Page 16 of Cruel Pleasures
I realize just who he is from the intent study I’ve done on the club and some of its rumored members.
Nolan Ramsey, spoiled trust fund baby of his international banking mogul father.
“Talia,” he says in a mock lecturing tone, “how many times do I have to remind you that not everyone is as plastic as you? Not everyone has been carved up like a turkey on Thanksgiving day.”
The woman blushes. “It was a compliment?—”
“Leave Sasha alone. She’s clearly nervous about her return to our circle.” He flashes me a grin that’s as mocking as the tone he’s used with her, then openly ogles my chest area. “Sasha, do tell us where you’ve been all this time. No one’s seen you for, what, five or six years? My, how you’ve grown.”
“Nolan,” Talia hisses. “Maybe instead of making me feel dumb, you should keep it in your pants.”
“Maybe you should shut that twittering little trap of yours. We all know in a game of wits you come in last every time.”
I’m thrown by the strange dynamic between the two, unsure if they actually hate each other or if this is some kind of foreplay between them. Possibly both.
“I have been busy with my schooling,” I answer vaguely. I flatten my cloth dinner napkin along my lap and ensure my posture is perfect and straight. “Now that I’m done with med school, I wanted a getaway.”
“Charge it to grandaddy’s card, is that right? But I never took you as one who’d want to do this,” Nolan says. “Participate in the games? Very bold of you.”
“The games…?”
Someone else by the name of Quincy Mercer interrupts Nolan and ropes him into a new conversation before he can answer.
I’m left with a ripple of unease in my belly as I stare down at my plate and realize I haven’t eaten a bite. For the rest of the first and second courses of the meal, I’m floundering to blend in, use the correct utensils, and make polite chatter with the individuals seated around me.
Everyone seems aware that I’m Sasha Newton, granddaughter of esteemed real estate juggernaut Clive Newton.
Not a single person questions me on it.
Almost as if they don’t remember or care what Sasha really looks like. Something tells me their kind know few people who are different than themselves. They’re used to their lily White little bubbles.
I’m the only Black person in attendance except for another man at the far end of the table that I recognize as Chadwick Thomas, Easton’s District Attorney. Otherwise, I recognize an older Asian male engaged in talk about the stock market with other men his age.
The dinner guests are far from diverse, though I can’t say I’m surprised.
Of course they think I’m Sasha. While Francesco chose my alias as Sasha Newton because of the vague similarity in our appearance, it’s not lost on me it proves one thing—most Black people look alike in their minds.
Amused by the stupidity of it all, I smirk to myself and sip from my wine. I can’t complain if it works in my favor as I infiltrate this club.
The plates are taken away and the table’s cleared to make way for the main course. The bell chimes again. Instead of the servers returning through the kitchen doors with our dinner, the door I entered through moments ago opens.
Everyone goes quiet.
In walks a woman shrouded in thick fabric that’s almost more robe-like than a ballgown. Specks of glitter sewn into the midnight black fabric shimmer when catching the light at the right angle. But the robe for a dress isn’t even the strangest fashion choice she’s made for the night—she dons a mask pale as snow with scarlet lips and gold leaf accents painted around the cutouts for eyes.
Timothee promptly steps forward to grab her gloved hand and lead her to the chair at the head of the table.
Everyone seems to recognize the woman as they wait obediently for her to address them. Timothee presents her a chalice of wine and then rears back as if aware she doesn’t want him in her space another second.
“Good evening, ladies and gents,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “We are honored to have you joining us on this special occasion. I’m sure we can all agree it will be one for the history books. I hope you are able to make the most of this time. Let the games begin.”
Everyone around the table moves in unison, grabbing their glasses in a toast. I’m far too lost as to what’s going on to even play along. I lean forward, catching Talia’s eye for my question.
“What’s beginning?” I whisper.
She smiles as if pleased for once she’s being consulted for knowledge. “You know,” she answers. “You’re playing, aren’t you? The Midnight Games.”
5. Imani
