Chapter 7 Masquerade
CHAPTER SEVEN
masquerade
REY
Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d step foot in this place, but here I am.
THE Orion!
I finally get to see the place that has been the source of so many of my daydreams. The place that looks so magical, and my fingers itch to draw the world I once used to escape to.
Now I’ll get to soak up the atmosphere too. The smells. The sounds.
Hah, if Mum could see me now. Well, she wouldn’t be too impressed with my having to enter via the alleyway staff door instead of the red-carpeted front entrance, but soon I’ll be inside and mingling with the super special ‘very very important people’.
I go through higher-than-airport-level security and send my check-in selfie to Kirsten before I have to give up my phone.
“Are you staying after your shift, miss?” the suit-clad person behind the reception desk asks, putting my phone into a black velvet pouch.
“Yes,” I breathe. I still can’t believe that’s true. Three hours to wander around and explore the place at my own pace. It’s unbelievable.
“Alright, your phone and other belongings will be by the main exit when you leave.”
“Up there? The red-carpet exit?”
“Yes, I’m moving up there after all the staff are in place.”
“Okay, thank you,” I say, hardly containing the excitement in me. I can feel a squeal forming in my throat, like one of those old teapots that whistle when the water boils.
I make it around the corner before I let my steam out. “Eeeeeeek!”
Although I feel like skipping, I step slowly down the hall to the changing rooms so I can take in the details of the ornamental panels on the walls, the jungle painted on the ceiling, and the different floral glass sconces lighting the path. This is only a staff section, and it’s amazing already.
The professional wardrobe and styling team work on me like a three-headed octopus, and I’m soon unrecognisable in my costume.
They’ve squeezed me into a white and blue dress that’s cinched at the waist, with satin sleeves fastened on to conceal my tattoos.
A platinum blond bob wig hides my dark brown waves, and half my face is covered by a glittering floral mask—each flower glued on one by one.
To top it off, I’ve got killer white Louboutin heels, which I unfortunately have to return after my shift (boo), but at least I don’t have to get changed until I get home. Costumes are mandatory all night.
The other girls are dressed in a variety of Wonderland-themed ensembles, and there are dozens of human flowers running around.
A person donning a headset and a floral shirt calls for our attention from the doorway.
“Good evening, everyone! I’m Vic, your coordinator. Let me take you through the instructions for the evening, and then we’ll do a brief round of the main rooms.”
He explains that our job is to welcome the first arrivals and make the place feel lively from the start, so we need to spread out in the different rooms and partake in the activities. And we get paid for this. I fucking love this job.
Vic leads us out through the staff alleyway and up to the front entrance, allowing us to see the place as the guests will when they arrive. We follow him through the fairy-light tunnel, and into the most spectacular room I’ve seen.
It’s dominated by different shades of pink and a domed ceiling with an oversized chandelier.
Massive green plants in ornamental gold pots give the place a lush feel, and the bright blue chairs and the tall wooden wardrobe juxtapose the variety of pinks in such a pleasing way it makes my heart flutter.
Compared to the photos, this is mind-blowing.
Vic introduces it as the Pink Room.
I want to live here.
It’s not huge, but it feels grand.
There’s a round dance floor in the middle and plush booths all the way around. I’ve heard booking a table here costs north of ￡3,000, but surely that can’t be right. That’s insane. Although if I had money to waste, I’d probably choose this place to do so.
The bar on the far side is covered in roses and fairy lights, and there’s an enormous metal-looking rosebud on top.
Vic moves us through a rounded doorway to the adjoining room, and it’s another feast for the eyes. It’s a dark-green painted room with carpet that looks like grass, large green leather booths and cafe-style tables, and a bar beneath a canopy of wisteria vines.
“Wow,” I say. It’s stunning.
The woman painted as the Cheshire Cat knocks my arm and points up.
“Are those—”
“People,” she whispers.
Actual humans in winged suits with fairy lights are whooshing around overhead like human-sized fireflies against a sparkling ceiling. Holy fuck. How do they even come up with these things?
