It takes me an entire hour to get through the list and another fifteen minutes to hype myself up enough to leave the office, but eventually I peel myself up off the chair.
The theater face mask is heavier than I expected. Not real gold, obviously, but still, the cool metal is a welcome sensation against my flush face as I slide it in place. It’s a beautiful piece of art in and of itself, with the faux patina enhancing swirling details along the forehead and cheeks. I secure the ties around the back of my head and surprisingly a surge of confidence rushes through me once it’s in place.
Not a single part of my face shows, nothing besides my eyes, and even then you can only tell the color. There are literally millions of people with brown eyes, I can beanyone. The whole point of tonight is anonymity, and I’m getting just that.
Tonight, I’m not Harper Hawthorne.
Tonight, I’m Psyche.
Tonight, I’m getting exactly what I want.
Pulling open the door, I’m hit with a shift in the atmosphere immediately. Softer light now fills the area, not so dim that you can’t see much but enough to make everything feel intimate. Chatter floats up from below, meeting me half way up the stairs and my heart speeds up as my hands slide along the railing. By the time I reach the last step, I’m not sure if I’m excited or about to have a heart attack. If someone does speak to me right away, there’s a good chance the first words out of my mouth are going to be something idiotic.
With a breath firmly stuck in my chest, I force myself to step into the main room. A few heads turn my way, lingering for a moment, their eyes cascading up and down my body, following me as I move further into the room. And another wave of confidence hit me like a lightning strike.
People mingle in small clusters in the open space, all in some form of mask that resembles mine. Mostly golds, a few decked out with pearls or glittering stones. Some of the more masculine masks have thick chains or are so darkit’s like a black hole sits where their face should be. Those turn my stomach a bit and I scurry away as fast as possible when they turn my way.
It isn’t packed like a club would be, instead it feels like I’d walked into an intimate party at a friend's house. Maxine is in the middle of the room, sans mask, talking to another statuesque woman and an even taller male. Her eyes quickly pass over me before giving me a slow approving smile and a tilt of her champagne glass.
I’m so far out of my league here, it's almost laughable but also feels right. Like I’m meant to be here, in this moment. It doesn’t matter that men in suits, costing more than I can ever even dream of spending, surround me. Or that the room is filled with the kind of women you show pictures to surgeons and hang on your mirror as inspiration. Here, we were all on the same playing field.
But a little more courage can’t hurt, and sometimes it’s easiest to find at the bottom of a glass. A small bar sits in the far corner of the room and I quickly make my way over. When my hands hit the marble top, I’m taken back again; even if by some miracle I became a member here, I don’t think I would ever get used to the grandeur of it all.
The bartender swiftly moves to my end once I catch his eye. “Hi, may I please have a glass of champagne?” My voice is a bit too squeaky, but he barely seems to noticeas he grabs a crystal glass and sets it in front of me. Being drunk is the last thing on my mind, but I need something to curve the nerves clawing up from my stomach. A loud pop jolts my system as he pulls the cork from the bottle and a millions tiny bubbles fill the glass before he slides it toward me without a word.
Tipping my head back, the liquid hits my tongue and a weight falls off my shoulders, finally allowing me to breathe.
I don’t quite know what to do yet. Mingle, obviously, but my feet feel rooted to the ground and it amazes me how I can want to be here and want to flee all at the same time. Downing half my glass in one gulp, I bargain with myself. I’m giving myself until the end of my drink to wallow in my awkwardness, and then I’ll talk to someone.
But before I can take my next sip, a heavy presence washes over me. Fine hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention as goosebumps ripple across my shoulders and down my arms. Out of nowhere, a tiny voice in the back of my head, like a long forgotten sixth sense, whispers that someone is watching me.
With about as much stealth as a clumsy dog at dinnertime, I search for the perpetrator. My eyes roam over the groups, scanning for any sign of who set off my internal alarm, but no one is even looking my way. Disappointmentflushes my chest. Something I thought I would never feel when thinking about someone lurking in the dark and staring at me.
One more sweep of the area, just in case, and something inside screeches at me to stop.
I swallow as I lock eyes with a man across the room.
Everything about him blends in with the dark corner he’s standing in. Black slacks, black Oxford with the top two buttons undone, and luckily not one of those black hole masks that set off my flight response. Instead all I’m looking at is a simple full face mask, almost a carbon copy of the one I’m wearing but with masculine features, but it doesn't matter—every one of my senses flares to life as he stares.
A fire ignites where I stand, flames licking up my body the longer it goes on. Where goosebumps pricked only seconds ago, a steady heat broke out across my skin, sending me into a quick panic that perhaps I’m coming down with the flu and spiking a fever. Nothing has ever felt like this, especially not from a simple look from someone I can’t even see.
Bringing my glass back up, I take another sip, keeping my gaze locked on him, not really sure what to do. Then he moves. He pushes off the wall, briefly turns to the woman standing at his side and says something that her bodylanguage can barely hide as she stiffens and then turns away from him. Long strides carry him across the room and my next breath stalls in my chest. Because he’s walking right. To. Me.
Not only my next breath, but every ounce of air vanishes from the room as he stops in front of me. I have to manually remind myself to breathe before I tip my head back to look up at him, or his mask at least. Personal space apparently is not his thing, as the toes of his shoes nearly touch mine.
I’m going to hyperventilate.
Or pass out.
Or hyperventilate andthenpass out.
The room goes fuzzy; a slow vignette encroaches my vision, and my hearing fades, morphing everyone’s voice until only a faint buzzing remains. The world is gone, my focus only on him. Not a single word pierces the moment as he watches me, eyes pinging from my mask, down to my intentionally low dress. One wrong move and my tits would actually spill out of the fabric. It's too dark to tell the color of his eyes but they hover at my chest for a moment before sweeping along the slight dip in my waist and across my stomach. He lingers for another moment before dragging his gaze upward, back to me.
I don’t know if any of it is good or bad.
Does he notice the soft, fullness of my stomach and is trying to find a polite way to turn around and go back to the leggy blonde he was with? Usually, if I’m in formal wear or anything tighter than jeans, there's some sort of compression layer to keep all of me in place but the least sexy thing you can do is peel off a pair of those, so I left them at home.
I even left my underwear at home, but that didn’t seem like the best line to open up with.
