My God, sharp women rev my engine. “Some costumes call for accessories.”
She lifts her cigarette holder, showing off her cherry-red nails. “They do.”
The woman talks like sex, looks like a dirty dream, and fires barbs like she’s in a darts championship.
It seems so wrong to take my friends’ money when I win this wager. Because, mark my words, she will be mine.
“But,” she adds, taking her time with that word, like a cat stretching in the sun, “the costume, like Gatsby, has its flaws.”
Fine. I’ll bite. “Tell me what’s missing, then.”
“The flaw is thinking you can have it all,” she says, coolly and in control.
Time for me to take the wheel. “Now that you’ve psychoanalyzed my costume, I’ve got a theory about yours.” With a nod, I indicate her enticing get-up.
“Go on,” she says, sensual and inviting, playing with her kill.
“A woman who chooses a costume so open to interpretation likes a little bit of mystery,” I say. “Maybe, even, she doesn’t want to be . . . known.”
The flapper arches a brow. “Hmmm. Perhaps you should have dressed as Freud.”
I offer a satisfied smile. “I’d even go so far as to say a woman with multiple interpretations likes the many versions of her masquerading self.”
“Oh, wow,” she deadpans. “We’re venturing deep into the subconscious, I see.”
“Deep is better than shallow,” I say with gravel in my voice, lingering on the double meaning.
She flicks some strands of her hair. “A woman needs a bit of armor against the Gatsbys of the world. So perhaps you’re not far off in your assessment. You with your tux and your raspy voice and your blue eyes and your cocky attitude.”
Dress me all the way down, Not-Daisy. I like it. You are the most fun I’ve had in ages.
“I like armor. And the idea of mystery. I also don’t mind complicated literary characters. Even selfish ones. Even ones who don’t get a happy ending.” I take a beat, a familiar heaviness weighing on me. “Those are rare in life. And that possibility can keep a man on his toes. I, for one, like being kept on my toes.”
She leans her elbows against the table, takes her time answering. “So you came all the way over here to tell me that love is unpredictable?”
“I have many theories on love, but I didn’t come over to discuss them.”
She lifts her chin. “Then why are you here?”
I don’t want this chance with her to end. I want it to fill up my night, so I gesture to the back room of the bar. “To see if you’d like to play blackjack or pool.”
“Sure. That is, if you like to lose . . .”
“Depends on the game,” I say.
She licks her lush red lips, takes a step closer to me, curls her fingers around my lapel once more. “One hundred bucks says I beat you.”
Her heated gaze could launch a thousand erections, and I would bet a grand that I’ll be hard all night, but I don’t want to reveal all my dirty thoughts so soon. “It’s on, Daisy.”
We head to the games room, weaving through the crowd. No one else is playing now, so I go straight to the cue holder on the wall, select a stick for myself, and offer one to the woman in silver.
“Ladies first.” I lean in close enough to catch a whiff of her scent—a little like honeysuckle, citrusy with hints of something sweet. It weaves into my mind with its promise of nighttime secrets.
“Such a gentleman.” She takes the cue but sets it down to rack the balls on the felt. Then she picks up the stick, breaks, and one by one, lands her first four shots.
I drag a hand down my face. Fuck me. “A flapper and a pool shark,” I say, and I whistle in admiration.
She misses the fifth shot but doesn’t lose her cool. “Your turn, mister.”
I line up the green ball, send it spinning into the corner pocket. Then I get a few more shots in before I miss. And, sure enough, the lady runs the table and pockets the eight ball. Bet she’s waggling her brows in victory behind that feathered mask. She blows on the end of the pool cue. “Every woman should have a special skill,” she says, then rubs her thumb and forefinger together. “Hand it over, Gatsby.”
I reach into my wallet for a bill to slap into her palm just as Spencer’s wife, Charlotte, speaks over the bar’s mic, calling the patrons to attention. “And now, it’s time for the costume contest. We’ve got zombies and dragons, belles and gentlemen, cowboys and cowgirls, and more.”
Moments later, Charlotte sashays into the games room, wearing a slinky skirt, a tight white blouse, and glasses. She’s a sexy librarian, no doubt, especially when she claps a hand on my shoulder, then glances at the woman next to me. “Jay and Daisy, you really should enter the couples’ costume contest. A thousand-dollar cash prize goes to the charity of your choice.”
As Charlotte continues to the small stage in the games room, I turn to the pool shark, meeting her gaze through the feathered mask. A competitive spark lights her brown eyes even as she protests under her breath. “We’re not Daisy and Jay.”
“Give in tonight, Not-Daisy.” I reach for the black feather boa draped around her neck and run my fingers along the soft fluff. I continue the trail down her arm and her breath hitches. “For tonight, we could be that doomed literary couple.”
Her lips part silently, but her eyes say she’s considering my offer. Her body says she likes the skim of my fingertips along her skin. “C’mon. What’s your favorite charity?”
“Literacy for Youth.”
I bring my face inches from hers, whispering, “That’s . . . hot.”
Then, I back up an inch or two and flip her feather boa around her neck, watching her closely. Her eyes widen behind her mask, tracking my hand as I let go. Goose bumps rise on her skin. She’s as affected by our chemistry as I am.
“Daisy’s still a jerk,” she mutters.
“And Jay doesn’t get the girl. But really, all we have to do is be who everyone thinks you are, and who no one thinks I am,” I say. Our eyes lock through our masks. “What do you say? Let’s give in for a few minutes.”
She takes my arm, and we sign up for the contest.
3
Affairs of the Dick
Spencer bounds to the stage, mic in hand, the lemons bobbing against his shirt.
“And let’s give it up for Bonnie and Clyde.” My cousin claps loudly, drumming up a round of applause for the outlaw couple traipsing off the small stage. “Audience vote determines the winner.”
The crowd claps loudly for the outlaws. “They look good, Daisy,” I tell my partner from our spot at the edge of the stage.
“But we’ll look better,” the woman says, all brazen confidence.
She goes from breathless one second to kickass the next. Who is this woman behind the feathered mask?
As we wait for the next couple, I wrap a hand loosely around her wrist, enjoying that touch. Her name. I need her name. “Are you going to tell me—”
But I stop there.
There’s something so deliciously sexy about her.