Chapter Two

Phantom

What is her name?

I don’t normally concern myself with such mundane things as someone’s name, but as I stare at this beauty sitting next to me, I find myself wanting to know.

Her hair is long and dark, though a few shades lighter than mine, and it falls over her shoulders in thick waves. Her oval face and high cheekbones are perfection, but the truly remarkable feature is her eyes.

They’re the lightest silvery blue, and I could easily get lost in them.

I make it a requirement to never get lost in a woman. I’m not looking for companionship. I’m looking for playmates. Women whom I can take to the club and engage with in a scene.

So I don’t concern myself with names.

Because if I did, I’d have to reveal my own name, and I don’t do that here.

No one knows my name here, other than Alfred. I’m known only as Phantom, and I always show up in costume.

Many times, a woman has tried to get me to reveal my name.

I never have.

This is separate from my other life—the life where I make a living, do my work.

Here, I dive into the deepest and darkest parts of my desires with willing partners.

And I never tell them my name.

Nor do I ask theirs.

So why is curiosity engaging me tonight? This woman is beautiful, yes, and her outfit is stunning. Except it’s only black leggings and a black tunic with a low-cut neck that shows the swells of her gorgeously shaped breasts.

Her nails and lips are painted red, and I can imagine those lips—held open with a spider gag—around my cock as I fuck her lusty little mouth.

Before she takes a drink, I lift my glass and clink it to hers. “Here’s to alcohol, the rose-colored glasses of life.”

She smiles. “Rose-colored glasses. I could use those about now.”

“I wish I could take credit, then. But I didn’t coin the phrase. F. Scott Fitzgerald did.”

“The author?”

“Do you know of another?”

She smiles again. “Yeah, my butcher.” Her eyes dance. “I’m kidding.” She takes a sip.

“What do you think?” I ask.

She pauses a moment, cocking her head, as if she’s trying to find the right words. “It’s strong for sure. But it’s…unique. I honestly expected the juniper of the gin to overpower the elderflower, but it doesn’t. It’s more like…a floral scent that comes on a light breeze. A breeze that’s also scented with pine needles and wood and earth. Like the autumn. The soft breeze of an autumn day. The kind that makes the leaves rustle around your feet.”

I stare at her for a moment, at those red lips, as she picks up her glass and takes another sip.

I’m not sure how she did it, but she almost took those words straight out of my head.

That’s exactly what this martini is like.

It always reminds me of a line from my favorite novel, The Great Gatsby.

Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.

That’s what this drink is like. Sure, there are other drinks that are more seasonally appropriate, like crisp apple cider, wassail, hot buttered rum.

But something about my special martini—the juniper and the elderflower—takes me to the crispness of autumn.

I need to get to know this woman better.

If she has me quoting Fitzgerald and then brings out the Gatsby in me, I definitely need to get to know her better.