“And it’s perfect timing,” I say, touching her arm like we’re girlfriends.
I’m really getting into the flow of the role now. Maybe in another life I left college to travel, met a billionaire, and never knew what a Teams notification sounded like. “I’ve been looking for a piece for my yacht,” I tell her. “You wouldn’t believe how difficult it’s been. None of my dealers in Morocco have been any help.”
Hearing the lies roll off my tongue is an out-of-body experience. If asked, I couldn’t say where it came from. I’m not even drunk.
Just inspired.
“I know just what you mean,” she says, turning back to our golem friend with a new glint in her eye.
Now that my nerves have disappeared, the floodgates open.
To a graying gentleman in an ill-fitting suit, I’m an aeronautic carpenter (a job I made up, but wish was real) who is currently designing cabinetry that can withstand Mach 10. A story so patently ridiculous, the effort of keeping a straight face should earn me a medal.
The fact that he believes me makes me so giddy I almost have to excuse myself.
No doubt he’s regretting the conversation when I point out the small framed watercolor of a white archway leading nowhere, especially when I start waxing poetic about buttresses. It only takes sixty seconds of nodding before he bids on it and pretends someone is calling him.
It feels like a win.
Then, to a group of girls wearing see-through lace masks, I’m the secret lover of a movie star whose name I tease but never give up, no matter how many times they pry. It starts a bidding war over a hand sculpture I’ve convinced them is “true to life.”
One by one, I try on as many faces as I can.
The inventor of a hands-free ceiling vacuum.
A struggling ballet dancer.
An influencer famous for sneaking into parties uninvited. That one earns me a raised eyebrow. I’m especially proud of that.
Lincoln appears in glimpses, a looming presence at my back, under my skin, his eyes sharp as they follow me.
Where I move, he follows. When I look, I find his eyes already on me. Dark. Eager. Interested. It’s the smallest audience I’ve ever commanded, but it could be a stadium of people, and I wouldn’t feel as captivated as I do right now.
I’m the one holding his attention and yet it’s me who feels under his spell.
When Kyle’s red jacket enters my periphery, it’s hatred on sight.
I don’t have to be rich to have met guys like Kyle before— a-holes don’t need money to exist; they just blow their cover faster when they have it. It’s obvious from his wing tips to his dental caps that Kyle likes to throw his money in your face.
Jesus, his arrogance might as well be a blinking neon sign hanging over the big top.
As he stalks toward me, he’s smiling like we’re sharing a secret and sidles up so close I have to take a step back, stopping when my back hits the wall. “I didn’t realize the artwork was allowed to wander around.”
Seriously? He’s so gross.
Kyle makes a show out of checking me out, and I have to look away before his face starts to look like a good landing spot for my right hook.
“I don’t think we’ve met yet, and that’s a damn shame.” His American accent throws me until I remember half of Lincoln’s life was spent here. It must be strange being split between two continents. Maybe I’m not the only one who is playing a version of themselves. “You might have to make it up to me.”
Hmm. The fuckery is strong in this one. But I’ve been on a roll tonight. Maybe I can mind-trick him.This isn’t the pussy you’re looking for. Move along.
My first girlfriend was in college (I’m so cliché sometimes it hurts). Once, I took her on a date to a jazz festival. The whole night went great. My flirting game was top-notch, but then an asshole at the bar started leering, asking us if we wanted a third for the night, telling us he could “fix us right up.”
It’s men like these who make me sorry for straight women. I don’t always dislike being attracted to men, but being bi, I have options at least.
“How flattering,” I say, and slip into the role of someone who isn’t five seconds away from kneeing him in the groin. It’s my toughest act yet.
“I have excellent taste,” he drawls, his hot breath singeing my ear. “And you look better than a ten-course meal.”
