Chapter 1
Valencia
I am what some might call a workaholic. At least, my ex-fiancé sure liked to throw that word around, but this isn’t about him. It’s about me, Valencia Torres, a lawyer at the New York City office of the Environmental Protection Agency. Besides, does it really count as being a workaholic if you’re fighting to save the fucking planet? Have youseenthe latest climate change projections? Implementing large-scale clean-energy initiatives is like rolling a massive boulder up the side of an active volcano, but if I can push that rock just a smidge further and buy humanity a little more time—whether we deserve it or not—all the long hours I spend at the office will be worth it.
So yeah, I work a lot, and I won’t apologize for it. Not even to a certain professional hockey player who tried to use my job as an excuse for why he cheated on me.
During the rare moments when I’m home, you can find me curled up on the sofa with a cozy mystery, a glass of red wine, and my old gray cat, Archimedes. Archie’s fifteen years old and hated my ex from day one, so he’s obviously a better judge of character than I am.
The sofa is my favorite spot in the whole apartment. It’s mustard yellow, and I’ve covered it with colorful throw pillows and the two blankets I crocheted during a failed attempt to find a hobby. Unfortunately, this couch has seen better days. Archie shredded the sides long ago, and the cushions sag where Everett used to sit. I know I’ll have to toss it when I move, but I don’t want to think about that.
Tonight, I’m going out.
My best friend Fern invited me to a holiday-themed dance party in Brooklyn. I said yes, despite my plan to skip all things Christmas, because this is the first time in years I won’t be spending the holiday with Fern and her family. Besides, I love dancing, so I’m going to live it the fuck up tonight.
Just because I’m a bit of a homebody doesn’t mean I don’t know how to get dressed up. My makeup is immaculate, with contouring, smoky eye, and a bright red lip. I flat-iron my hair to within an inch of its life and pull it into a high bun so I don’tsweat all over the back of my neck. And in the bottom of my jewelry box, I find a pair of gigantic sparkly snowflake earrings.
Now I just need an outfit.
My nice dresses have been gathering dust in the back of my minuscule closet, although they did get some play this summer during my “Hookup Era.” A few months after Everett and I called it quits, I downloaded all the apps and went out with a bunch of men and women. The most promising was Anton, a professional soccer player. What can I say? I have a type, and it’s men with broad shoulders, fucked-up knees, and compulsively disciplined workout regimens.
Anton and I had an extremely satisfying three-week affair before he and his giant dick moved to Europe to join a team. I went on a few more first dates but cut them all short by pretending to have a work emergency. Then, because the universe and the federal government like to play games, I actuallydidhave a work emergency, which led to months of frustration that my team has only recently managed to emerge from. With all that going on, dating has been the last thing on my mind.
And if sometimes I feel the tiniest bit lonely while sitting on my couch with Archie, a book, and a glass of wine, well ... I don’t want to think about that, either.
I wrestle my bland, business-casual attire out of the way before delving into the dark recesses of my closet. A flash of color jammed between two nearly identical little black dresses catches my eye.
It’s a formfitting, cranberry red halter dress I bought for some fundraising event I went to with Everett after he joined the NHL. He thought it was “too sexy,” and I ended up renting a floor-length gown instead. But for tonight? It’s perfect.
The hem hits a few inches above my knee. Wide straps cross over my chest and shoulder blades, leaving my arms and most of my back exposed. Despite what Everett said, it isn’ttoorevealing. And I feel good in it.Reallygood. Not at all like myself.
And honestly, even I’m a little bored with myself these days.
Since it’s nearly sixty degrees outside, I forgo tights and tug on high black boots with medium heels. See my earlier comment about climate change.
After stuffing a tiny purse with necessities, I slip on a lightweight wool coat and wave to my cat on the way out.
“Farewell, Archimedes. Mama’s gotta go shake her ass.”
Archie blinks at me from the sofa, then resumes licking his back. I leave the hall light on for him.
One taxi ride over the Williamsburg Bridge later and I’m in front of Dazzler, a queer nightclub in Bushwick. The building is unassuming gray brick with a pink neon sign. A trio standing near the door catches my eye. One is dripping in silver and pale blue crystals, a snowflake-encrusted tiara perched atop a wig of tumbling white curls. A drag Snow Queen, perhaps? Next, a muscular figure wears reindeer antlers and a BDSM harness. Their red ball gag is reminiscent of Rudolph’s nose. The thirdsports a red and gold nutcracker jacket and holds a bag—or asack, if you will—labeledDeez Nuts.
I snort. But then my stomach sinks. Something tells me I’m underdressed. Oroverdressed, if the reindeer’s leather thong is anything to go by.
All three of them are talking animatedly and fanning themselves, paying me no mind as I pull open the door. Once inside, I pay the cover, check my coat, and forge ahead to look for Fern.
The club is dark, lit only by flashing red and green lights. Mist from a fog machine crawls up the walls, giving the packed space an eerie vibe. Or maybe that’s just the sexy Grinch, complete with facial prosthetics, voguing on the bar. High above, two acrobats wearing nothing but glitter and red booty shorts writhe and spin on giant hoops suspended from the ceiling.
I find Fern dancing by the stage, where a DJ pumps out a steady stream of Christmas pop song remixes.
Fern breaks into a smile when she sees me, and her amber eyes light up. “Valencia! You made it.” She grabs me in a tight hug and kisses my cheek. “I’m so proud of you for coming out tonight.”
I give her a squeeze, and when I step back, I raise an eyebrow at her furry white bikini. “Did you skin a yeti?”
“Oh, shit, I forgot my ears.” She rummages in her massive purse and pulls out a set of rabbit ears stuck to a headband. “Guess what I am.”
She puts them on and does a little spin. Her short, bleached blond hair flares out around her heart-shaped face, and her septum piercing glints in the strobe lights.
