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.”
I know most women don’t want to be referred to as a friend while they’re supposedly on a date with a man, but for some reason, the word strikes me. In this setting, where we’re surrounded by every form of debauchery known to man, I’d rather be James’ friend than his date. It holds more weight, and I think Michael realizes it for a split second before his smile twists into something more sinister.
“If you’re only James’ friend, I’d love to get to know you better. Care for a drink?”