Company Ink by E.L. Lewis

t w e n t y – f i v e

"Hey, Luce?" I call out from my aunt's closet. "Can you come here for a second? I can't find it."

After hours of online shopping (RIP credit limit), I found the best flapper-style dress to wear tonight to the gala; silver beading, black fringe along the seams, and low cut enough that the girls look great but doesn't make me look like a corporate hoe. I also bought a feather headband, a chunky necklace, and long silky black gloves. The only thing I completely forgot to buy was one of those long cigarette holders.

Lucy comes rushing into her room, huffing. "If our grilled cheese gets burned, it's your fault." My aunt reaches up to grab a box from the top shelf of her closet. "It's somewhere in here," she says, before rushing out. "Damn! I smell burning."

As luck would have it, Lucy went as Audrey Hepburn for Halloween two years ago and thankfully kept the iconic black cigarette holder. I rifle through the box of Halloween accessories until I find the damn thing.

Ah! Got it. I shove it in my purse and head downstairs. Hopefully, Blake doesn't show up early to pick me up. It's already 5:30 pm and he said he'd be at my place at 7 pm. I need the full hour and a half to get ready, but something tells me he's one of those 'if you're not early, you're late' types. Fingers crossed I'm wrong.

"Grilled cheese and tomato soup?" I ask, surveying Lucy's kitchen disaster.

Ness looks up from the dining room table, putting down her paintbrush. "She burned it."

Lucy whips her head around, a deep scowl on her face. "It's not burned, it's just extra toasty!" she exclaims in a frantic tone.

Ness and I exchange a look and start laughing. "Alrighty then, that's my cue to leave," I say then bite my lip, realizing I'm thirsty. "Lucy...do you have any coconut water?" It's a rhetorical question. She always has coconut water.

Luce rolls her eyes. "Yes," she sighs. "In the fridge, help yourself."

I shamelessly strut to the fridge and pull out a can. When I close the door, I notice a letter from New Vision Medical stuck to the stainless-steel door with a popcorn magnet. "What's New Vision Medical?" I ask, furrowing my eyebrows.

Lucy squirts a hefty dose of ketchup on her plate before facing me. "It's a clinic in New York," she explains, passing Ness the plate of cheesy goodness. "They're accepting applications for a new experimental TBI recovery program. Ness's doctor said we should apply."

I look at Ness who shrugs, no evidence of hope on her face. "So, are you going to apply?" I ask.

Lucy sits down at the table and wipes her forehead. "Yeah, why not, right? I mean they're only accepting like fifty patients and it costs a buttload of money but it's worth a shot."

"Yeah," I say slowly, trying to read Ness, who's expressionless face pricks my heart "Worth a shot."

***

I knew it! I fucking knew it! It is only 6:49 pm and Blake is already here, waiting for me downstairs. Men do not understand women. When we say be here at 7 pm, we mean be here at 7 pm, not 6:30 pm, not 6:45 pm, not 7:15 pm. 7 pm!

I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror by the front door and apply one more layer of dark red lipstick. Not having Monique around means I don't have anyone to hype me up. Such a sad life. I was not built to live alone; I need the company...the compliments. I guess I'll have to get used to being my own cheerleader. You look hot, Cassie! Thank you, Cassie.

I know. I'm pathetic.

Grabbing a shawl off the coat hanger, I make my way downstairs. Mr. Hyatt, our doorman, gives me a curious look when I pass the concierge desk.

"Costume party!" I inform him as I breeze by.

Mr. Hyatt laughs. "For a moment I thought I went back in time."

I wave goodbye to him and disappear through the glass doors. My jaw hits the pavement when I get outside. Blake is leaning against the coolest old-fashioned car I've ever seen in my whole life, wearing a cream-colored ensemble, and holding a walking cane in his hand.

"Wow..." Blake blinks as he gives me a once-over. "You look—" He lets out a breath. "Wow."

I blush, sauntering towards him. My inner attention whore is grinning. "Wow yourself. You look good in white."

"It feels wrong," Blake whispers, a slight smirk lifting his upper lip.

"But it looks so right." I scan his outfit one more time. "Where did you get this suit? It actually looks vintage."

"It is. It was my great grandfather's," he replies casually. "As is the car. Since you were so adamant about the cane, I thought I'd go all out."

My mouth widens. "Is this car actually from the 20s? And it works?"

Blake raises an eyebrow. "No, I pushed it all the way here just to show it off," he quips. "Of course, it runs."

I roll my eyes, gliding my hand along the hood. "What kind of car is this?"

Blake opens the passenger side door for me. "It's a Ford Model T from 1925."

