Chapter Four
Griffin
The masquerade is at an old mansion with red walls and trellises. Balconies overlook the crowd in the French Quarter. It’s probably owned by some friend Mom made during her years as a model.
The inside is also full of ornate wrought-iron railings and chandeliers that seem more fitting to a seventeenth-century Aquitaine castle. It’s dimly lit for ambiance—or maybe they’re trying to conserve electricity. Who the hell knows with Mom’s eccentric friends? They’ve all got too much money and very little sense.
Scantily dressed women and men mill around like stoned zombies. Despite the scarcity of fabric on their bodies, their outfits likely cost some ovaries and left nuts. Mom doesn’t go to parties that just anybody can attend. The events she selects are exclusive, with lots of money and gloss. Even the air inside the mansion smells expensive.
Compared to them, I’m overdressed in my suit. But I don’t own any man-skank outfits.
My hand at my mother’s elbow, I escort her farther inside. Everyone is wearing masks, of course. One must play to the stereotype. But that doesn’t stop them from taking selfies to record this nonsense on social media. That way, everyone in the world can see what they’re up to and express outward admiration while inwardly seething with sickening jealousy.
Personally, I’m thanking God I’m in a mask. I don’t want my students or anybody at Wollstonecraft College recognizing me. Frat boys would stare in envy, while sorority girls would size me up like a piece of the calorie-free “chocolate” they devour. And the other professors wouldn’t even know what to make of the fact that I—a rather morose econometrics specialist—got invited to this swanky, hedonistic party in the first place.
“Isn’t this simply maaaaarvelous?” Mom says, leaning in so I can hear her over the music.
“Yes.” Telling her I hate everything about this damned party would earn me nothing but another dramatic scene from her and opprobrium from everyone else here.
“Xander said he was going to be here.”
She talks like I should know who this is, but I have no clue. Nor do I care to. He’s probably another pretty face two or three decades her junior with a flashy smile and bleached teeth.
But if he is here, that would be fantastic. He can cater to her dramatics and I’ll be able to make my exit.
A tall guy in a black cat mask comes over. He has the lithe, defined body of a model or a dancer—probably the former. He doesn’t have the kind of innate grace dancers have, but does strut like he’s on a runway in Milan. He’s carrying two glasses of champagne and offers one to Mom.
“Hello, Aphrodite,” he purrs, like an intellectually challenged cat. “Don’t you look beautiful? The goddess of beauty, fresh off the half shell, a-hahaha.”
Is he stupid or blind or both? My mother is wearing a skintight black Versace maxi dress. Aphrodite came out of sea foam, not an oil spill.
But I don’t get a chance to voice my objections and rebuff his ridiculous pickup attempt because…
Mom makes a sound that’s more giggle than a laugh. “Well, aren’t you the perceptive one?” she says with a coy tilt of her head.
No. Just no. I don’t need to see this.
“When I’m around a beautiful woman…”
I look away before I can hear more garbage coming out of his mouth. Mom’s already leaning toward him, placing a hand over the arm he extends with a theatrical flourish. She then presses her breasts against him…
My eyes!I’d rather gag on a dick.
From the way she’s smiling and gazing at this man, I can tell he’s just replaced Fabio. Now she won’t take her old beau back even if he comes crawling, bearing offerings fit for a deity. I don’t feel sorry for him, though. It’s his fault I’m being inconvenienced on Saturday.
Since I’ve done my filial duty, I turn and move off toward the exit. I’m going to catch the first flight back to LAX. The weekend might still be salvageable if I can just get away…
My phone buzzes. I take it out, praying it’s not Mom being hysterical because Mr. Cat is uglier underneath the mask than she expected.
–Dad: I know what I want for my birthday. I want a baby.
Although the text is coming from Dad’s number, it isn’t really from him. It’s Joey, his assistant, who should know better than to ask for an infant. The FBI needs to toss him in jail without a phone or Internet access for soliciting baby trafficking.
–Me: Buying a baby to hand out as a gift is illegal. Didn’t you consult Dad’s lawyers about that?
Or maybe the lawyers said they could fix anything as long as Dad can pay their billing rate. Who knows with the kind of people who circle around Dad? I don’t have the time or patience to deal with Joey—or Dad—when they’re this drunk or high.
–Dad: I’m not saying BUY a baby. I’m saying MAKE a baby.