Mikalo's Grace by Syndra K. Shaw

coat,
pushing my face toward his.
    We kissed, long and deep.
    He pulled away.
    I slipped my hand below, reaching for him,
discovering him and then feeling him, caressing him, eager to feel
him grow hard.
    "My Grace," he laughed.
    He stepped back.
    My head spinning, my tongue too thick with
drink, all I could was laugh, too.
    We walked.
    "You had a good time at this party, yes?"
    "Mmmm," I answered as I fought back thoughts
of him laughing in the corner with Deni. Or of blasting that bitch
Abigail White with the truth. Or of making more enemies in one
night than I had my entire time at the Firm.
    But that wasn't true. I was hated. My success
at such a young age guaranteed that.
    Not even a head full of champagne could
disguise that fact.
    "Did you?" I asked.
    He shook his head.
    "No, it is not true. This party, it was not
for me."
    What? But he and Deni, they had laughed. He
looked to be having a wonderful time. And he had evidently charmed
everyone he needed to charm. Or at least it looked that way from
where I was sitting with my spinning head in one hand and a
steaming cup of coffee, courtesy of our gracious hostess, in the
other.
    "You looked, it looked like you were, you
were having fun," I said, discreetly swallowing a belch.
    "In my home, we party. There is good food,
yes. And laughter. And drink. And tears. And children. In my home,
a party is a celebration. It is life.
    "This," he continued, "it was beautiful. Your
friend, beautiful. Her home, beautiful. The food, beautiful. And
delicious.
    "But there was no joy, no happiness."
    He stopped, the lights of Central Park West
just up ahead, our destination in sight.
    "Tomorrow you will come with me to dinner. I
have friends, from Greece, and these friends, they are having a
party. A real party. We eat, we drink, we dance, we love. You will
laugh and your heart will feel joy, yes?
    "Please, you will come, my Grace."
    I was drunk, I was finally tired, and I had
heard drink and eat and love. And laugh.
    "Of course," I said.
    "I'd love ..." I continued, another small
belch swallowed. "I'd love to."
    And I smiled, looking forward to spending yet
another night with my Mikalo.
    If only I had heard dance.
     
     

Chapter
Twenty-Nine
     
    It was high school all over again.
    Me hiding in a corner, my two left feet
tucked under my chair, my eyes down. Willing myself invisible,
dreading the possibility of being noticed. Or, God forbid, of being
asked to dance.
    Mikalo sat next to me, his arm draped around
my shoulder as he talked and laughed and drank and ate.
    We were surrounded by his friends. In fact,
in this restaurant out in Queens, in Astoria, I believe, we were
surrounded period, the room filled with people, bodies snaking
between tables and chairs, the aisles full. Even brave souls
sitting on tables, their butts bracketed by a plate of food on one
side, a jug of delicious wine on the other.
    Old women with bent backs and dancing eyes.
Young men with hard bodies and easy smiles. Old men sitting quietly
with canes and small children running about, their mothers, wide
hips seated on sturdy wooden chairs, watching and laughing and
eating.
    And the men.
    My goodness.
    Thick dark hair, dark eyes, square jaws and
brilliant white teeth. Broad shoulders and barrel chests, their
biceps thick and muscled, their legs sturdy, their asses rounded
and tight as they swaggered by.
    Or blond and lanky, the skin burnished bronze
and long arms toned, surprisingly blue eyes and gentle faces with
kind smiles. Effortlessly seductive as they bent low to kiss your
hand, their eyes watching you from beneath infuriatingly long
lashes.
    Christos, Jaysen, Piero, Alexandros, Darion,
Stavros.
    The names tripped of Mikalo's tongue as they
approached and gave him a hug before turning to me and either
gathering me into their arms to give me an affectionate squeeze or
quietly taking my hand in theirs as their lips grazed my flesh.
    Yes, this was nothing like Deni's party.
    One heaping plate after another of