Page 2 of Vows in Sin
But I haven’t been able to.
Which is why I now hold my head down as I try to blend into the crowd, making my way past the other glamorous stores. The bright lights of Gotcha’s neon sign come into view. Butterflies burst into flight in my stomach.
I’m so close to Dame’s world now, I can smell the Hermes leather from the Birkins.
Cleopatra is marrying one of those gorgeous billionaires, so I’ve got intel. Last night, she called me, her maid of honor, asking if she should use live goldfish in bowls as centerpieces for her wedding.
Last night’s phone call also informed me that in about thirty minutes, Dame will be arriving at the family dance club, Gotcha.
Tonight is a private party meant for Bachmans and the important people they do business with.
Invite-only.
Unfortunately, my name won’t appear on the guest list alongside the influential mafiosos, celebrities, and millionaires who can buy their way in.Consequently, this hardworking city girl has to employ clever tactics.
I’m not trying to do the impossible and get into the Village. It’s only a dance club I’m wiggling my way into.
I seek merely a glimpse, one observation, and an opportunity to see Dame in person—perhaps a brief conversation.
A single dance, perhaps.
A slight, fortuitous encounter to allow me to discern whether the fixation flourishing in my mind like forest mushrooms is genuine.
What’s the worst that could happen? I hang out in the corner of the dance floor, scoping eye-candy while enjoying a few drinks? Perhaps I might dance with a stranger?
Maybe Dame will notice me, go wild with jealousy, and realize what he’s missing.
Or I’ll find I’m over him and move on. I slow, taking in the long line of beautiful people outside the club. Either way, it’s worth the risk. If they catch me, what’s the most they can do? Kick me out?
Plan A is to keep my disguise on, get in line, chat with some attractive partygoers, and persuade them to let me join before we reach the front of the line. Get into the club and find somewhere to lose this outfit, revealing my curls and sparkly silver micro dress.
Then, find Dame.
The light rain has stopped now. Moving further down the sidewalk, I spot a brunette wearing a shimmery gold jumpsuit and clear pumps. Her friendly, open face leads me to slip in behind her. She’s fiddling with a hot pink iridescent band circling her slender wrist. It glitters like a hologram as she twists it between her fingers, saying, “These men are going to have leashes on us next. They’ve upped security even tighter since the drama started with the Moretties.”
The friend beside her grabs her wrist. “Don’t do that,” she says, “What if you mess it up?” Her red hair is smoothed into a sleek shoulder-length bob.
“Please, Tess.” Princess Laia laughs. “It’s Bachman Tech. Nothing could hurt it. Either you have a band or you’re a phony.”
“And if you’re a fake, you’re gonna get your ass kicked.” The redhead, Tess, laughs. “If Rockland had his way back in the day, every man in here would be expelled, and we Beauties would be dancing in a girl-only club.”
“And we’d have to take an armored car here instead of walking from the Village,” the brunette says. “But we do love our protective men.”
“True, Charlie.” Princess is named Charlie. Cute. The redhead smiles at her friend. “I always say, you can’t do better than a Bachman.”
Tell me about it, girls!
Charlie leans in, whispering behind a manicured hand. “Especially in the boudoir.”
Wouldn’t I like to know. I didn’t get the chance.
I slip from the line as Tess thanks Charlie for a gift of Dior sunglasses, their conversation growing fainter as I move. My heart sinks.
I can’t ask them to get me in. There’s no way I’m getting in the front door on my own.
A school of well-dressed businessmen swims past. Lawyers, judging by their leather briefcases, headed to the pub down the street. Enveloping myself in the cologne-saturated group, I walk with them away from the front door to the corner of Bachman Ave.
Looks like it’s going to be Plan B.
