“He’s thirty-eight, but he’s a full-on asshole,” she says, winded from the descent as we both duck into the tiny sports car.
She drives like a maniac. The upside? I get to the gig on time.
“Don’t wait up, this thing will probably go on forever,” I tell her as I wrangle myself out of the car, wearing absolutely not enough clothing.
“Your chances of being abducted by a vampire king increase after midnight. What’s the game plan?” She looks at me, dead serious.
“John Milbrook, bouncer extraordinaire and proud owner of a Toyota Avalon, will be escorting me through the dark and dangerous streets this evening. My prince.” I flash her a smarmy smile.
“Okay. Flirt enough to get paid, but do not get laid; one-night stands are not worth it. Only the best man in the world gets thatmaraschino, baby!”
“My maraschino is staying safely in the jar, I promise. However, this is not the eighteen-hundreds; I can hand over my V-card to a loser, asshole, or hot drunk guy if I want.” I frown at her, then give her a wink.
“Just don’t make an oops,” she says, driving off into the honking traffic she’s been holding up.
I walk up to the aristocratic Waldorf Astoria Hotel, glad I was dropped off by a Lamborghini while wearing my Marc Jacobs bow minidress. I don’t feel so dirt-poor. I’m tempted to walk in the front door, but the catering entrance is around back, so I step carefully on my wonky heel, hoping it lasts the night.
The kitchen is bustling with people clattering pots and utensils, listening to a very sweaty chef bark orders. Five sous chefs look terrified—probably begging for death rather than facing the night ahead. Servers weave in and out around them. I ask one of the sous chefs where I can find the catering manager.
“At the bar, but you can’t enter the hotel without a mask on.” He is deveining shrimp and nods toward a basket of masks near the catering entrance for employees.
“Gotcha, thanks.” I give him a flirty grin, and he returns it with a nervous smile. Shit, the chef really has put the fear of God in them.
I pick a red mask, mostly because it only covers my eyes. I hate having things on my face. The rest are too gaudy and weird. Some are animals, some have a Gothic vibe, others look like they belong in a horror movie. But the one I pick is simple—papier-mâché painted red with little stars next to each eye. It feels magical.
I put it on and walk out of the kitchen into a room that is empty, save for a few interior designers decorating tables with gold candelabras, pink flower petals, and gold-wrapped chocolates strategically placed around enormous bouquets of black, pink, gold, and white flowers.
“Hi.” I stop one of the designers. “I’m looking for Sadie. Have you seen her?”
The woman doesn't even look at me; she just nods her head toward the next room. I’m tempted not to say anything in response—all these highbrow people are getting on my nerves—but I thank her and walk next door. I find Sadie gathering the caterers for our pep talk, as she likes to call them.
“Oh good, Scarlett, you’re here. That’s all of us.” She visibly relaxes. “Tonight is about the best of the best. They want service, they want discretion, and they want to be left alone. Y’all are going to have to sign a waiver, but this party is for the international elite. Offer food and drinks and stay invisible unless someone approaches you for more. If you agree to more, you can make some extra money.” Sadie drops her voice.
“Wait, to do what?” I blurt out, suddenly incensed, mouth gaping.
Is she whoring us out? It must be some sort of joke. John, my bouncer friend, jumps right in. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care about the extra money, but he’s probably worried about an increased threat to ‘the perimeter.’ That’s what he calls our venues, like he’s government special ops. It always makes me laugh.
“Does discretion include safety?” John is getting really jumpy.
“Companionship. This is a hotel, and if you want to escort someone for the evening, we have a dignified way to make that happen. Each of you is assigned a room to tray-pass hors d'oeuvres. You are wearing a particular mask. If you’re open to conversation, or a little more, you can put your name on the list. If a guest selects your mask name and room, well, we will make sure conversations happen,” she says with a weird, smarmy smile.
“As long as it’s all consensual, Sadie,” John cautions.
“This is a special request from Massimo himself. I promise you consent and legality is his utmost concern. And if you don’t want a little extra, just don’t put your name on the list.”
For some reason, after saying that, she looks at me. I give her a grimace. I will definitely not be putting my name on any list that allows anything other than shrimp canapés and puff pastries to be exchanged between me and the guests.
I whisper to John, “Are you good to drop me off at home tonight? I'll give you gas money.”
John eyes me. “Yes, and no gas money is needed. I’d drive you to Mars if I had to.” He gives me a kind smile.
“John, if you weren’t gay, I’d say you were flirting,” I say under my breath while Sadie answers a question about the ‘extra benefits’ we could offer.
“I can be gay and flirt.” He gives me an insulted glance, and I laugh.
“Fair.” I return the look.
“If someone approaches you for more than you are offering on the tray, play nice. If you’re not down for a night on the town with one of the world’s most eligible bachelors, or a tryst with someone who has enough money to keep you happy and quiet, simply say ‘no.’ We aren’t selling our souls here. A top-secret collection of the world’s movers and shakers is going to be in this room, so be on your best behavior. Just remember when you sign these waivers you’re releasing Satin Catering from any liability. Once again, just say ‘no’ if it isn’t your thing and stick to passing out Wagyu kabobs.”
