Normally, I live for wonder, for curiosity. I hope I never know enough to stop. I always want to be surprised. But right now? I want this more.
Lifting onto my toes, I hold his jaw in my hand, loving the rough feel of his trimmed beard against my palm. Gently, I pull him toward me, and the butterflies thrash in a whirlwind when my lips meet the smooth surface of his mask.
I pull away to admire my handiwork, and oh, boy, am I in trouble now.
The dark red stain of my lips on his cheek makes my pulse spike. The realization that everyone he talks to will see my brand on him, a claim and a warning, well… it turns out I’m one possessive bitch.
I really am learning about myself tonight.
“Time to play,” Lincoln whispers. His voice is a deep rumble in my ear, and I can’t stop a shiver as his lips graze my skin. “I’ll be watching.” His sleeve brushes my hand, followed by the lightest touch of his fingers. A promise.
The second Lincoln steps away, the rest of the world rushes back in.
I take a long, deep breath, fighting the nerves racing under my skin. It’s the high of those seconds behind the curtain, knowing one step will take me across the threshold and under the bright lights of the stage. Adrenaline fills me up, rushing like rapids in my veins, the same buzz I get after sparring—sweaty and strong and ready for anything.
I have to pinch my thigh to make sure I’m not dreaming.Ow.Okay, definitely not dreaming. But now my leg hurts, so there’s that.
Every time I make eye contact with someone, I have to remind myself I’m wearing a mask. No one here knows me, and they wouldn’t even if I wasn’t wearing it. But the thrill persists.
I’m anyone tonight. Anyone and no one.
The possibilities areendless,and I’ve never felt so alive.
Regular life doesn’t exist here.
I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly as my smile spreads.
It’s time to have some fun.
* * *
I let the art guide me, since it’s the whole reason for this party and so few people are paying attention to it. I hate that. What’s the point of supporting an art school but ignoring the artwork?
There’s a woman staring intently at an oil painting in the corner, head tilted, a glass of sparkling wine held aloft in her bejeweled hand. I move confidently, coming to a stop beside her.
Her mask is charcoal and silver, framed by her matching hair. The wrinkles around her mouth remind me of my mother and years of pursed disappointment. Even in the dim light, I can see her eyes are narrowed.
“It’s a beautiful painting,” I say. The striking image of a lone woman bracing herself on a crumbling wall, her head hanging low, expression hidden, is heartbreaking in its simplicity. There’s so much being said without words. So much pain bleeding through the canvas. It’s incredible.
“Debatable,” comes the response, the woman’s tone as flat as my chest. “It’s hardly surprising, is it? There’s no imagination, and the brush pattern is too flat.”
As an art layman, I’m 90 percent sure she’s making that term up, but tonight is all about the bluff, right?
Following her lead, I cross my arms and nod once, slow and considering. “I agree.”I don’t.“It’s so nice to know I’m not the only one who”—how had Lincoln put it?—“Appreciates the arts.”
I gesture to the next piece, which has given me the creeps since I stepped into the room. The weird melted bird-bag-thingdoesn’t even have eyes, but I know it’s watching me. “What are your thoughts on this one?”
Her eyes widen comically, but she keeps an impressively straight face.
“It’s certainly…” she trails off. I can only imagine she’s struggling to find a word that could encompass the eyesore we’re looking at.
Honestly, I don’t think there’s a word good enough to do it justice. I’m kind of in love with it.
“Interesting” is what she settles on, and I stifle the laugh that’s threatening to escape, my left eye twitching with the effort.
“It is, isn’t it?” I say, faking enthusiasm. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this,” I start, and she almost gives herself whiplash with how quickly she snaps her attention to me. “But I have it on good authority the painter is related to a certain famous street artist, if you know what I mean. Apparently, they’re keeping the connection under wraps, but a few years from now, this will be worth a fortune.”
She’s hanging off my every word. Damn, I’ve missed having a captivated audience.
