Chapter 1 #2
His palm is warm and dry beneath my fingers as I lift my heel and free the ribbon.
The cool edge of the ring grazes my knuckle when he closes his hand around mine.
I find my balance before I make myself let go.
I ought to thank him and stop inspecting his tailoring.
Instead, I try to see his eyes through the dark openings in the mask.
“One of yours?” he asks, glancing toward the cape Peggy has draped over the platform rail.
“All of them. She does the selling. I do the swearing at the sewing machine.” I tilt my glass toward his jacket. “You brought your own.”
“Would you have dressed me differently?”
I consider that longer than a sensible woman should.
His jacket is open, the shirt beneath it black, with none of the shiny polyester that makes most rented evening clothes look damp.
For one unprofessional moment, I picture drawing a measuring tape around his chest and keeping him close while I read the number.
I could put him beside our sign and fill the vampire bookings in ten minutes.
“I'd have charged you more.”
He smiles, a small change that makes me want a better view of his face.
A man in a dark suit approaches from the stairs, stopping a few feet away. The stranger beside me raises one finger without turning fully toward him.
“Later.”
The other man nods and returns toward the stairwell.
I glance after him, curious about how little effort that required.
Lincoln can turn choosing a restaurant into a performance for six people.
This man has disposed of an interruption with a word.
There must be somebody waiting upstairs who won't enjoy it, but his attention is already back on me.
I wonder what it would take to make him less composed.
“Should I be keeping you?” I ask.
“Yes.”
The answer is so immediate that I laugh. He draws out the stool for me, and I sit with the cold glass between my palms, pleased by the unhurried way he remains beside me.
For a few minutes, I get to enjoy the room we helped create. A woman in one of our velvet capes passes with her arm through her partner's. Peggy bends over the tablet with two new clients while the silver moons turn above her halo. The music changes, bringing a cheer from the dance floor.
He studies the framed photographs on our table. “How do the wings stay up?”
“Wire supports. Getting them light enough was the difficult part. She has to be able to dance in them.” I point out the smaller pair on the display. “Those were the first attempt. Peggy caught one in a taxi door.”
His smile returns as he follows my pointing finger.
He leans in to study the smaller wings, bringing his shoulder against mine for a moment.
My nipples harden beneath the red satin.
When he straightens, his shoulder remains beside me.
The skull mask makes his age difficult to judge, but those lines beside his mouth suggest he's older than the men I usually bring home.
I picture his jacket over the back of a chair in my apartment. I take the last swallow of ginger beer and set down the glass, suddenly unsure what to do with my empty hand.
He offers his hand again.
“Come with me.”
I slide off the stool. Our fingers close, the edge of his ring cool against my skin, and we move along the edge of the crowd.
He keeps me close when a couple dances backward into our path.
Once they've passed, I let my bare arm brush his sleeve the rest of the way.
Goosebumps rise along my arm where the cloth touches me.
By the time we reach the side doorway, I can hear my heels distinctly between the heavier beats of the music.
Here, beside the fitting room, the walls lose their velvet. The paint is scuffed where racks have knocked against it. A cooler draft reaches us from farther along the passage, carrying the damp, salty smell that blew in when we unloaded the van. I turn toward him, still holding his hand.
For a second we're both quiet. Someone laughs back in the main room, and a hanger settles on a rack with a small click. His hand stays around mine as his gaze drops to my mouth. My fingers tighten around his.
“Kiss me,” I say.
He steps closer, settling a hand at my waist, and I lift my face to meet him. His other hand touches the back of my neck. I pull him in by the front of his jacket before he can take his time about it.
His mouth is warm and unhurried for the first second.
Then I open for him, and his fingers tighten at my waist as he draws me flush against him.
I feel his erection through his trousers.
I rock against him, and he kisses me harder.
The lime is still sharp on my tongue. When he draws back, I follow his mouth far enough to make him smile, and I keep hold of his jacket.
The old bathroom beside us has a crooked vacant sign and a door that never quite shuts on its own. I push it open with my shoulder, drawing him after me.
Inside, the bass vibrates through a loose mirror above the sink. One tile is cracked across the middle, and somebody's discarded paper towel lies beneath a pipe. The club has spent a fortune on velvet while apparently leaving this room for another century.
I should find that less funny than I do. But he laughs when I point out the plumbing, and I want this little secret with him.
The lock clicks beneath his hand.