She offers a plastic grin, and her pep talk—slash—you can whore it out if you want tospeech is over.
“Shit,” my friend Matt says in exasperation.
“You down for a little back door, behind the back door?” I tease him. It’s sickening that rich men think they can fuck the catering staff.
“Depends on the price. I could be gay for pay.” I think he’s teasing, too. “You’re drop-dead. What about you?” Was that a compliment?
“Hell no. They can take their bougie little elitist club cocks and lodge them straight up their asses, right alongside the Wagyu kabob I’ll be shoving in there.” I flash him a flirty grin because Matt is pretty one-dimensional: he likes sex, women, and cars.
“Straight to the point.” He makes a gesture like he’s ramming something up an ass, and I smile. John does too.
“Oh, Matt,” John plays along. “That’s so tempting.”
“For a million dollars…” Matt offers a kissy face, and we all laugh.
“After tonight is over, I’m going home to my slippers and Hairball, our apartment cat.” I offer a big smile. “Nothing is better than being in my own bed without an entitled billionaire in it.”
“Livin’ on the wild side.” John makes a goofy face under his Harlequin mask, and I laugh more.
We had to audition for this gig, and it shows. Everybody is a little weird, larger than life, and stunningly gorgeous.
“Okay, we’re going to let them in. Big smiles, be discreet, and have fun,” Sadie says. While that last part is a bit of a stretch, I go back into the kitchen and grab a pass tray, ready to spend the night on my feet. Being a dancer, they are going to totally hate me in the morning.
Chapter Two
Beckett
I enter the Waldorf Astoria dreading every step. I hate the masked ball held annually by CSS, but being a member of an exclusive and private society of the world’s elite makes my attendance mandatory.
I brought my own mask—a golden rooster. My friends like to refer to it as my "golden cock," which I don’t argue with. It’s just another thing I despise about the party. I am not one for small talk or spending time around people who, at any given moment, could become an enemy hiding behind the mask of a friend. I don't like being in such treacherous company.
I was born into the Chester Street Society by way of my father. He was one of the founding members who actually lived on Chester Street in Brooklyn. The secret society they built boosted their businesses and aligned key players with one another in private. Since then, CSS has grown far beyond its small Brooklyn street beginnings to encompass the world. Now, the secret dealings behind closed doors and masked parties include all of the world's most successful entrepreneurs, covering up international scandals and illegal enterprises. The CSS is both good and evil in equal measure.
My game plan for the evening is to speak to the key players and make sure my presence is known. I’ll stay for an hour or two, then find my best friends and sequester ourselves somewhere out of earshot so we can have a legitimate conversation. I look around the room, trying to find them. They also grew up in the society. We are the sons and grandsons of the founding members. Our membership is obligatory, though I am the only one in the group who doesn't actually enjoy being a part of the CSS. It isn't that I dislike expensive and exclusive things, nor that I don't appreciate the unspoken alliances, but I am conflicted. My job is to save lives, to innovate medical science, and to extend inclusive and supportive treatment to people with acute and fataldiseases.
It is a challenge—like a game or a puzzle—for me to figure out how to cure incurable conditions. I am not altruistic enough to want to save the world; however, being competitive, I expect to heal as many as possible. Some call it a God complex, but for me, it’s just good business. The society’s agenda is more self-serving.
The Quatro, as my friends and I call ourselves, consists of Griffin, a lawyer; Cade, a hockey player who plays for the Canadian national team but lives in New York; and Marcel, an investment banker with his hand in every real estate pot worth anything—anywhere. Technically, we are not supposed to be friends with one another. The society isn’t for friendship. Its purpose is to align influential people into contractual obligations, forging partnerships that benefit the society and increase our power. The Quatro is about good whiskey, pretty pussy, and gut-splitting laughter when we can find it.
“Vegan foie gras with umami lentils, truffle aioli, dandelion flax rounds, and lavender almond-crème fraise?” a soft feminine voice asks.
“What the fuck is it?” I whip around to face her.
My brain quickly computes: red mask, red lips, fucking legs for days and days, thigh gap, toned calves. She works out. A lot. She takes an exasperated breath and fills her lungs to rattle off the bullshit little piece of vegan insanity she is offering.
“Vegan foie gras…”
“Just tell me in English,” I interrupt, irritated. But more than that, I am having fun intimidating her.
I may want to create life-saving drugs to end the world's greatest threats—cancer, autoimmune disease—but I am still a complete and total dick. If I can make someone squirm, I do. I don't like people, and the more I am able to push them away, the safer, happier, and more accomplished I feel.
“Vegan pâté with flowers, I think. It’s like fancy mushrooms squished up with almond cream and lavender. Do you want one?” She seems to hate it here as much as I do.
“No,” I say abruptly.
“I can get you something with meat in it,” she throws at me like a wad of paper.
“No.” I offer her nothing.
