I don’t drink.” I slide the cocktail—which would definitely put me on my ass—right back to him.
“With masked strangers, you mean? You do drink. Most young women your age are happy to swallow a glass or two. This,” he smells the scotch, “is really good stuff. Better than you’ll likely ever get.” He slides my glass back to me. “Try it.”
Fuck him, seriously.
I bend forward so that no one can hear me and speak as quickly as I can because this is definitely not allowed—especially for an X.
Whispering, I say, “I don’t drink with strange men, you’re right.
I don’t drink at work, I don’t drink with my boss, and I don’t drink in a place where I might end up in a compromising position.
So, as I said, for tonight…” I slide the drink back to him. “I don’t drink.”
“Red Mask,” he says, leaning back.
“I need to get back to work.” I stand up.
“Sit down.” His command is sharp and harsh, and I sit, just a little scared.
“Thank you. Since you are indeed the Red Mask on our list, I noticed an ‘X’ by your name. So, whether you drink this four-hundred-dollar glass of scotch or not has no bearing on whether you will be compromised this evening. I’m not in the habit of coercing consent. Frankly, I don’t have to.”
Arrogant, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut and take the glass back.
“Thank you.” I soften my tone. “I will drink with you, Mr. Rooster, because I need this job. So if getting women fired is your idea of fun…”
“No. Offering snarky canapé servers a nice glass of spirits is what I consider a good time.” He raises his glass to me, and I have to smile. “And it’s Cock. Golden Cock.”
He is charming for a mature man—I have to give him that—and obnoxious. I take a sip of the scotch, and oh my God, is it smooth and delicious.
“I’m not calling you that, ever… but,” I laugh, “this is so good. Incredibly amazing. Definitely worth a quickie in the coat room.” I wink, though I’m not sure if he catches it.
“I’ll take it wherever I can get it.” He laughs too, and that shuts me up. And he notices. “You did mark an X by your name. What would it take to make your heart as red as your mask?”
“Nothing,” I say softly. “I don’t… I’m not. Some people do…” Fuck, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
“I do.” He takes another sip. “I’m one of those people who does, and I enjoy it—especially masked. The anonymity is fun. No strings, no names, only pleasure. I can give you memories—and an orgasm—you’ll never forget.”
Fuck, I can hardly breathe.
“Good for you,” is my lame response.
“And for you.” His plump lips caress the edge of his glass before he takes a sip and swallows. “Especially for you.”
I must be beet red. I take another sip of scotch because I am about to ditch the dude and just want one more taste. It really is good… damn rich people.
“Thank you, Sir. You’re right, the scotch is amazing. Lucky you for being wealthy enough to have it whenever you want. If you don’t mind, though, I must get back to work.”
I stand and find I am shaky on my feet—not because I am drunk or anything near it, but because I am so fucking aroused by Mr. Cock and his dripping hot conversation.
“As I said, I’m your boss. Your job is to pass hors d'oeuvres, but,” he fans his arm in a sweeping motion, “as you can see, people are sitting and having conversations. No one is that interested in vegan garden trimmings at present.” He leans back in his seat.
“I like when things are anonymous. There are no questions afterward, just a mutually enjoyable evening. Two people fucking in masks, fulfilling unspoken desires, perhaps. What is your sexual fantasy? Just tell me one. You don’t have to change your mark, but I’m curious what a woman with legs that I could worship for the rest of my days wants to do in bed. ”
“And? What happens after I tell you my fantasy?” I start having trouble breathing because I am so turned on. He is a hot, fucking sexy mess of dominance and charm, and salt-and-pepper hair. I do not have a Daddy kink, but shit.
“Well, two things can happen depending on what you choose. We can change your mark to a red heart, and I make you a deal… or we don’t change your heart, and I leave here always wondering what your moans sound like.”
My heart slams against my chest.
“What kind of deal?” I am barely able to speak.