Chapter 35
We arrive at the annual New Year’s Eve Governor’s Ball; a folly of masquerade bullshit tied up to showcase the glamorous and glided off via filtered photographs and edited video snippets to the world.
Our media covers the event, as most do. Stock footage of the ball dropping is preceded by shimmering gowns and opulent masks to protect the privacy of each partygoer.
Some declare their outfit selections prior so social commentary can feature their designers and mask makers as part of their hyped buzz.
Me? I relish anonymity. In my almost thirty years, I’ve been plagued by a label I never wanted, made to fit inside a box I never asked for.
Every year I don the same classic Armani tux that about a quarter of the male guests will wear.
I chose the plainest black mask possible and insisted on my dates doing the same. Classic and understated; anonymous.
Only tonight, Bri glimmers in an inky navy blue so dark it’s almost midnight.
The same color her irises bleed into before they meet the coal-black depth of each pupil.
The gown I chose for her at Christmas was more to cover the marks of our passionate lovemaking and save her any potential embarrassment from any snide family slights; tonight I want her to shine.
I want her to fit in amongst the elite and entitled, the way she deserves to be on my arm.
She is so different from the nervous young woman who arrived at my office to interview for a position she never wanted.
She’s bloomed and blossomed. In some ways, deep down, I have too.
Sabrina has taught me to appreciate life as it comes.
No filters, no masks, and no Mercer manipulation.
I wish I had met the woman years ago when I found out what I did with the test results and lab file confirmations.
Perhaps she might have guided me through the months of unease and identity crisis.
Perhaps she would have been my sole EPA, and I’d never want or need another woman ever again.
Between Trystan’s staunch support and stoicism, and Bri’s unwavering loyalty to me and my emotional welfare, I have something my family lacks.
Reality. Bona fide people in my corner for the first time.
Trystan has been my one constant, of course, but his loyalty stems from wanting something I can never offer him.
I want more than anything to be the person he needs, but I recognize I’m not, and maintaining that pretense is unhelpful for both of us.
I think we’re about done with the metaphorical masks for a while.
Tonight marks the last time I’ll ever have to wear one; metaphorical or physical.
“You look nervous. I’ve never seen you nervous before.”
“What makes you think I’m nervous?” I ask, intrigued.
“Well, you’ve checked your watch four times in the past minute. And we’re not late. So…”
“I’m not sure they’re nerves. I don’t know, I’m just…”
“Anxious? Uptight? Incredibly sexy in that tux.” The corners of her perfect, plump mouth turn up wickedly.
“Ms. Broe, please continue with the last statement. I love how your brain works.”
“I would love to. But Terry just texted that he’s downstairs. Shall we?” She offers her crooked arm for me to accept, preempting my offer. Oh, she’s in a playful mood tonight. After the week we’ve all had, we could do with a distraction.
And so, this is how our evening begins. Compliments and champagne while masked and impervious to the glares and judgment of others.
Of course I pick out Michael, Alice, and Mitchel, by their gait, if not by their exuberant, unnecessary display of gaudy wealth.
As a casual observer, I notice Mitch has left his pregnant partner at home, presumably in his own penthouse if not an apartment he kept for such dalliances.
What does surprise me though, and raises one of Trystan’s groomed eyebrows, is the appearance on his arm of a willowy woman with mousy brown, highlighted hair and an air of arrogance no doubt aided by her bold, fire-engine red, silky sheath gown.
The same color dresses her lips with a slick of gloss as her mouth moves.
I’ve come to recognize this as a shade worn by hookers and cheaper escorts; the kind to leave smudged ring stains on your dick from their enthusiastic blow jobs.
No smeared skin that I need to scrub raw in the shower afterward.
Not once has Bri ever stained my shaft with smudged lipstick.
That’s because she wears kissable, transfer-proof lipstick, and she’s a classy cut above.
This might be the year I met Sabrina Broe, but the ringing in of a new year untouched by angst I’ve held on to.
Perhaps it is the year I commit to making her mine permanently.
His opportunistic date continues on, oblivious to my presence over her left shoulder. Her presence is one I can’t quite place until I heard her speak.
“Mitchel, I’m saying I’d be more than happy to wear jewelry made from the mines you manage. Imagine the publicity linking the pieces back to earth you toil with your own hands.” Her shrill tone grates my molars together—hard.
For one thing, he toils nothing. He sits his fat ass in an executive chair while his employees manage machinery worth hundreds of millions of dollars to pull resource minerals and metals from their earthly tomb.
We have a couple of foreign interests that pull opals and sapphires, so if you were envisaging colorless, flawless diamonds, sweetheart, think again.
And two, there is no way he would drape you in gems from our family’s mines.
They are reserved for our family, royalty, sheiks, and sultans.
I recognize that nasally twang. Jules in the jewels.
Just what are you playing at, Mitchel, and why the fuck are you cozied up with Juliette Nasta-Vrees?
It is customary to see out the new year with a bang, so why not start the new year with one. Bri stands before me in a lacy bra and thong underwear, still in the mile-high heels she wore to the event. One firm tug has the thin lace sides tearing; the next has them falling to the floor.
“That was La Perla. They are over four hundred dollars a pair.” She frowns at the wisp of tattered lace on the carpet. The diffused glow from other high-rise buildings is the only light source. Backlit by the onyx darkness, she is perfection before me.
“Ah, well-made indeed. That’s why it took two tugs to rip them off. Anything else would require one.”
“You’re making light of destroying four-hundred-dollar undies?”
“They were in the way, and now they’re not. I’m a problem solver.”
“You are a pest, Mr. Mercer. A pest I’m falling in love with.”
I nibble her jaw, making my way up to her earlobe.
“I can be.” I run two fingers through her slit, her wetness coating them.
Smearing around her opening, I know she’ll produce more.
She’s as aroused for me as I am for her.
Watching her move in that gown for hours was a torture my cock barely endured. Now, he’s eager to join the party.
Bri moans, loud and long. “New year, new you? This year you can be anything you want to be.”
With Bri, it’s not some throw away bullshit. She’s honest and hopeful, and it’s not my place to destroy any of that. “Right now, I want to be inside your dripping cunt, Sabrina.”
May the mask you show the world not drip the decay of your dishonest soul