“I’ve been in line forever,” she says and blows out a frustrated breath. She’s got a thick New York accent, so I know she’s not a lady because they beat that shit out of you when they’re teaching you how to fit in with the rest of the snooty-tooties.
The woman in front of her turns just slightly toward us, and then, with a carefully concealed expression, she turns back to the front of the line. I almost miss the slow and casual way she leans forward to the woman in front of her. Her jaw barely moves, but then the woman in front of her very slowly turns toward us and pretends to be surveying the room for no reason at all, but I know the score, so I call bullshit on that move. Old money usually comes with old-ass standards, and the old-ass standards say that women are to be seen and not heard. But that’s just not how I was raised, so I aim to be seen and to be heard even when I’m at a society event. So instead of being the lady my parents’ bank account wants me to be, I raise an eyebrow at the woman’s rudeness and place my hand on my hip. She can get snooty in her old-ass money having way, and I’ll get bitchy in my I’ve-been-fighting-this-battle-my-whole-life way that I do. And bitchy in my way is the kind of bitchy that old-ass money and old-ass manners can’t handle, because there’s nothing a lady can really do to deal with bitchy but to stay silent. If they take the bait and get snooty-tooty, then I won because their facade’s fallen apart and mine is still intact.
“Do you know of another bathroom?” the chick asks. I think on that one for a moment. I don’t think I do, but I hate to stand here and be judged by the pretties for too long. I spent a couple decades with those attitudes, and when I escaped to college out of state, I ditched that stuff far behind, and I’d like to keep it that way.
“The only bathroom I know that doesn’t have a line is the men’s room upstairs.”
She turns to face me, and with a serious look of contemplation, she thinks this over. I’m game if she is, but it’s got to be a team effort, because there’s no way to stop a dude from walking in on one of us without backup. The woman in front of me rocks back on her heels and raises her brows, and then looks at the line behind her. She leans in and whispers, “How trashy is it to use the men’s room with a crowd like this here?”
“Incredibly trashy,” I say with my eyes fixated on the nosy chicks farther up in the line. They keep their gazes forward, but I can tell they’re listening by the way their ears are crooked for maximum hearing allowance. “But desperate times, desperate measures.”
“Oh, thank God,” she says in the most appreciative manner I’ve ever seen. Her chest deflates, and she smiles in a panicked, tortured kind of way that tells me she won’t ever admit it but she’s on the verge of an accident. Can’t blame her. No woman wants to admit she’s about to pee herself, and definitely nobody wants to admit she’s about to pee herself at a fancy charity event that’s crawling with some serious man candy. The only thing hotter than a hot dude is a hot dude in uniform. God, I love those dress blues the FDNY wears.
“Follow me.” I lead us away from the line slowly and behind the stairs to the elevators. I push the UP button, and we wait in relative silence. When the doors open, she gestures for me to go first. I do since I’m the one who knows where we’re going. Once inside, she turns to face me and starts babbling in a way I not only understand but totally appreciate because it’s in this minute I realize I’ve met someone I can cling to for dear life and stalk until she agrees to be besties.
“I’m Royal. Royal Hayes. And I feel totally out of place here. I don’t even know why I’m here, really, except that my brother’s accepting an award and I want to support him, but holy crap, this is so not my scene. Before you showed up, those women kept giving me that devil look like they knew I don’t belong here, and well, I don’t, but still that’s rude, and I thought all you society ladies were supposed to be polite and stuff, but apparently you’re not. And you’re awesome so far, and please, please tell me the bathroom is close because things are getting serious under this pretty dress.”
I laugh lightly and then stop when my thong twists and rides up a little farther. The look of discomfort on my face must be very telling because she just stares at me like I’ve grown two heads, and well, I’ve had a few flutes of champagne, so maybe I have and don’t know it yet.