“As you can see, our aerial dancers are already in place, and so should you be—the first guests will arrive shortly. Have fun!” Vic says, and we all cheer before we spread out to our designated areas.
My job starts out at the entrance; serving the first arrivals a Lotus and Damiana sparkler (some purple drink, with golden flakes, of course), and showing them through the light tunnel.
Then I join them in the Pink Room, with the goal of creating the atmosphere Mr Aurellan is looking for.
No one wants to arrive at an empty club, so the other models and I fill it up and make sure it’s buzzing.
This is my favourite part of the job.
I people-watch as I navigate through the tables, and I make up stories to myself about who everyone is. I get to mingle and encourage guests to drink and dance.
Tonight, it’s extra intriguing, because although I might know who some of these people are, there’s no way to recognise them. Everyone’s anonymous.
Hidden identities.
I’m sure many will take advantage of that. This event is a recipe for debauchery.
As if on cue, a large hand clasps firmly onto my arse cheek under my short dress. A raspy voice sounds from right behind my ear, although I can’t make out the words. The hand squeezes my bottom.
I don’t engage. Instead, I tap my shoulder with two fingers and before I can count to three, there’s a massive security guard (intimidating, despite the floral shirt), who gestures to whoever is behind me to stop what he’s doing.
The unwanted hand withdraws, and I keep walking, glancing back to see the guard speaking into the ear of the shiny green superhero who’d groped me.
I’ve never felt unsafe in this role. Even when I was near-naked in gold paint, swanning around at a James Bond-styled party with my tits on display among drunk men in tuxedos. Kirsten keeps her people safe, so I can simply enjoy being in a costume and do my job.
Time must be warped in this stunning place, because I receive the sign from the coordinator that my shift is up before I’m ready.
I exchange the Louboutins for my trusted sequin Converse shoes (four hours on sky-high heels is more than enough) and head back out to the Pink Room. The dance floor has been filling up as the VVIPs get deeper into the champagne fountain. The models can take some credit too, I know.
“Cheers!” I hear right beside me, and turn to find the purple Cheshire Cat from earlier. She passes me a glass of champagne and clinks hers against mine.
“Cheers,” I respond with a grin. I’m not a big drinker, but I’m thirsty, so I down it—and that is good.
I get a refill from a wandering lily, who seems to think I’m one of the VIPs from the way she practically bows for me.
Alright, I’ll play along.
Tonight, I’m Alice. Alice could be a VVIP, right? There are a couple of other Alices around who I don’t think are from the model cohort.
I could pretend to be a runway model instead of an atmosphere model. Well, maybe not with my soft hourglass shape, but I’m here. At The Orion.
People can think whatever. It doesn’t matter.
I take in the surrounding costumes. There’s a sparkling Peter Pan, a hero in a red cape, a few Mad Hatters, and a variety of half-naked princesses. All swaying and gyrating on the dance floor.
Light from the oversized chandelier sparkles across the room, dancing along the pink walls and reflecting in the glittering costumes. It’s simply spectacular.
I wish I could take photos so I’d remember it all.
As I twirl my way through the dance floor to explore the rooms I’ve not seen yet, a remix of one of my favourite Taylor Swift songs comes on.
I can’t leave this room yet. I have to dance.
And I’ll dance as if I’ll never see these people again—because I won’t (and who cares, anyway).
Throwing my hands up to the beats, I sway my head and hips from side to side and let my body move where it wants and how it wants. Singing along with the hit, I keep up with the fast rhythm. Someone next to me laughs, and I break out into laughter too.
The chorus starts, and it’s just me and the music.
It fuels me, and I can’t stop smiling. I haven’t felt this alive in months! In years!
There’s a mechanical sound, and the enormous rose on top of the bar turns towards the dance floor. It stops with a clang, making everyone go ‘oooh’.
“What’s happening?” I ask no one in particular. The flower opens and puffs out a cloud of rose petal confetti that floats down over the cheering crowd.
