3. Sage
SAGE
The ballroom glitters.
A kaleidoscope of lights swirls from the ceiling, with rays of sapphire, fuchsia, and ruby skating across the dance floor, illuminating it, then darkening it.
It’s a mix of nightclub and ball, a cocktail of the two.
Sometimes the music is a waltz, other times it’s R & B or hip-hop. Couples twirl and glide, sway, and press.
From my post at the corner of the dance floor, my eyes eat up the feast of sights.
The beautiful people, spinning in tandem.
The music reverberating throughout the sumptuous room, accented in gold and marble.
And the clothes. Dear God, the clothes. I want to memorize the outfits, to snap photos of the costumes, and gaze at them when I need a hit of beauty.
All the gorgeous satins, rustling taffetas, silk tuxes and tails.
But there are no photos allowed here.
Phones were checked at the door so we can be present in the moment, rather than on our devices.
And the moments unfurling in front of me are intoxicating.
All the dancing, all the touching, all the laughing.
Men and women.
Women and women.
Men and men.
Such lushness.
Eliza and I have already indulged in several dances with unknown men in Venetian masks.
We’ve made small talk, chatting about the music, the party, the vibe, the decadence of it all.
I’m practically floating from the high of the party, vibrating at a higher frequency of pleasure, my skin tingling from this shimmering spectacle in front of me, all my senses alive.
As a new wave of couples moves on the floor, I imagine the words falling from their lips. Whispered promises of pleasure fluttering across bare skin. Dirty words teased from lush mouths.
Someone out there on the dance floor, maybe several someones, will slip away soon, find a dark corner for dark deeds.
The prospect sparks a wave of longing in me. It’s been a while since I felt that kind of sizzle from another person. My skin is craving it, hungry for connection, for touch.
Maybe tonight?
Is that so much to want?
But I haven’t danced with anyone yet who’s lit me up, who’s set my skin to flames.
And the night is turning old, the clock ticking closer to midnight.
Prince Wicked is nowhere in sight.
Shame, that.
But so it goes. Life doesn’t always give you what you want. Mostly, you have to fight for what you need.
For now, I’ll take one last glass of the delicious champagne before I make my way out of here. Now seems like a good time as Eliza glides off the dance floor, having just finished a tango-esque dance with a burly man with a beard.
Not the quarterback.
“One last drink?” I ask my friend.
“I’m always up for a final nightcap.”
I nod toward the man she left behind. “Anyone you like?”
“He’s not too shabby. I don’t mind a little fur on the face.”
“How good of you.”
“I thought so too,” she says playfully, and I know she’s trying to keep her mind open to new men, since risking a play with the athlete on her team roster would be too risky.
“I have an early meeting at the stadium, chatting with Nadia and the other team stakeholders about the salary cap, so I might let myself enjoy one or two more dances, then I need my beauty sleep.”
We head to the bar and ask for champagne.
“Coming right up,” the bartender in the bow tie says, pouring a flute for me then one for her and handing them to us. I leave him a hundred-dollar tip. “Thank you so much,” he says, startled, but clearly delighted too.
“You are most welcome.” We step away from the bar, standing against a marble column, regarding the sumptuous tableau in front of us, hundreds of the glitterati here in Vegas.
“Have I told you how fabulous this ball is?” I say to Eliza, bumping my shoulder to hers.
She pretends to consider this, then nods thoughtfully. “I believe you have. About a half dozen times, was it?” A sly smirk curves her lips.
I swat her arm. “Hush. You love it when I tell you you’re brilliant. So I’ll tell you again. Because I’m glad you insisted that I come.”
“ Insisted? You make it seem like it was akin to twisting your arm. You were pretty game, if memory serves.”
“Of course I was. There was no arm twisting involved. I’m just grateful. Sheesh. Could you be more difficult?” I tease her.
“I could be, but I’ll relent.” She takes a drink, then scans the room. “Because I think you’ve discovered your new passion.”
I tilt my head to the side, curious. “And what’s that? Beyond the ones you know I have—fashion, dogs, and spicy food.”
“ Masquerades. Make-believe. Costume parties, and all the surprises and secrets they offer you.”
She says it like she’s offering me a silver platter of candy confections that will melt on my tongue. “Yes, I do seem to like these parties.” I run a hand down my black satin skirt. “And dressing up.”
“At the last few, you’ve kind of come alive. It makes me happy to see,” she says, her tone genuine, her gaze earnest. All the teasing has been stripped away.
