Vixen (19 page)

“How ’bout I rain-check you on that one?” She stood up from the bar and the room spun around her.

“Hey there, you half overboard already?” He put his hand on her waist, steadying her. “You need someone to teach you how to hold your liquor.”

“Tell me where I can apply.”

“The next time you come, just say my name at the door: Carlito. Not like they would give a girl like you trouble.”

“Ha,” she said, and sauntered away.

And then he slapped her ass. But Lorraine didn’t turn around. Clearly the outfit wasn’t a total washout after all.

Especially if Carlito Macharelli—the twenty-year-old son of one of the men who
owned
the place—had chosen
her
to talk to, flirt with, buy drinks for.
Her
over every other girl in this joint.

Lorraine stomped out of the club, pushing through the desperate flappers still clogging the entrance. She wasn’t one of them anymore. Like Gloria, she had an insider’s key. But Gloria had already
had
her moment: her photo with Bastian in the
Tribune
, the ring every girl wanted from the man every girl wanted. She even had Marcus Eastman. Now she was going to be the toast of the speakeasy scene, too?

Gloria couldn’t have everything. Or at least, she couldn’t have both.

It was strictly a matter of fairness.

Lorraine would have to square things.

“So this is how a bachelor lives?” she called out in the direction of the kitchen.

Lorraine wandered the edges of Bastian’s living room, which was lined with windows that overlooked the sparkling Chicago skyline. It was a beautiful apartment. Beautiful and cold.

She’d only been to his penthouse once before, when he’d hosted an afternoon cocktail party after the engagement was announced. The apartment had been filled to capacity with his mostly male social circle: colleagues from the bank; fraternity brothers; tennis partners from Oak Lane Country Club—all either old men or men waiting to get old. But back then, everyone had been laughing and flirting and celebrating.

Tonight, that day felt like a lifetime ago. Lorraine was out of place in the masculine emptiness of the room. Sebastian’s golf clubs were in the corner, next to a framed oar and his Harvard diploma She stopped by the mantel and picked up a photo. Gloria on a beach, looking curvaceous in a one-piece bathing suit, stared back at her. Lorraine immediately set the frame down and backed away.

Beads of sweat had begun to pool above her lip and below her eyes. Nerves. She needed to blot her cheeks and forehead before he came back into the room.

Lorraine opened a door, which she assumed led to the bathroom, only to realize that it was Bastian’s bedroom. The
room was dominated by an enormous, neatly made bed, decked out in a pleated red silk comforter. It was a loud reminder that she was in the apartment of an actual
man
—she and Gloria both still had single beds.

She wondered how many women Bastian had slept with in that bed. A man of twenty-three years old, who looked like Bastian and had Bastian’s last name, could easily have slept with a dozen girls. Maybe more. Even though Gloria hadn’t yet been made a notch on his bedpost.

The rest of the room was equally stark: a dark-colored dresser, a night table with a small ceramic lamp, and a book whose title Lorraine couldn’t make out. The walls were a muted gray, and there was a framed painting of some mountains—which ones, Lorraine didn’t know—near one of the windows. The carpeting was plush beneath her feet, the deep color of red wine.

“Looking for something?”

Lorraine twirled around in the doorway.

Bastian was standing right behind her, holding out two glasses of ice water. He was wearing a white undershirt and linen trousers. It was the first time she had seen him without a suit on. She’d never realized how athletic he was: His broad chest tapered to a narrow waist, and his undershirt clung tightly to his flat, muscular abdomen. His features were perfectly symmetrical, the angles of his face sharp and strong.

He walked toward her. “There’s a bathroom in my bedroom, if you’d like to use—”

“No! I’m fine!” She laughed nervously, stepping back into the living room. She maneuvered around the coffee table and slid onto the sofa, resting her arm on the soft, dark fabric.

“What brings you here so late, Raine?” Bastian came up behind her and handed her one of the glasses.

“I just happened to be driving by—”

“At this hour?”

He sat down beside her, and she began to perspire again. “I was at the—a party. In the neighborhood?”

“Are you asking me, or telling me?” Bastian said, leaning back into the sofa.

“Telling.”

Bastian smirked. “That would somewhat explain your choice of clothing,” he said, fingering the strap of her dress. “Or lack thereof. You’re quite the fashion plate.”

Lorraine’s breathing stopped. Compared to Carlito’s callused fingers, Bastian’s felt silky. When he removed his hand, her skin prickled where he had touched her. “It was practically a sauna inside this party. I nearly wilted.”

“Then drink up. Or I’ll have to cut your stem.”

Lorraine laughed uncomfortably again, taking a long sip of water. “I’m sure you don’t approve of partying on a school night, but don’t worry, I won’t make a habit of it.”

“You’re not mine to worry about.”

“And if I were?”

Bastian looked thoughtful for a moment. “Then I would
give you a curfew, and punish you if you weren’t in bed by a certain time.”

She had always thought his eyes were hazel. Now she realized they were quite green, but pierced with pewter, steely almost. Lorraine cleared her throat. “Whose bed do you mean? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Hypothetical questions aside for now,” he said, setting his glass down on a coaster, “let’s address the more pressing question: Why are you here, Lorraine? It’s late, and I’m tired. I have to work early in the morning.” He studied her carefully. “And you have school.”