Wow.
They’re falling like large snowflakes, catching the light on their way down.
I spin slowly and marvel at the sight of this place, turning my face up again to the flower petals dancing in the air.
The crowd is swaying and grinding. Is everyone buzzing from the Damiana thing I served them? Is this how orgies start?
A hand finds my butt again, and I tap my shoulder. But of course, the security guards are not looking out for me after my shift ends. I swivel to find the same green man from earlier. He has a pointed mask and a wicked smile.
“Please stop that,” I say and twirl away.
Not long after, he’s back, his voice loud in my ear. “You don’t know who I am. I could be your fantasy.”
“You’re more like her nightmare,” a deep voice says from behind me. “I believe the lady said ‘no’.”
I turn to see a broad chest, and need to tilt my head up to find his … face. I’m dumbstruck. It’s Robin Hood, I believe. An extremely appealing Robin Hood. He has a dark mask and a low-hanging cowl, but that jawline, those lips…
“She can speak for herself,” the green shit says.
“I believe I already did,” I say once I find my voice again, but I’m speaking to Robin Hood’s pecs, so it might lack the punch I was going for. His short-sleeved brown tunic looks tailored to him. Hugs his muscles with perfection.
Unashamed, I let my gaze travel. Muscular arms. Mmm. Soft-looking skin.
He’s exquisite.
Don’t ogle the clients. Rule number one. Or maybe it’s number seven, but regardless, no ogling, no touching. But is he a client now that I’m off my shift? Kirsten didn’t specify.
“Thanks,” I mutter, still to Robin’s chest, and inch past him and away from the dance floor. I grab another Damiana sparkler from a walking poppy flower and catch my breath.
Yikes, I just realised how long it’s been since I noticed a man. They’re all over, all the time, but it’s not been on my agenda, so no one has registered.
I down the drink that I’m not sure even has alcohol in it, but it leaves me with a gentle and comforting buzz, regardless.
The confetti-rose goes off again, and I stare up at the floating petals as a dark, hooded figure fills my view.
“Want another one?” Robin asks, nodding his head toward the bar. “I’m getting a drink.”
He’s standing rather close.
Too close.
I look up to meet his eyes. They’re hardly visible in the dim light, yet his gaze feels fierce from behind the mask, and a nervous tingle forms in my stomach.
The only thing I manage to do is catch my breath as I gape at him like a moron.
His lightly stubbled, strong jaw frames a full mouth that curves sideways into a small smile.
That is one kissable-looking set of lips.
This man is doing things to my body I haven’t felt in a long time.
I want to touch those arms. My hands twitch, but I stop myself. I need to get away from him before I do something Kirsten might kill me for. Or worse, fire me.
“Thanks, but I’m not interested. I’m going to dance.”
“Look out for the goblin.”
I face him, stepping backwards so he doesn’t suck me in again.
“I can handle myself,” I quip and turn to skip the last few steps to the dance floor.
“Woo!” I shriek and continue the dancing I was enjoying earlier, reminding myself I’m not here for the men, anyway. The Cheshire Cat girl shimmies up close and answers my enthusiastic dancing with a solid twirl.
“How’s your night going?” she asks into my ear over the thumping tune. “You look like you’re having fun!”
“I am! I love this place.”
“A word of advice, move more like this.” She steps back, and shows me an objectively sexy dance move, her hips swivel smoothly from side to side and her hands glide in a sensual tangle upwards. I’m glad she can’t see my grimace. There’s no way I would dance like that for fun.
“Okay, thank you,” I shout and continue in my own style.
“You’re more likely to get a crick in the neck than a man between your legs,” the Cheshire Cat says, grinning.
I throw my head back, howling with laughter, and give her a thumbs up before I twirl to the other side of the dance floor to enjoy the music my way.
Finally, she leaves me alone.
But there’s a heat enveloping me from somewhere to my left, and before I can turn to see its source, I know it’s him.