“This is that bullshit,” Aria grunted as she retouched her dark purple lipstick. The colour popped against her coffee-black skin and emphasized the minimal makeup she wore.

“Girl, I can’t take you anywhere,” Gladys Mercado mumbled as she adjusted her own war paint. “Cussing up a goddamn storm in this fancy-ass bathroom.”

Aria cut her best friend since fifth grade a hard look and both women busted out laughing in unison.

“But, seriously, Gladys, this is an amazing opportunity,” Aria said, packing up her clutch and turning to the Dominican beauty at her side. “I am so proud of you.”

The café au lait of Gladys’ skin brightened red with a blush. “Thanks, mamàcita. That means a lot. Means even more that you made it out tonight.”

“Girl, bye, I couldn’t miss a night like this! Free fancy-ass food, free top-shelf!”

It was Gladys’ turn to cut a look. “Stop it, Aria. I know it’s been hard for you since you left the service.”

Aria’s smile was tight as she turned back to the mirror to fluff her natural curls. The style was holding up amazingly. 4C hair was no joke. She needed these idle thoughts to keep her mind from going back to the fact that she was a jobless, traumatized war vet at the ripe-old age of 32. She hadn’t just left the service; the service dumped her when she froze on a simple assignment six months after watching a quarter of her platoon blown to bits and massacred in front of her. It was gaining close to three months and Aria was more than ready to move on, but her mind kept freeze-framing on trauma.

She hadn’t even realized she was shaking until Gladys grabbed her hands and pulled her into a hug.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Gladys murmured, holding her tight.

“It’s okay, really,” Aria insisted, needing this moment to end. “C’mon, this is a happy night! Let’s go out there and get plastered!”

“Whoa, slow ya roll, sister girl,” Gladys said, backing away. “I was hoping you could network while here.”

Aria frowned. “At a museum gala? Girl, these old bones don’t need my skill set. No offense.”

“None taken,” Gladys said with a smirk. “But there’s some big whigs here that would need your expertise, even from a strategic point of view.”

“You mean, heading a private team?” Aria asked excitedly, though she tried to staunch the hope building in her stomach.

Gladys grinned. “Yeah!”

Immediately, Aria’s shoulders sagged. “How do you they’d want a woman? A Black woman, on top of that.”

“Don’t,” Gladys snapped, her tone stern. Any moment now, she’d start the rapid-fire Spanish. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“You know what. Counting yourself out before you even give yourself a chance! You didn’t become Sergeant for no reason.”

“What good that did,” Aria muttered.

“Stop, Aria,” Gladys pleaded. Aria looked up and nearly gasped at the emotion in her best friend’s voice and eyes. “That wasn’t your fault, mamà. You have to know that.”

Aria bit her tongue from confessing the truth that she wished that it wasn’t her fault, that it was pure happenstance that her entire platoon was lead into an elaborate trap that not even the top generals could avoid. The Army had tried to convince her, her boss tried to convince her, every psychiatrist she’d seen in the last fourteen months had tried to convince her, but Aria kept mulling over the details almost obsessively, looking – no, searching for that alternative that seemed to avoid her brain.

Instead, she nodded and said, “Okay, enough of this, before you make me cry. And you know I’m ugly when I cry.”

Gladys giggled and waved her off. “Stop it. You’re gorgeous even when you take a shit.”

Aria scrunched her face. “You so nasty.”

“Promise me you’ll talk to some potentials.”

Aria nodded profusely, feeling her throat tightening at her friend’s generosity of thought. “I will. Promise.”

“Bueno. Let’s go!”

***

Harvey Allen was bored to tears, standing here listening to these people whine about money. Everything was so stiff. Luckily, that included the drinks.

He hated to think of the real reason he was there and cringed at the thought of being someone’s arm candy for a night, but the money was good and he didn’t have to do anything outside of what he wanted. He tried his best to be the utmost professional, but at times, he was nothing but a red-blooded man.

Tonight, he wouldn’t have to worry about that.

His date was young in both body and mind. At twenty-six, her privileged background and appreciation for nothing had her attitude clocked in around a hormonal sixteen-year-old. Her father was the one to hire him, his date having alienated any other potential bachelors even for a one-night show-off. The father had thrown in double the agency’s rate and promised more, should the night go well.

Harvey wasn’t sure what that shit meant, but he’d make sure the report wasn’t a glowing one.

He shifted in the uncomfortable wingtips, his toes wiggling for his steel-toed Cats. More than anything, he wanted to get through a few more of these ‘dates’ to ensure he had enough to fix up the farm. Seclusion was the goal, a way to work out his demons without people hovering at every corner.

Just a few more dates, he thought. Just hold on.

But then his date – blonde and petite and attractive if it hadn’t been for her attitude – giggled and slid a slim hand around his waist and he immediately tensed. He laughed it off with a nervous chuckle, caressing her goose-pimpled flesh and shuddering inwardly.

“You okay, baby?” she cooed, blinking her navy blue eyes up at him.

He smiled down at her and squeezed her with a tenderness he’d learned since signing up for this business. “Yeah, just a bit tired. