Page 43 of Betting on the Brainiac

“Biceps!” one of them reminds Madison.

Leaning into the absurdity, I shrug out of my jacket and give them a gun show. Wolf whistles erupt, and one of the women raises a glass of champagne.

“I’ll drink to that,” she says.

Madison places her hand above my waist and guides me over to the space the women are making in the middle of their banquette for me. As soon as I’m seated, at least three different hands thrust shot glasses in my direction, urging me to drink.

I’m not a big drinker, but I slip the champagne flute out of the hand of the woman next to me, who smiles. I raise it in a silent toast to Madison, and one of the women calls, “To Madi,” whichthe other women echo. Madison does a small curtsy, the fringe on her dress swaying against her body.

I know it’s supposed to be a nod to flappers and the Gatsby’s theme, but it’s giving strong Latin ballroom vibes, and I remember her salsa solo. Maybe that’s what had sealed my doom with this woman.

She moves back to her other table, and I decide to stay put for a bit. I’ll let her see it’s me behind the mask before I go, but for now, I enjoy being able to openly watch her do her thing.

It’s too loud for conversation, but my new champagne friends seem happy enough to point out the action around them, dance their way to the railing to observe the crowd, or take another shot and laugh.

They rotate sitting next to me on either side, shout asking questions near my ear. “Are you single? My sister is single.” “Do you work out? You look like you work out.” “Can you dance? Let’s see it.”

I answer or give self-deprecating shrugs. I understand the appeal of masks. These women can imagine whatever expression they prefer on my face, and I’m happy to let them. It does most of the conversation work for me, leaving me free to watch Madison.

She glides and struts, crouches and towers, leans in with conspiratorial winks and smiles or dances out of reach when someone gets too handsy. None of it seems to bother her, and the men who reach for her only laugh when she spins away. She’s very good at what she does, and the longer I watch her, the more I notice. How she dances as she moves like she can’t help it. Like she wishes she was down on the floor. She swishes and turns as she pours for her VIPs, head, shoulders, hips all moving in time to the beat of each song.

A few times, she catches me looking at her. I want her to. She’s who I’m here for.

It’s beginning to feel like a performance for one as she checks to see if I’m still watching. I make it a point not to disappoint her. She gives a curve of her lips that’s not a smile but an acknowledgement of our silent conversation. She brushes her hair behind one shoulder, listening to a customer but keeping herself angled to see me, and I follow the path of her hand as it smooths her hair.

Old Oliver is returning, the one who got buried under work responsibilities and deadlines some time last year. The Oliver who resurfaced for a date or two to take out Ava, who could make himself present and focused on a beautiful woman. The Oliver who could play the flirting game, everything communicated through silent, small, intentional gestures.

I give her a subtle nod to let her know: yes, Madison, I see your silky hair and your smooth, golden shoulder. I know the exact shade of your skin in every kind of light now.

The corners of her mouth turn up a bit more before her gaze slides away from me to focus on her customer.

A minute later, she’s moving back to my table, but she doesn’t come straight to me. She wouldn’t. The old Oliver—nearly forgotten Oliver—remembers all the rules. All the strategy. How you only win if you both get what you want.

She pours shots to the women’s cheers, ignoring me completely, knowing she already has my attention. When she extends one to me like I’m any other customer, I shake my head, and she passes it off to one of the ladies, who accepts and tosses it back to more cheers.

In a couple of minutes, they’re going to be drunk past the point of being entertaining, and I’ll leave, but I want to soak in these last few minutes of Madison before I tell her who I am and watch how she tries to play it off. If I were a smart man, I’d let her, giving her the easy laugh and a friendly hug to put us back on the footing we’ve had since finding Tabitha.

But I don’t want to do that. I want her to seeme,to realize it’s me she’s so drawn to now, not let her play it off.

I don’t want to be rational Oliver tonight. Not with the sound pushing in on me, pulsing from everywhere. Not with the sway of the fringe against her body looking as soft as her hair. Not with the energy rising from the thrumming mass on the dance floor. It’s the pulse of possibility. The masks make everyone brave, and the whole place is swollen with potential.

Madison makes her way down the row, pouring for the women who want it, my pulse beating faster as she gets closer to me. I shake my head when she offers a pour, and she barely pauses, only the tiniest smirk showing that there’s a different dynamic at play between us as she moves on.

Then she sets the bottle down and moves behind the banquette, and I’m tempted to turn and track her, but I don’t, letting my eyes drift across the open space above the dance floor to the other balcony, watching the people, guessing at the unspoken stories playing out in each conversation.

Like the silent one Madison and I are having.

Do you see me?

I do.

Do you like what you see?

I want to know more.

I feel the light press of hands on my shoulders. I don’t have to look; I already know that touch. Then her lips are beside my ear.

“Can I get you something?”

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