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
“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.
“Wow,” Cher said, stopping dead in her tracks in front of a booth where a woman hung from the ceiling, leather cords attached to a plastic bra right where her nipples should be. “I bet she wouldn’t fail the pencil test.”
“Honey, pencils are the least of her worries,” Suzanne replied, taking in the woman’s restraints.
“And that one over there,” Cher said, pointing. “What do you think she does to stay so thin?”
“Besides pole-dance for a living? Probably ephedrine and diuretics. Now come on.”
Weaving in and out of the crowd, I kept an eye out for Joaquin. Suzanne, noting my attentiveness, said, “Don’t worry. Lon’s on the other side of the room. I just saw him use his cane to crowbar a politician dressed as a street pimp.”
“Oh, it’s not him. I’m looking…” I paused, thinking,
“A real Casanova, huh?”
“Sort of. He’ll make you want to get to know him…but, you know, try not to have sex with anyone here,” I added quickly.
Suzanne eyed a man wearing Dockers shorts and a fanny pack, typical tourist wear if you didn’t count the body glitter. “I’ll do my best to control myself,” she replied dryly.
We continued our search for another quarter hour, with no luck. Lon spotted us once during that time, and as soon as he and I made eye contact, he started my way, barreling through the room like a Monday night halfback, cane swinging. Suzanne ducked, Cher squealed, but I turned to face him, smile on full blaze, green wristband aloft as I swirled my drink. He slowed but didn’t stop. I blew him a kiss, and fear flitted across his face. I took a step forward, watched his eyes widen, then he pivoted on his heels and turned back the way he came. I’d like to think my brazen appearance was what had stopped him in his tracks…but the flash of steel at my thigh probably had a bit to do with it as well.
After that, we found some tables clustered in a dim corner, empty but for a couple necking in the corner, apparently unwilling to wait and see if better pickings came along. As we drew closer, they rose from their seats, holding hands, and headed toward a heavily draped area, curtained off by at least three layers of silver and black fabric. They disappeared inside.
“The common room,” Troy said, seeing me watch them, and moving to put his hand on the small of my back. “Where all sorts of private things can be viewed in public.”
I was going to puke if this guy didn’t stop touching me. Seriously.
I glanced over at Suzanne, who was staring into her drink but talking to Ian, who kept sneaking glances over at us. I shot him an apologetic smile-at least I thought that’s what it was; who knew what it looked like beneath this mask-and lowered myself to a chair closer to Cher than Troy.
I glanced with disgust at a threesome who disappeared behind the thick layers of curtains, all holding hands. Normally I was pretty open-minded. Whatever you wanted to do as long as it wasn’t hurting someone was fine with me. But I’d just watched all three people enter the ballroom at different times, and they’d had less than a five- minute chat before heading to that back room. If even one person behind those curtains was a carrier of the Valhalla virus, this place was going to erupt like Mount Saint Helens. I wanted to prevent that if I could, but more than that, I needed to find Joaquin before chaos swallowed the best lead I had.
“Any particularly naughty thoughts going through that pretty little head?”
I turned to find Troy again leaning close. I glanced down at his mouth, curled in what I assumed was supposed to resemble a lascivious smile…and thought about punching the center of his face clear back to the base of his skull.
“One or two,” I answered truthfully, voice dripping with pseudo-sweetness.
“Care to share?” he prodded, wriggling waxed brows.
We all looked. I felt my heart drop, then quickly regulated my breathing before it could be sensed above the general lust. Even across the dim room I recognized Joaquin. The way he walked, the tilt of his head as he regarded the mortals surrounding him like vermin. Of course he was making no real attempt to disguise himself, and why
