It’s easy to spot who’s anxious by the women who cling to their purses and fidget, and men who can’t look away from their phones rather than taking in the party around them. They’re constantly looking for the exits, and shy away from small talk. They tend to be the ones who accidentally overdrink, avoiding conversation with the bottom of their glasses.
Extroverts wear their personalities—literally. They’re in bright dresses or colored suits. They work the crowd, making eye contact and shaking hands with everyone they come in contact with.
The help is anyone opening doors, serving drinks and food, and hovering in the corners where the light doesn’t hit. They’re better not seen or heard, but they’re easy to spot if you look hard enough. Dressed in black slacks and white long-sleeved button-ups, they huddle together and complain about the rich bastards they’re here to serve.
“Business or pleasure?” a male voice I recognize right away asks. Gary Brooker approaches my left side with a fresh flute of bubbly. He plucks the now warm glass from my fingers and gives it to the bartender. “I’ve had my eye on you for a while. This champagne is fantastic. It’s an abomination you allowed it to go flat. I take it you’re feeling better since the last time I saw you?”
The last time I was with Gary, I sullied his precious marble floor.
“Inez wasn’t happy with me after you called,” I say in an amused tone. I sip my glass of fresh champagne.
Gary brushes his finger down the length of my arm and says, “It took a week to get the smell out of my office. I had the walls repainted.”
I laugh out loud. “You’re crazy.”
We clink glasses and Gary asks, “So? What brings you to the gala? I’ve never seen you at an event before.”
Gary Brooker is the only one of my clients who would ever talk to me in a public setting, and I knew he’d be here. His name was on the list of contributors. Much of the art on display is on loan from his gallery, and some of it is up for auction. Unlike the rest of my clientele, Gary has nothing to hide and zero shame. He’d proudly show me off if I’d allow it. As far as he’s concerned, I’m the most beautiful thing he owns. And the mongrels love to show off their riches.
“Pleasure,” I say.
“Great. Please, join me.” Gary holds his hand out in invitation.
Camilla’s accepted a gentlemen’s invitation to dance, so I slide my hand into Gary’s and let him lead me toward the art exhibits. He tucks my arm under his possessively, and I allow it because it gives the impression that I’m not alone. This’ll be helpful as this crowd gets drunk on alcohol and egos, and hopefully they’ll leave me alone if they’re under the impression I’m with the charity art dealer.
“I chose some of these pieces with you in mind,” Gary says.
I’m not being paid for my undivided attention, so I don’t bother to respond to Gary’s attempt to impress me. The paintings are extraordinary, but I don’t believe for one second he thought about me at all when choosing which pieces to feature tonight. This has to be what he says to anyone he wants to sway.
Gary talks about the mood and visual characteristics of each piece, but my mind wanders to another name I saw on the contributors list. I hoped by leaving my post at the bar that I might catch a glimpse of my favorite Ridge, but I haven’t seen Talent, Wilder, or their father in attendance. They’ll be here. Ridge & Sons is one of the Carousel of Love Gala’s top donors.
“There’s more on the second level. Care to join me?” Gary asks, walking me toward the elevators before I have a chance to consider.
The elevator doors part on the second level of the warehouse. It’s a subdued, almost muted version of the party going on downstairs. Instead of indulging in Gary’s continued droning on of his art collection, I stride over to the rail overlooking the event below. It’s a bird’s-eye view of the entire gala. Camilla’s easy to spot right away, surrounded by interested suitors. But she’s not the only person I’m in search of.
And then I see him.
Like I knew where to look all along.
Talent’s at the bar on the other side of the room from the one I spent my night at so far, and his dark gray eyes have found mine, too. Lifting my champagne glass to him, Talent returns the gesture with a glass of dark liquor.
Should I? his eyes ask.
I dare you, mine reply.
He’s not as put together as the narcissists or closed off as the anxious guests. Talent Ridge lingers in the gray area between belonging and standing out. His suit is designer-fitted, but his tie is loose, and his blazer is unbuttoned and rolled to his elbows. He got a haircut, but he probably could have used a closer shave. Talent walks with natural swagger, but not with the arrogance of someone who believes this party is more than what it is: delusional.
“Bored with me already?” Gary asks. He leans on the railing beside me.
“Do you see the girl in the black gown?”
Camilla isn’t the only woman dressed in black, but she is the only one who matters.
“Friend of yours?” he asks, intrigued.
“We work together.” Encouraging my clients to seek other women has the potential to ruin my career, but the notion of kneeling in Gary’s office again is inconceivable. Inez wants Camilla to follow in my footsteps. She can start with Gary. “Nothing changes but the woman. Same arrangement. Same terms and price.”
Gary straightens his lapels and clears his throat. “Fascinating.”
Talent arrives holding a glass of amber liquid around the rim, haloed by the light inside the elevator. Gary and Talent breeze past each other in passing, as one attempts to enter my life and the other leaves it for good. If looks could kill, then Gary wouldn’t have a pulse. The art dealer is oblivious, because sharing me has always been the deal.
I finish my glass of champagne, relishing in the warmth cruising through my veins. I think about dropping my empty glass to watch it shatter on the ground below. The subsequent confusion it would cause is the entertainment I crave, but Talent slides his palm across my lower back. My body draws to him like gravity.
“I hoped you’d be here,” he says with the romantic scent of whisky on his lips.
There’s nothing I want more than to slip into his jacket and put my arms where his arms go, to press my chest flush against his, nestling into his body heat. But he’s Talent Ridge, and I’m a call girl.
He decodes the look of uncertainty on my face, clenching his jaw at the idea that we have to postpone any of the precious moments we have together again. But I don’t have to look around to know we’re being scrutinized.
“Where can we be alone?” I ask, breathing in the scent of his skin just in case there’s nowhere to go and we have to part.
Talent surprises me and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. For the sake of anonymity, I lower my head and let my hair curtain my face from inquisitive stares and nosy socialites.
Talent throws back the last finger of his drink and leaves the empty glass in a standing ashtray. He tucks me under his arm, glaring at the onlookers with the know-how and ability to ruin their lives if they have the audacity to look too closely. The insignificant people—the plus ones and seat fillers—won’t know who I am, and they’ll gossip among each other trying to crack the code.