And we stepped through the doorway to be thrust into fantasy.
A jazz band played on the stage at the other end of the space, lights shining on glistening skin as they played their goddamn brains out. A fiddle and a bass, a trumpet and a trombone, a sax player next to the clarinet. Behind them was the drummer, looking slick as all hell and cool as a fucking cucumber, despite his soaked shirt. The dance floor before them was a glittering thing, sparkling with beaded dresses and feathered fascinators and fringe and pearls. A swirling mosaic of mirrors covered the low ceiling, the grout golden. And the rest of the space was a symphony of textures—red velvet and brass, mahogany and exposed brick.
Ash grinned like an idiot from my side, eyes hungry and bright as he watched the dance floor bounce in time to the beat of the drum. Blindly, he slapped me on the chest.
“We need a drink. And then we’re finding somebody to dance with whether you like it or not.”
With a laugh, I followed him to the bar, where we ordered scotch from a guy with an undercut and a handlebar mustache. And when we turned around to make our way to the edge of the dance floor, I took a moment to appreciate the feast laid before me.
It was, as everyone had said, rich and indulgent, from the decor to the people who filled the establishment. I spotted faces that would have been recognized by even the most devoted recluse—actors and actresses, musicians and models—and some many wouldn’t have a clue about, from photographers to artists and even a few writers. Not a single person in the place was out of costume, the effect both unnerving and immersive. We’d gone back in time to enjoy the night to the fullest before the cops busted down the doors and threw us all in paddy wagons.
It wasn’t a far cry even now, a hundred years after the Prohibition. If the police commissioner had anything to do with it, every Bright Young Thing in the joint would be locked in said paddy wagon and on their way to having the truth about Cecelia Beaton’s identity wrung out of them.
His obsession with the group of seemingly harmless youths was its own spectacle, and everyone was curious as to why. Why was the commissioner on a crusade to disband the movement? What did he want with the group, and why had he decided to grandstand? Something about it felt personal, though no one knew what’d happened to instigate the attack.
But that wasn’t what I was here to find out—not officially, at least. The scheme was simple, concocted over several gallons of coffee in a writers’ room at Vagabond, where I was a staff writer. We were the ’90s answer to Rolling Stone, created as the new generation’s music and culture magazine. Almost overnight, we’d stepped into their role, starting a rivalry that still went on thirty years later.
Everyone wanted to know what it was like to be a Bright Young Thing. The public was thirsty as fuck for details, for deeper insight into the fantasy the group provided. Was there some higher purpose, or were they just a bunch of disparaging youths, parading their elite and exclusive group around to tease the masses?
Since I was the only one at the writers’ table with an in, the gig was mine, and with it came a substantial pay raise on delivery. The plan was simple enough: convince Ash to bring me to as many parties as I could in order to write a big overview article for the magazine feature.
But to get what I needed, the necessity for secrecy was imperative. Ash knew—I wouldn’t have asked without his knowledge of what I was really doing. But otherwise, I’d have to keep my profession to myself or risk being blacklisted from the parties. Or worse—I could take Ash down with me.
And if I could draw out Cecelia Beaton, I might just earn myself a hefty bonus.
The suspicion was that it was the whole lot of them, or at least the fifty or so core members. The secrecy drove people mad, and though they never really caused trouble beyond some red tape here and there, serving minors on occasion, noise violations and the like, Commissioner Warren didn’t care. Never mind drug dealers and sex traffickers—Warren put the Bright Young Things on his banner and waved it around like they were everything wrong with the younger generation. The generation of waste and sloth and irresponsibility. A brood of whiners, soft and useless.
He might as well be shaking his fist and shouting, Damn millennials! Get off my lawn!
Where some called him out for wasting resources on something so harmless, he insisted it was just as important—he wouldn’t let the rich kids get away with flagrant disrespect for the law. And beyond all logic, the louder voices agreed, ready to hunt down Cecelia Beaton and give her the old Marie Antoinette.
Truth be told, I thought they were all assholes. But at least these assholes threw a great party.
Ash hit me in the chest with the back of his hand, but when I shot him a look, he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring in front of us.
At her.
She floated toward us like a north magnet through a sea of norths that parted as she approached and closed behind her, a bubble of force keeping them just out of reach in deference or awe or both. Eyes, bright as glittering diamonds, were locked on mine, her lips touched with the ghost of a curve at the corners, the promise of a smile. Everything about her shone—the finger waves in her golden hair, the crystals dotting the band of her fascinator, the reflective beads on her dress.
That dress. White chiffon and silver lace, twinkling beads trimming the deep V, the ghostly fabric hugging the curves of her body from rib to hip before cascading to the ground. Tiny strands of silver beads capped her shoulders like a draping spiderweb, heavy with sparkling dew.
But my eyes snagged hers again, lustrous blue eyes lined with smoky kohl and long lashes, her skin pale and perfect but for the rise of color in her cheeks and the blood red of her narrow, lush lips.
A tug somewhere in the expanse of my chest urged me to meet her as she drifted toward me.
Not Ash.
Me.
Because if she was a north magnet, I was a south. And it seemed both of us knew it.
Time lurched to a start and picked up speed, like turning on a record player when the needle already rested in the groove.
She smiled.
I smiled.
Ash saved us from having to speak. “Stella Spencer. Aren’t you a vision?”
She laughed, the sound plucking a thread in me. “Flatterer.” She reached for him with long, pale fingers, brushing his bicep as she leaned in to press her cheek to his. “I thought you were bringing Lily,” she said as she backed away, her eyes flicking in my direction.
I didn’t miss the flush of her cheeks from whatever she saw.
“I was, but Levi here is a nonbeliever, and I felt compelled to show him just what it was all about.”
“Levi,” she said, almost as if it were a sound she’d never heard before. “Stella.” She extended a hand, which I took, my thumb absently stroking her skin, charting the fine bones that rested beneath.
“Welp, look at that.” Ash held up his empty glass with a dramatic flair. “Time for a refill. Need one, Stella? Levi?”
“I’m good,” she said on a laugh, removing her hand from my grip. I hadn’t realized I was still holding it.
“Me too,” I answered. Or mumbled.
Ash said something smart before walking away, but I didn’t hear him.
You’d think I’d never seen a pretty girl before.
You’d think I’d never seen Stella Spencer before.