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Ana

THE THINGS WE CAN ONLY SAY AND DO IN THE DARK

My shimmering golden gown clings to my body, the hip panel hugging my shape so it’s almost as though I needn’t have covered up at all.

Though, I don’t look as naked as I feel.

The gown, chosen specifically for this black tie event from a small boutique, is elegant in all the best ways. The silken fabric accentuates what little backside I possess, while also flaunting the D cups I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with.

Love because, of course, boobs are a sure way to catch attention, and it’s an instant ego boost when that attention is, in fact, grabbed. But hate, because I’ve had them since I was twelve, and back then, when grown people looked, it felt gross enough to set me up for a lifetime of baggy shirts and dorky outfits, in lieu of the figure-fitting clothes that most other women my age go for.

I wander the ballroom floor beneath the crystal chandelier in heels taller than any I could ever become used to wearing. All the beautiful people around me wear similar ankle-breaking shoes, but they do it without a single hitch to their strides.

Though of course, the buff, handsome, dangerous-looking men at their sides no doubt carry a lot of the load, and course-correct if a misstep is taken.

But I walk alone.

That’s how I prefer it.

Even better, the ballroom is dimmed to set the mood, and the otherwise familiar crowd is masked, so identities are mostly hidden. All of this means the usual dread I would feel at such an affair lifts to make way for elation. For a level of daring only made possible when I get to be anyone I want to be.

I’m just a woman, peering out from behind a silk mask that hides everything but my earthy blue eyes and my glossy red lips. At a ball, where I’m neither the hostess nor the birthday girl, so I get to stroll the fringes of a world that churns with laughter and champagne. Among beautiful people, and in enough anonymity to make me comfortable.

This is a small town, of course, so the idea of secrecy, even in the midst of a masquerade, is laughable. I know who is here, just as most others are aware that it’s me in the gold. I can pick out the dazzling dancers who own and run a studio across town; though the women are also masked, their gowns are incapable of covering the long, sinewy lines of their ballerina bodies. The professional fighters are similarly unmistakable; to expect a suit to conceal that kind of muscle is simply asking too much.

Nevertheless, wearing silk on my own face somehow brings me bravery I wouldn’t otherwise possess. And this gown, caressing my body and highlighting curves I’ve spent my life covering, fills me with a confidence I don’t usually feel.

So I sip my champagne, and grin as I pass a man I know.

He’s my colleague, and currently, my roommate’s date—which sounds lovely, if not for the fact that I’m ninety-nine percent sure my roommate has been making out with someone else tonight: her boyfriend. Sort of. Her situationship she’s trying desperately to get over.

Though, if the subtle marks on her neck and the unsubtle way Axel Feeney watches her from across the room are any indicator, I’ll be comforting my coworker on Monday morning, when he carries his mildly bruised heart and ego into the office.

Poor guy.

“More champagne, madam?”

I turn at the soft voice of a server holding a tray of fresh flutes. Glancing down at mine and noticing it’s almost empty, I flash an appreciative smile, tip the rest back so the smooth liquid rolls along my throat, then I switch one glass out for another. “Thank you.”

He dips his head and turns to continue his mission of getting people intoxicated… although, his suit and tails make it a more charming attempt than if he were handing out beer in a can around a bonfire.

“That’s two.”

I spin again at the deep, unfamiliar tone of a stranger’s voice, and look up when I find that my visitor stands at an easy six feet and a few inches tall. Almost an entire foot more than my five-seven. He wears an elaborate, Phantom of the Opera-style half-mask, but in a textured black that stands out against his short black hair.

On the half of his face I get to see, stubble almost as long as the hair on the top of his head covers a jaw that clenches so the muscles above flex and move, and when I follow the lines up and stop on his eyes, I find a chocolatey brown that somehow burns into my blue gaze so I almost feel… exposed.

More so than in the clingy dress.

“Uh…” Nerves settle deep in my stomach, tempting my hand down to rub away the discomfort. But then I remember that, tonight, I’m a beautiful person too. In an elegant gown, and a mask made of silk and mystery.

So for tonight, at least, I refuse myself the luxury of hiding.

Curious, I look down at my glass of champagne, then up to the stranger. Which is a bizarre concept. Small towns and big family events typically mean everyone knows everyone else. But this man, even under the mask, is unknown to me.

“E-excuse me?” I stammer. “Two, what?”

“Glasses of champagne.” His voice is deliciously deep. His teeth, in the brief glimpses I get when he opens his mouth, are perfectly straight and charming. His lips are full and heavy, so when I cast another gaze across the features I can see, I wonder if perhaps he’s a Latin man. Maybe not completely. Not on both sides of his family tree. But a little. Enough to color his skin and bless him with lips everyone else wishes they could have. “You just finished your second,” he adds. “About to start your third.”

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