"This is wild," I comment as he hops into the driver's side. "Is it even legal to drive this around?" I reach over my shoulder to grab the seatbelt. "Oh my God! There's no seatbelt!"

"The hotel is only seven blocks away, Cassie. I think we'll be fine." Blake shoots me an amused smile. "But let's just pray there are no police along the way." He starts the engine and the car spurts to life, making noises that make me suddenly question his spontaneity.

"Drive slowly," I say, gripping the leather seat. "If you get us arrested, I'll never forgive you."

"Don't worry," Blake grins. "You're forgetting I'm a lawyer. I'll bail you out."

"How comforting."

The drive to The Emerald Hotel takes under six minutes. By the time we pull up to the valet, my heart is beating a million miles a minute. Every block we drove, a flash from someone's camera blinded me, drawing much-unwanted attention to our transportation of choice. We are so going to be on the morning news.

The valet looks comically confused when Blake hands him the keys. "Don't scratch her," he says then holds out his arm. "Shall we?"

Even though I saw all the design and decoration plans for the venue, I still feel rather anxious as we make our way to the Grand Ballroom. But as soon as the two attendants dressed in snazzy black tuxedos open the mahogany doors for us, all my nervousness fades away.

Ho-ly shit. I am so glad I had a big budget.

Hanging from the coffered ceiling is an array of matte-silver orbs, intertwined with cascading arrangements of alabaster florals, and metallic tinsel. Glimmering crystal strands hang above a rectangular, white-tiled dance floor; blown up black and white photos of 1920s Hollywood stars wrap the entire Ballroom.

Blake chuckles under his breath while leading us to our table. "Cassandra, this looks amazing but why do I have a feeling you went over budget?"

"There are contingencies for a reason," I mutter, avoiding his gaze. "Plus, look how happy everyone looks!" There are probably over one hundred clients here with their guests, a flute of champagne in almost everyone's hands. "It's just once a year, right?"

Blake shakes his head, letting out a sigh. "There goes everyone's Christmas bonus."

"What?!" My eyes expand with dread.

"Kidding," he says, waving to all the clients we pass. "Let's get a drink and make the rounds. There are some important people I'd like for you to meet."

Grabbing two glasses of champagne from a server, I hand one to Blake. "Let's go mingle!"

For the next forty-fiveminutes, Blake and I glide from table to table, greeting all of our esteemed guests. Lots of people hate making small talk but I personally love it. Working with client files all day, it's nice to finally put faces to names. Client 90J7F is now Aiko and Phillip Sata, a husband-and-wife duo that specialize in forensic imaging and have a pet chihuahua named Mimi. Client number 27X1N is now Janice Dexter, a music executive with a two-year-old son and a time-share in Bora Bora; I was extra nice to her just in case she was willing to share.

"Another glass?" Blake asks, nodding down to my empty flute. I've somehow only managed to drink two glasses of champagne during our rounds. A personal record.

"Yeah, but I think I'm ready for something a little stronger," I reply.

"Like what?" Blake asks, pushing through the throngs of people towards the bar.

"Pretty much anything with vodka."

"I'm sure they'll be able to make something for—" Blake's cut off, when a gorgeous woman with thick auburn hair, and a body that would make Aphrodite jealous, taps him on the shoulder.

"Blake," she says, her breath causing the fur around her neck to flow. "I was wondering when I'd run into you."

Blake stiffens beside me, a storm brewing in his eyes. "What're you doing here?"

Jessica Rabbit's twin chuckles inaudibly. "I came with my uncle," she explains, pointing towards a table in the distance. Her eyes soften. "How have you been? It's been a while."

"Yes, two years to be exact," Blake says, his eyes cloudy and glaring.

My gaze darts between them as tension fills the space between our bodies. I can't. "Hi, I'm Cassie!" I hold out my hand. "I'm Blake's PA."

Blake shakes his head as if just realizing I'm standing there. "I'm sorry, how rude of me. Cassie, this is Amelia Taylor. Amelia—" His jaw tightens. "This is Cassandra Carrington." Amelia? Okay, that explains a lot.

Amelia holds out her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Cassie," she says kindly, then her eyes flicker back to Blake. "But it's not Taylor anymore." She wiggles her left hand, showing off the giant rock on her ring finger. "It's Antonov now."

All the color washes out of Blake's face. "Antonov? As in Alexander Antonov?" Who the hell is that?

Amelia flashes Blake an apologetic smile. "Yes," she answers quietly.

"When?" Blake asks, fury and pain capturing his features.

Amelia sighs. "Six months ago, we—"

"Will you please excuse me," Blake says sharply and pushes past us. What the fuck just happened?

