Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As I settle the dress back into some approximation of place, I notice Steve looking at me out of the corner of my peripheral vision.
“What?” I ask. “Is something…?” I wipe at my face, pulling down the old-school sun visor to see if there’s a mirror. There isn’t. Shoot. I wonder if I smeared my lipstick. It’s supposed to be smear-proof, but that never really—
“‘Shut up and fuck me?’” he says through a grin.
Oh. That. I nibble at my lip. I did, in fact, say those words. “I… Yeah. Why? Did it sound… stupid?” I turn my head to half-look at him and then look away again, suddenly embarrassed.
“No. God, no. It sounded… like exactly what I wanted to hear. I’m just surprised.”
“Why? Because I don’t seem like the command—”
“Because you don’t seem like the command-giving type, no.” He smiles wider and pauses, then adds, “Although you did command that I choke you a couple of nights ago, so… I dunno.” I sneak another head-on glance and his now-fully-widened smile puts me at immediate ease.
“Yeah… I’m… I’m trying some new stuff.”
“Like what?” I can detect a hint of—hope?—in the question.
“Like… just chilling out a little, I suppose? It’s not my default setting.”
“I’ve noticed.” He laughs a tiny bit and takes me by the hand. “Well… I think chill looks great on you. Just like that dress.”
I can feel my shoulders drop. Whatever residual tension I was holding onto immediately scampers away. I breathe, trying to just take in what he’s saying and not issue a whole litany of apologies and protests. Instead, I just stare at the projected images of Mulholland Drive through the windshield of the car as a song I recognize as ‘Mood Indigo’ by Duke Ellington plays on the stereo.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask, redundantly.
“Of course.”
“Weren’t Glenn Miller and Duke Ellington popular in the forties?”
A beat before he says, “Sorry?”
“This is supposed to be a Roaring Twenties party, right? And isn’t the car also an anachronism? Like, a 1920s car wouldn’t have a radio, probably. And, if it did, wouldn’t it be playing Gershwin instead? Or Fanny Brice, maybe?”
He stares at me, stroking my fingers with his, then, smiling yet wider still, if that’s possible, says, “Let’s just go enjoy the anachronism.”
As he grips the handle to open up the car door, my breath accelerates a bit. Here, inside this fantasy-mobile, alone with him, I feel all right. But he’s going to open up the door and I’m going to have to get absorbed into a room full of people again. People who very likely know exactly what we were doing in here. Because it wasn’t particularly quiet, if I’m being honest.
As if he’s reading my mind, Steve squeezes my hand and says, “Nobody cares.”
“What?”
“Nobody cares. And if they do, fuck ’em. That just means they’re the Leslie Munches of the world and they don’t want other people to be happy. Which is sad for them. Not for you.”
He winks and I melt a little. Not too much. I don’t want to ruin the dress. Ha. I just made a little joke to myself. Nice, Cord. Good for you.
The door opens and…
… he’s right. No one even really looks in our direction.
And just as we’re passing one of the other photo booth-cum-vintage autos—the one we skipped over because it was bouncing—to head into the ballroom, the door flings open and James and Audrey Saint come tumbling out. And, instantly, I realize why Steve told me that nobody cares. Because Steve and Audrey look like they have just been whipped around in a windstorm inside a hurricane run through the Large Hadron Collider.
Audrey’s hair is a bird’s nest of mayhem and James’ pants are… are they on backwards? Yep. They appear to be on backwards. Not sure how the hell that managed to happen, but…
“Buddy, bro, bro!” James exclaims as he and Audrey see us. “Y’all having a good time?” He winks. Audrey smiles politely, smoothing out her dignity as she runs her hand along her hair. Steve throws up a hand in a wave and we continue on, headed back to the ballroom where the main event is taking place.
“That’s really sweet,” I say without expecting to.
“What is?”
“That they’re so into each other. Even with kids back home and… I just think it’s sweet. That people who’ve been together as long as they have can still be hot for each other.”
“Yeah…” Steve says, then pauses for the briefest of moments before tagging on, “Something to aspire to. C’mon.”
We enter the main hall and the party is still going strong, an effulgence of romance authors doing their thing alongside a… potpourri of readers? (I gotta workshop that one.) Everyone is bedecked in vintage regalia and partying up a storm. Sheila now looks to be leading an impromptu Charleston class on the dancefloor. It’s a wild time.