Before I could respond-i.e., barf all over the reception table-both he and Mary shot me meaningful looks. I ripped my hand from Troy’s and lowered my mask over my own burning face. The giggle came from beside me again, and this time when I looked over, Suzanne’s face was alive with merriment. She turned to Mary, still smiling. “I’ll take a blue one, please.”
“Red for me,” Cher chimed in, merrily.
I turned to Cher. “Red?”
“Sure. Women are always easier to talk to, and if I don’t want to talk to someone, I’ll just stick close to you or Momma.”
Now why hadn’t I thought of that? I turned back to change out my wristband, but Mary was already ushering us aside for another party of four. Their eyes dropped furtively to our wrists, lingering on mine, before scanning my body. I pulled my mask down tighter.
“Suzanne! Cher! Over here!”
I glanced behind us to see a man winding past half-dressed mortals like they were an obstacle course and we were the finish line. His eyes lit on me, and he picked up his pace with renewed fervor, nearly bowling over a man dressed as a woman escorted by a man. I sniffed, scented out printer ink and nerves, and turned to Suzanne with narrowed eyes.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said nervously, “but my friend Ian has been asking about you.”
“Momma!” Cher hissed, and batted her stepmother with her Fendi bag.
“He’s a nice guy!” Suzanne whispered, hitting her back. “and they have that whole computer expert thing in common.” She turned back to me with pleading eyes. “If you just give him a chance-”
She was babbling, and though the last thing I needed was another mortal to babysit, I cut her off with an understanding smile. “It’s okay,” I said, as Ian-harmless and guileless and hopelessly uncool-came to a halt in front of us.
“Hi,” he said, breathless, though I didn’t think it was from his trek across the ballroom. He seemed like a breathless sort of guy in general. “Am I late? Sorry I’m late.”
“Not at all. We just got here ourselves.”
Ian seemed not to hear her, and was running a hand over his head, muttering, “Traffic, and I couldn’t figure out what to wear…”
He had a lanky runner’s body, strong, with long muscles, which made it totally incompatible with his face, lined and freckled from the sun. His head was topped with thinning blond hair that looked like chopped plumage, but knowing how deceiving looks could be, I inhaled deeply like I did whenever I met someone new.
Ian smelled like cotton and starch, and beneath that, strangely, like sand from the seashore. His cologne was soft and nutty, like a weakened almond extract, though I decided this guy was as vanilla as they came. Clashing sharply with all this was the tang of his anxiety-like a red wine gone bad-and the chalky streaks of his hope as he stared, unblinking, at me.
He was, unsurprisingly, sporting a red wristband, and I hid my green one behind my back as Suzanne introduced Ian to Troy, who greeted him curtly, and turned away to survey the rest of the room just as Ian stuck his hand out. Now I was determined to be nice to him. I beamed kindly when Suzanne said, “And this is Olivia.”
“Hello Ian. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. At least his babbling had been cured.
“Should we get a drink?” Suzanne asked, earning a grateful nod from Ian.
“This way,” Troy said, starting off without us. There were makeshift bars stationed in all four corners of the elongated ballroom, though Troy led us toward the farthest, a ploy I was sure was meant to draw us farther into the lion’s den. In doing so we had to pass the curtained stalls, which turned out to be vendors’ booths touting everything from sex toys to videos to brochures for a chicken ranch located just over the county line. This booth came complete with a menu of appetizers to choose from, and two of the ladies of the house available to answer any questions. I admit I lingered there, wondering what exactly a “Hot Shot” entailed, but hurried on when one of them knowingly caught my eye…and the color of my wristband.
I ordered a seven and seven at the bar, trusting Ian to take care of the details, then turned my back on the others so I could fully survey the room for the first time.
It was certainly a different crowd than had been present for the bachelorette auction, and a part of me would’ve liked to just park it against a wall, like a fly, and watch the interactions between strangers take place, knowing that each whispered hello, every meeting of eyes, all accidental touches were gestures hoping to score an invitation to the bedroom. Even I, a born and bred Vegas girl, found it fascinating, though I suppose every bar on a Friday night sported a similar, if more covert, scene to this. But blatant voyeurism was out. I was in search of someone who had a greater hunger for flesh than all these mortals combined, so I focused on the men in the room, and began to hunt.
“These swingers seem pretty tame,” Cher said, as Ian handed me my drink.
“I don’t think you can use swinger and tame in the same sentence,” I said.
“Says the woman in anything goes.”
I scowled at her and scanned the room. There was a steady stream of new arrivals, and you could feel anticipation mounting, even if-unlike me-you couldn’t scent it. But what I scented more than anything, was the increasingly familiar smell of infections, so the more I watched, the more baffled I became. This virus was being spread sexually. AIDS alone should be enough of a deterrent, but since the papers had even reported the burn marks around the mouths and private areas of the victims, you’d think that’d give people a bit of a clue. Stop swapping bodily fluids with strangers!
Yet here we all were, milling around like alley cats in heat, viruses be damned. Shaking my head, I followed the others to a booth where a woman was chained to the wall, realizing along the way that my mask idea had turned out to be a popular, and none-too-original, option. I hoped Joaquin wasn’t disguised as well.
“They look like pageant contestants,” I muttered, eyeing the name tags splayed like banners on clothing, but more often on bared flesh.
Suzanne, overhearing, said, “I don’t even want to guess what you need to do to win Best Personality.”
“Or Most Photogenic,” Cher put in. We all snorted. Troy turned around and glared at us. Someone was taking his sexual prowess a little too seriously.
We wandered a bit longer, the crowd thickening around us, until Cher halted abruptly. “Oh shit!”
“What?”
“Is that Lon?”
The rest of us looked in the direction she was pointing, easily spotting the man with shirtsleeves rolled high and a gold-tipped cane that he used ruthlessly to clear his path.
“Oh shit!” Suzanne and I said in unison.
“Duck! Duck your heads! If he sees us, we’re screwed.”
“I’m okay,” I said, as Lon expertly wove his way through the crowd. He was paying no attention whatsoever to the wristbands or the amount of leopard print and baby oil slicking the skin of those around him, but his eye caught on every face he passed, neck swiveling, mentally taking notes. “I have a mask on.”
“What the hell’s he doing here?” Suzanne asked, yanking Troy in front of her so he formed a solid, fleshy wall. Cher ducked behind him as well.
“Well, I don’t think he’s here for the edible body paint.” I sipped at my drink, watching as Lon jotted in a small spiral notebook before it disappeared beneath his coat jacket again. Lon-no last name, just like Cher-was the city’s gossip columnist. He could dig up dirt on the queen mother, and he was as ubiquitous as a cockroach, seemingly everywhere at once.
If Cher and Suzanne were caught trolling at a swingers’ ball tonight, the whole city would hear about it in the morning. Olivia had also made quite a few appearances in his daily column, though fewer since I’d taken over her identity. I wanted to keep it that way, so mask or not, I yanked Ian in front of me and told the others to keep moving. Between the horny mortals, supervillains, and gossip columnists, this place was getting really dangerous.