"Uh—" I stammer. "It was nice meeting you, Amelia. Please enjoy the rest of the night." I chase after Blake, not giving her time to respond.

"Blake!" I call out after him. "Blake, stop!"

Pushing through all the guests, Blake marches straight to the bar. "Whiskey," he says flatly to the bartender. "Double." He tosses back the drink in one fluid motion. "Another."

Placing my hand on his forearm, I crane my neck around, frowning. "Blake, what's wrong? Why are you so mad?" Kitty said Blake was the dumper, not the dumpee, so why is he so pissed?

"Leave it alone, Cassie," Blake says in a low tone, motioning for another drink.

"No." I grab the glass of whiskey off the bar. "Something's clearly wrong. Instead of drinking, why don't we talk about it."

"Give that back, Cassie." He reaches for the drink, but I take a step back. "Why are you being so difficult?"

"Me? You just pounded down 4 ounces of Johnny Walker Black at a work function. I'm not letting you drink more. Talk to me," I plead. "What's wrong?"

Blake takes a deep breath turning away from me. Silence. He doesn't say anything, just stares off into the distance. So stubborn.

"Amelia is your ex-girlfriend...right?" Maybe a prompt will get him talking.

Blake's head snaps towards me. "How do you know that?" he asks, his voice laced with irritation.

"I heard it around the office." No point in lying.

Blake scoffs. "Do people have nothing better to do than talk about my personal life? Absurd." Guilt captures my gut. I shouldn't have hassled Kitty for information.

"Excuse us, can you please move a little?" An older man asks, gesturing to the bar. "I'd like to get a drink."

"Right, sorry!" I say. Blake and I walk off to the side near an empty table. "Do you want to sit?"

"Do I have a choice?" Blake asks dryly. Mr. Attitude has decided to make an appearance.

"No," I state sharply. "Sit." Blake begrudgingly takes a seat and I join him. "So... Amelia? Bad break up or something?"

Blake grunts, running a hand through his hair. "You're not going to let this go, are you?" he asks. I shake my head. "Thought so."

"Well?" I probe in a gentle tone.

Defeated, Blake reclines in his chair, closing his eyes. "Mia and I dated for five years."

"Wow...that's a long time." My relationships last on average five months. "What happened?"

"I proposed," Blake sighs, opening his eyes. "She said no."

"Oh," I hum, his somber gaze meeting mine.

"She told me that she wasn't ready," he continues on his own volition, surprising me. "That she wasn't sure if she was the marrying kind." He lets out a distraught laugh. "But apparently she is."

Shit. "Do you know her uh—new husband? You seemed familiar with the name."

Blake nods. "Alexander Antonov is an old client, my father's, not mine, but—"

Oof. "That sucks, I'm sorry."

Blake tilts his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. "Yes, it does suck."

I nibble on my bottom lip. "Can I be honest for a second?"

Blake sighs. "Go ahead."

I pause, gathering my thoughts. "Truthfully... I didn't really peg you as the type of guy who'd want to get married. You seem so...independent."

Blake's eyebrows quirk up. "Independence and solitude are not exclusive, Cassandra. Just because people are comfortable being left alone doesn't mean they like being alone."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." I nod in understanding, my heart clenching just a smidgen. "I think what your ex did was super shady but... maybe you should try and let it go. There's an Italian proverb that goes something like 'anger is an expensive luxury', basically I think it means that holding onto anger costs a lot, it drains you mentally and physically." I pause, meeting Blake's confused gaze. How can I put this in a way that he'll get it? "Think of it as a bad return on investment."

"That...actually makes sense. I was a little lost earlier." Blake's eyes soften. "But ROI, I get that."

"Thought I'd put it in Blake terms," I smile, holding out my hand. "So, instead of sitting here and being all grumpy, why don't we go dance? Hmm?"

Blake eyes my hand warily. "I don't really dance."

I roll my eyes. "Then just stand there and I'll dance around you."

"You're very bossy, Miss Carrington," he grins, taking my hand.

I roll my eyes and lead him to the edge of the dance floor. Blake stands still, like an old oak tree with its roots dug deep into the soil, as I twirl myself around him, holding onto his index finger. The smooth jazz vibrates through my body.

"Come on!" I whine. "Move a little!"

Blake sighs and finally wraps his arm around my waist, his left-hand cupping mine. "One song," he whispers, and we begin swaying.

Blake is a liar. He can totally dance. Either he didn't notice that the band changed songs, or he's actually having fun because we stay on the dance floor, twirling and jiving for fifteen minutes. Just as the song is ending, a warm hand appears on my shoulder.

"Mind if I cut in?"