“And I feel happier. So, thank you, and I vote for a party a month,” I tell her. I lift my glass, clinking the edge to hers.
“Please. I say once a week.”
“Count me in.” And even though my Prince Wicked is nowhere to be found, I am so glad I came here tonight. “This party is everything I need. It makes me feel good again. Even if I haven’t met someone to take my mind off . . . well, all the things we like our minds taken off of.”
Eliza shakes her head, tsking. “You spent far too long feeling bad after Derek, Sage. You shouldn’t feel bad. Your ex was a cad.”
“Derek was the living, breathing manifestation of one.”
She sets a soft hand on mine. “But I know you’re not just talking about your ex when you mention things you want to take your mind off of. You still miss your parents.”
A sad smile tugs at my lips as I think of them and their passing a few years ago.
That pain pulls on my heart, while the missing surrounds me.
You can never truly escape that type of loss.
You just learn to live with it. “I do miss them. I miss them a lot. I sometimes still wish I could turn to them for advice.”
Eliza squares her shoulders, looking like a loving queen. “Your mother would tell you that you’ve done a damn fine job moving on from that cad of an ex, and to keep moving on.”
I grin, hearing my mother say those words too. She was always so strong, so certain. She believed wholeheartedly in the conquering power of love, and the precious necessity of self-worth too. “You know what? She would. She never wanted me to be with someone who didn’t deserve me.”
Eliza scoffs. “Life is far too short for men who don’t deserve us.”
“Truer words.”
The music shifts to a low, pulsing beat.
“And you know what I say?” she continues. “I say you only live once. Embrace it. Life is a cherry. Bite into it.”
I laugh, tossing my head back, the mask moving with me. It’s a little heavy against my face, but I’ve become used to the weight of it. “And is that your rule to live by? Eat cherries?”
Eliza nods vigorously. “It is. Because cherries are delish.”
She turns in the direction of a handsome man who’s tapping her shoulder. The bearded guy. “May I have another dance?”
“Yes, you may, but I have to leave in a little while. I turn into a pumpkin soon,” she says coyly.
“Then let’s make the dance worth it before the clock strikes midnight,” he says, and she waves goodbye to me with her fingers and heads to the edge of the dance floor.
I take a sip of my bubbly, glancing around.
On the other side of the room, a black-masked, dark-haired man in tails lifts a glass of champagne, takes a drink, and sets it down on the table.
The man next to him—his hair is a lighter brown, but it’s hard to see behind the Phantom mask he’s wearing—gestures to the dance floor, then leans against a marble column.
They’re a handsome pair, perhaps wingmanning each other?
My eyes roam around the party. If the evening ends right now at eleven thirty, I’m content.
But, truth be told, I do wish for a little more. A little something extra. Something exciting for the next half hour.
I sigh, wishing.
“This makes me wish I knew how to fox-trot.”
I blink as the voice rumbles, sending a shiver across my bare shoulders. Can a voice do that? Well, the voice just did, and I turn in the direction of it.
Oh.
Oh, yes.
No wonder my body reacted that way. I drink in the view of a tall, well-built creature who fills out his tux and tails deliciously.
The material hugs his frame in all the right places, and the shirt lies enticingly flat against his stomach.
My eyes roam shamelessly. What can I say?
I’m an abs woman, and he looks like he’s rocking a washboard.
The dark-haired man with the glass of champagne. The man who set it down so he could make a beeline for me perhaps.
“Fox-trot. Tango. Rumba, maybe. Are you wishing you took cotillion?” I ask playfully, as I check out his lips. Full lips. A five-o’clock shadow. Yum.
“I am. Maybe I would’ve learned the polka too.”
“Polka is vital for Vegas nightlife. But is cotillion still a thing?”
He gives a simple shrug of what looks like a very strong shoulder. “I don’t know. All I know is I can’t waltz for shit.”
The corners of my lips curve up. “I know how to waltz.”
He gives me a flirty smile. “Show-off,” he whispers, that growly tone sending a fresh flurry of tingles down my chest.
“Don’t you want to know my waltzing secret?”
He inches closer, his tone dark and decadent as he says, “I do want to know. Tell me. What is your secret?”
My breasts tingle, my nipples hardening just from the way he looks at me from behind his mask. From his voice too.
I lick my lips, answering him, “If you want to waltz, you just improvise.”
He scrubs a hand across his stubbled jaw, dark like his midnight hair. “Ah, the old make-it-up-as-you-go-along routine.”
I give a playful lift of my shoulder. “Sometimes you have to let go and take a chance.”