We pull up to a red light and I turn to meet his eyes.
Sorry, he mouths.
I offer him a small smile and a shrug. It’s not a big deal. I almost prefer this. With him on the phone, I don’t have to worry about making small talk. I can just sit here and think deeply about what to do with my hands. He turns back and focuses on the road. I do the same for a moment, but it’s not long before my gaze wanders back to him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I take in the details I’ll be too busy to notice later: the perfectly crisp edge of his tuxedo shirt, his tan hands as they grip the steering wheel, the fit of his pants against his hard thigh. I can’t go higher than his shoulder; he’ll know I’m watching him if I do. It’s too bad, because I’m desperate for a look at his profile—I know it will punch me in the gut—but instead, I turn my focus out through the front window and revel in the sound of his voice. It’s deep and low, and during his second call, it turns gruff. I’ve never been so intrigued by the way someone speaks, but then again, I’ve never been in a car with James.
He hangs up and apologizes again, but I assure him it’s fine.
“I’ve been trying to figure out where you’re taking me.”
He smiles. “It’s just around the corner.”
He’s not kidding. A moment later, he pulls over to the curb on 5th street, gets out, and rounds the front of the car. The valet opens my door and I step out just as James is handing off his keys, but before the eager-faced teenager can get behind the wheel, James holds up his finger for him to wait.
I glance to the valet and then back to James.
“Want to leave that in the car?” he says, pointing to my coat. “I doubt they’ll have a coat check inside.”
Of course not—why would they? It’s a million degrees out here.
I blush and reach for the top button. I’d forgotten I was even wearing it. It was slightly chilly in James’ car, but now the humidity and heat have set in and I’m almost thankful to get rid of the thick wool—that is, until I catch the valet’s eyes nearly bugging out when he gets a glimpse at my dress underneath.
I hate Beth.
I can’t even look at James. I know he’ll see how uncomfortable I am wearing this out in public. Maybe I should have rooted through my closet for another option, but now it’s too late. I’m here and I’m wearing the dress, so I might as well embrace it. I stand tall and push my shoulders back. My silky hair falls over my shoulder and down my back.
James steps forward and takes my hand, blocking my view of the valet. His grip is warm and strong as he leads me away from the curb.
“You look beautiful,” he says, low enough so I know the compliment is meant only for me to hear.
I love Beth.
The building we walk up to is simple: a one-story made of black brick with no name and no windows on the facade. Ahead of us there’s a single black door serving as the main entrance. It’s oversized and shiny, flanked by black pillars and two bouncers on either side.
A gray-haired man nods to the bouncer on the left and the hulking man steps back and opens the door. No one speaks or makes eye contact as we pass. It’s the weirdest experience of my life, and I’m half-convinced I’m about to step into some creepy illuminati meeting with Robert Langdon.
We step inside and James lets go of my hand so he can lead me down a long hallway with his palm pressed to the small of my back. I can feel the warmth of his touch through the thin material of my dress, and I’m glad I left my coat in the car.
Whoever designed the facade of the building clearly had a hand in the interior as well, and they subscribed to the notion that black is back to being the new black. The hallway is monochromatic: black marble floors, black walls, and black metal orb chandeliers. At first, my heels clacking against the marble is the only sound, but as we continue toward another door at the end of the hall, low, bluesy jazz music starts to spill out.
There’s another bouncer. Another man with a subtle nod and no words exchanged.
The second door is whisked open, and finally, we’ve arrived—or rather, we’ve gone back in time.
My dress makes much more sense as we step into a room decorated as a 1920s speakeasy. Heavy chandeliers burning large Edison bulbs illuminate the black and white checkered marble floors. A long bar on the left is lined with thousands of backlit liquor bottles. Tufted dark leather sofas surround low coffee tables, and a few refurbished whiskey barrels serve as cocktail tables. A 12-person jazz band performs on a small stage across from the bar. I can’t tell how far the room extends. It’s more of a ballroom than a bar, and when I press up on my toes, I think I spot gambling tables at the other end.
“What is this place?”
The question is meant to be rhetorical, but James answers anyway.
“The best kept secret in town.”
…
I can’t remember if James ever told me he was taking me to a hoity-toity fundraiser or if I assumed that on my own. Looking back, I don’t think he ever misled me. Still, he didn’t willingly offer details about tonight. As we make our way through the room, James is continuously stopped by men with hearty laughs and strong handshakes. Without much context, they remind me of my dad’s friends. They’re movers and shakers in Austin, and maybe if I were in that world, I’d recognize them. It’s clear from the suits and the watches and the beautiful women that they have all done well for themselves; I don’t think they’d be in this room otherwise.
It’s the beautiful women that catch my attention the most though. They smile knowingly at me when we’re in a small group together, as if I’m in on the secret. At first, I’m not, but I catch on fast.
The first couple we stop and chat with is comprised of an overweight man nearing 60 and a sexy, young blonde. He’s wearing a wedding ring; she isn’t. The next couple, though much closer in age, follow the same pattern—he’s wearing a ring, but she isn’t. Scantily clad cocktail waitresses pass through the crowd delivering moonshine cocktails and old fashioneds—or for men like James, bourbon on the rocks. They’re beautiful and blinding, eye candy for the men here out on the town with their mistresses. That’s what they are, mistresses, and perhaps I’m one of them.
“Ah, Michael, there you are,” James says as a new man approaches our group.
He’s younger than most of the men here, close to James’ age. By his side is a striking black woman wearing a fitted tuxedo jacket and pants, clearly designed with her lithe body in mind. While at first the outfit seems conservative compared to most of the dresses in the room, she chose to forego a shirt beneath the jacket so it looks more like a low-cut top. It’s daring and bold. She looks like she just stepped off the runways of Paris, and with that face and those legs, chances are she probably did.
The men exchange handshakes and then James introduces me to Michael’s date, Celeste.
“It’s a pleasure to meeting you,” she says with a soft French accent.
Ah, so she’s my target for the night, the whole reason I’m here in the first place.
She holds her hand out for me to take, and her palm is silky smooth. I’m not a tiny girl, but Celeste still has a few inches on me. My model theory grows more roots.
“Enchanté. I love your outfit,” I say in French, grateful that I don’t have to lie.
Her eyes light up.
“Vous parlez Francais?” she asks, intrigued.
I nod.
“Ah, I was worried I would have to keep quiet tonight,” she continues in French. “My English isn’t very good.”
I open my mouth to continue our conversation, but Michael beats me to it.
“James, it seems you found a beautiful French girl as well,” he says, his eyes pinned on me. “Who is this delicate creature?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It’s not that Michael is bad-looking; it’s worse. He has all the attributes women usually look for accompanied by an air of unchecked arrogance. I’m not a girl, and I’m not a “delicate creature”, and most importantly, I haven’t been found.
James glances down at me, his expression unreadable. “This is my friend Brooke.”