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He’s mid-thirties, blond hair tucked under a fedora, his face obscured by a matching black mask. His off-the-rack suit bunches slightly in the sleeve, hangs in the torso, not doing a whole lot to obscure his very, very wide shoulders and narrow waist. Also suggests a non-custom, non-tailored job.

Another thing this couple’s not doing? They’re not interacting with anyone else at the party.

Not talking, mingling, laughing, or even smiling and nodding awkwardly. They hover against the far wall, their backs to the windows, not unlike me. Observing the crowd.

Except the way their eyes scan—heads turning only slightly, occasionally tilting together as they exchange words—I don’t think they’re observing so much as studying.

All while keeping their backs to the walls.

Got my suspicious-motherfucker radar on high alert.

But it’s a different kinda suspicious than Nick and his goons. Those bros are the shifty-and-shady kind of suspicious, where up to no good’s written over every inch of them even as they try to blend in.

These two aren’t trying to blend; they know they don’t belong and they don’t seem to care if anybody else knows it either. Leads me to think: cops. Or Feds, maybe. Some kind of law enforcement or intelligence.

Which, to be perfectly and completely honest, turns my night like ten times more interesting and dangerous and exhilarating. Nothing makes you feel alive like walking right up to your enemy, staring him in the face, and offering him a grin wide enough to make the crescent moon jealous.

Love

This

Shit.

Knock, knock, mofos.

Wanna play?

The game’s so much more exciting when I have an audience. And I mean, I’ve yet to see any sign that Nick’s boys are about to make a move aside from a surreptitious underarm scratch forceful enough to test the tensile strength of a few buttons.

Besides, I love fucking with cops. Number One fave pastime.

So, when the redhead splits off, leaving the blond man alone against that wall, I make my move. Slip through the crowd like the shadow I am and pop up next to his side like the obnoxious fucking jack-in-the-box I also am. “I hate parties like this, don’t you?”

five

Playing

“What?” The blond man tilts his head toward me, not a full turn, like he’s keeping half his attention on the crowd. Can’t be sure if he’s looking for someone or he’s just one of those fools that’s always got one eye open, never sits with his back to the room, that kind of shit.

I should know, right?

Welp, time to commandeer a bit more of that attention. “Well, I hate parties like this. I’m only here ’cause my mom’s cousin Tilly—do you know her? Tilly Whitman?—Well, anyway, Tilly told my mom I was doing coke again, which is not true. Mostly. But like, I had to come and prove it.”

He’s watching the crowd, but so’m I. Off in my periphery, Silverback’s picking his nose with admirable determination.

In front of me, the blond man clears his throat.

“So, you’re not on coke?” No inflection in his voice, and he’s rigid with tension—oozes stick-in-the-mud energy. Reeks of some kinda law enforcement. But even with little more than a profile to work with, I catch the slight tilt of his blond brow over the mask.

A reaction!

“I am not on coke.” I sniff, straighten out my very, very expensive diamond cufflinks. “But I mean, after all the shit at this party, I am not digging the sobriety thing, you know? I have actually been saying no to drugs like a good kid. But after tonight, man, I’m reconsidering everything.”

He turns toward me. Full-on staring now. I’ve officially become more exciting than Silverback’s gold-digging. So interesting, it’s like I’ve sprouted a second head. Or a third. Like he’s never heard anybody monologue about drugs before. “So, you are on coke?”

Unfettered glee surges through me. He’s got such an uptight, unflinching vibe, getting so much reaction out of him is what I envision it’d be like to wake up Christmas morning and actually have presents.

Or it’s that with the full-on close-up look at his masked face, I realize—“Wow. You’re hot.”