Calore Dance Academy// Red Queen AU

Chapter 85

Welcome back! I have a busy first half of summer, but I'll try to publish once a week through June. Afterward, I may try for two chapters per week. We'll see what happens. 

The end is near! Comment at the end of this chapter your thoughts and predictions.

I hope everybody is doing well. As always, like and comment! It makes my day. 

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"Come on, brother. You're not a lightweight, and you're hardly tipsy. One more shot of whiskey won't do any harm."

Behind me and Cal, Ptolemus nudges his friend's shoulder with a shot glass full of a caramel-colored substance. With his free hand, he balances himself on the back of Cal's chair. For all his talk about costumes, Ptolemus's is fairly unoriginal. He's dressed head-to-toe in black, with a pair of crow wings strapped to his back, a top hat, and a silver monocle. His lips are slightly too red to be natural, and dark marks streak his neck.

Ptolemus is incredibly drunk. The heir of the Samos family is gone enough to have forgotten to wipe Wren Skono's lipstick from his mouth or give a shit about the love marks littering his neck. He's been busy tonight.

Cal adamantly shakes his head, even as he struggles to contain a smile at the sight of his best friend. "Sorry, brother."

"But earlier, right before Mare got here, you said we would drink toget—"

"I changed my mind. Another day, though," Cal cuts in. "Now go dance with your woman. And don't vomit on her."

With a resigned huff of air, Ptolemus takes the shot of whiskey in hand and downs it in one gulp.

Cal and I smile at one another. I realize that I have a hard time meeting his eyes, as though I'm afraid that a few seconds' worth of eye contact will reveal all of my secrets to my contemporary teacher.

His breath smells faintly of caramel, vanilla, and the sharp aroma of alcohol. Ptolemus had convinced Cal to take a few shots of bourbon not too long before I arrived, but if the sizable man felt anything, it was too mild and short-lived for me to notice.

Still, the pleasant scent permeates the air between us. Something about the mixing of his usual cologne and bourbon is unusually addictive.

I cross my legs beneath the table.

Cal pinches me in the side. "Tell me what you got me."

His bourbon-colored eyes penetrate mine.

The prolonged gaze doesn't help against the intrusive thought of having Cal's body pressed up against mine in some dark corner of this penthouse, of him letting me taste the bourbon on his tongue.

"No," I return calmly. "Be patient."

He takes a long drink out of his water glass. "Fine. You'll show it to me after the party."

My stomach bubbles a little. He wants to spend time with me on his birthday. How terrible for me.

With nothing left to say, I take a sip of my own sparkling water.

The Samos's cavernous Midtown penthouse doesn't fall short of my expectations.

In the clouds of Manhattan, five stories' worth of creamy silver stairs suspends in the air of the main parlor. Stretching panels of glass travel as high as the stairs to display breathtaking views of Midtown. On a cloudy evening, the Chrysler Building boasts its glinting spire a few blocks north among the usual lights.

Half of the Samos's parlor has been converted into a dance floor, where servers resplendent in burgundy button-downs and black bowties side-step through a semi-drunken crowd. It's more of a mixing area than a dance floor, really, with groups of businessmen standing in circles with their drinks, Academy dancers stumbling towards the bar at the far end of the penthouse, and the occasional couple meeting to share sweet nothings over drinks.