Lorraine felt her face flush. She was here because his fiancée was living a double life as the singer at a speakeasy infested with booze and mobsters, and maybe even worse—as the soon-to-be whore of some low-class black jazz cat. She was here because Gloria didn’t deserve Bastian, didn’t deserve his trust—he was boring, sure, but on paper he was perfect. She was here because her best friend had betrayed her. Because she felt used, abused, and hurt. Because she couldn’t believe Gloria would lie to her, would keep things from her. And she was here because she had nowhere else to turn.

“I’m here to talk about Gloria,” she began, but just saying those words aloud made her throat close up. “Your fiancée?”

“Yes, I know who she is. And I assumed you weren’t here to talk about yourself.”

Bastian picked up her empty glass. “Let me refresh your drink with something a little stronger.”

He strolled over to his bookcase, which was lined with rows of leather-bound volumes. They looked well-read—left over from his college days, no doubt. Lorraine watched as he picked out an oversized dictionary.

“I do enough vocabulary in school,” she said.

“Patience, Lorraine.” Bastian opened the book. It was completely hollowed out, and nestled inside was a tiny bottle filled with what looked like bourbon or Scotch.

“It’s not every man who keeps his liquor hidden in a book,” Lorraine said, thinking of her father. “Anyway, I thought you were rah-rah for the Prohibition.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I’m not every man.” Then he opened the bottle and poured two shots into short crystal glasses. “There is a difference between what you do in the privacy of your own home and what you display to the public eye.”

Lorraine wondered if he was talking just about drinking. She imagined Gloria sitting in the spot where she was now, having intimate conversations with Bastian late into the night. How was it possible that he and Gloria had only ever
kissed
? If he’d been her fiancé, Lorraine wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from pinning him against that floor-to-ceiling window and ripping off his clothes.

“Raine, are you well?” He handed her the drink and then
put the bottle back into the book and onto the shelf, where it blended in with all the others.

“I’m—” She avoided his eyes. “I’m a horrible human being.”

Bastian placed his hand on her thigh. “I highly doubt that,” he said.

She knew she should pull away—even slap him. But she hadn’t been touched by a boy, really touched, in a long time.

This was the time to tell him. Now, now,
now!

But the second Bastian removed his hand, she began to think clearly. Did she really want to be held responsible for destroying her best friend’s impending marriage, not to mention her future? Lorraine could already feel the guilt brewing in her chest. No, she couldn’t do that to herself; she couldn’t do that to Gloria.

If she was going to get back at Gloria for betraying her trust, she would have to do so in a way that would be untraceable.

“Bastian, I’m a horrible person for not asking your permission,” she said, improvising, “but I’d like to surprise Gloria with a weekend escape to Forest Lake Spa—as my bridesmaid’s gift to her.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Sebastian said with a short laugh.

“Oh. Well, that’s a relief.”

“But you are still a horrible person.”

She was about to say something dirty, then stopped
herself. Bastian was definitely flirting with her, which made her feel … unsettled.

“I really should be getting home,” she said finally, standing up. The whiskey rushed to her head. “I have a French
examen
to study for.”

Bastian grinned. “Since when do you study?”

She slumped back down and kneaded her forehead with her hand. “I am rather tired.”

There was his hand again, warm on her knee. “At least finish your drink before you dash off.”

Lorraine looked into his steely green eyes. She couldn’t read them: What did he want? Was he coming on to her, or was he setting her up for a trap?

“You know,” Bastian said, inching closer, “has anyone ever told you that you’re a choice bit of calico?”

Lorraine nearly snorted. “Are you feeding me a line?” It was impossible to determine Bastian’s motives. He was nothing like she’d thought he was. He kept booze in books, for heaven’s sake!

And she didn’t know what
she
wanted anymore. She didn’t want to give her virginity to Bastian, she knew that much, but her head felt stuffed with cotton balls and she was definitely a bit zozzled … and his hand felt so nice.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Lorraine,” he said. “Even women have needs, and I think we both know that Gloria is nothing to me but a convenience. A means to an
end.” He licked his lips. “There’s no reason I can’t take care of your needs, too, so long as you’re willing to take care of mine.”

He cupped her face with both hands and moved in.

Just before Lorraine closed her eyes, one of the forgotten vocabulary words from tomorrow’s
examen
popped into her head:

adulteress (noun feminine): femme adultère

GLORIA

Gloria stood in the center of the Green Mill.

The place was empty. No bartender, no band, no gangsters. Just chairs upside down on tables, and racks of washed glasses stacked on the bar. For a moment she felt a hot panic. Had she gotten the day wrong? The time wrong? Wasn’t this where she was supposed to be for her first voice lesson with Jerome? She had found the back door propped open as promised, but where was he?

“Hello? Is anybody here?” she called out.

No answer.

It was early afternoon, but you would never be able to tell down here—the Green Mill existed in a perpetual midnight. What was she doing, wasting her time in this dank, dark, empty club? She should be in her English class that was this
very minute going on without her: twelve girls sitting around Miss Moss, reading the second act of
Othello
aloud. She loved her English teacher, which was why it had pained her to present the note—with her father’s forged signature—saying she had a doctor’s appointment “for matters to do with her upcoming nuptials” and would be absent from class. Gloria
never
skipped class. She only missed school when she was sick, and even then she usually managed to force herself out of bed.