Trillion(10)

One of them looks my way, letting his gaze linger. He doesn’t care that I see him gawking. It’s almost as if he’s challenging me to a staring contest? My confidence buckles, and I look away first.

How could he possibly know if I’m attractive when half of my face is covered?

A warm flush floods my cheeks when I remember the too-tight dress hugging my body, accentuating my curves.

That’s what they’re staring at.

“Does that bother you?” I ask. Because I think it would. I’m here with him. As his date. All the guys my age get jealous so easily.

He tosses back a mouthful of champagne, swallows it clean. “No. I love it actually.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They wish they were here with you, Sophie,” he says with his velvet tenor. “But they’re not. And it kills them. That feels good to me—to have something everyone else wants but can’t have.”

“So I’m a possession to you?”

His hand slips into mine, giving it a squeeze and lifting it to his lips to deposit a kiss. “Oh, God. Sophie, no. I didn’t mean it that way. I just … I enjoy showing you off. You’re gorgeous, and tonight, you’re mine. I’m a lucky man, that’s all. You should know that.”

My stomach tightens. The sensation of being desired by someone like him is foreign, exhilarating in a way I’ve yet to know in my seventeen years.

I had a crush on Devon Peterson for three years before he finally noticed me, and when I heard through the grapevine he thought I was “kind of cute,” it didn’t feel half as wonderful as it feels when my date’s eyes drink me in from behind his shiny onyx mask.

“We should make our rounds before dinner,” he says. “There are a few people I’d like to introduce you to.”

I hook my hand into my date’s elbow, and for the hour that follows, I get lightheaded off flute after flute of champagne as he takes me from one masked party goer to the next. The floor is wobbly beneath my heels and the sparkling chandeliers spin above like crystal stars. A string quartet of masked players serenades us from another room.

“Why do we use our real names if we’re all wearing masks?” I ask him when the host calls us all to the dining room. I’m drunk. I think.

Everything around me swirls.

I can’t stop grinning.

I want to laugh at everything he says, which is suddenly ten times funnier for no reason at all.

And I love the way the fabric of his suit feels under my palm. It reminds me of junior prom, when the guys rent the nice tuxes from the store on the square and everything is stiff and formal and fancy and special.

Pulling me aside, he leads me to a private hallway. He lifts his hand to my cheek, and my face feels small. He presses his body against mine, delicately pinning me to the wall.

I want to curl up inside him, be here forever in this magical moment where everything is new and exciting and I’m not Sophie-with-the-hand-me-downs, Sophie with the sick mom and disabled sister, Sophie who waits tables to pay her family’s rent.

I’m simply … his.

Nothing more, nothing less.

“You’re having fun, yes?” he asks, his dark eyes dancing in mine.

I bite my lip, nodding, breathing in the sharp citrus of his aftershave.

“The people here, they have silly little rules,” he says. “It’s like a club where people use code names.”

“… but you gave them my real name.” My tongue is heavy and my words slur into each other. I can’t talk right but I can still think. My logic is intact.

“It’s different when you’re not an actual member.”

“So only the men here are members?” I ask.

He hesitates. “It’s like that, yes. Think of it as a fraternity.”

My older cousin was in a fraternity in college. I know how obsessed those guys can get. How they pledge their loyalty, become like brothers, and do anything for each other.

“Members with code names?” I still don’t understand, not fully.

“Yes.” He sweeps a strand of hair from my forehead. “Exactly.”

“Your name isn’t John, is it?” Maybe it’s the champagne, but the question leaves my lips before I consider the fact that I might not want to know the answer.

“No, Sophie.” He sighs with a smile, as if he finds my question endearing. “It’s not.”

The host calls from the next room, asking about the two empty chairs.

“We have to go,” he says. “We can’t keep them waiting.”

“Wait. I want to know your name. Your real name.” I tug on the lapels of his suit coat, bouncing on the balls of my feet, narrowing the space between us—like a silent, unconscious plea for him to kiss me.

To know me.

To be real with me.

He’s been looking at me like he wants to devour me all night, and it’s only a matter of time before it happens. I know it. I sense it in my bones. Whatever’s between us, it’s electric. The truest thing I’ve ever felt.

“You will.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and then he lowers his mouth to mine, stealing a kiss without asking—the way Kai Masterson did at homecoming last fall. Only he tasted like Burger King French fries and smelled like Axe body spray. “John” tastes like sweet bubbles and smells like a dream. His lips are hot on mine and his kiss lingers for three seconds … I count them. “We’ll talk after dinner. I’ll tell you everything.”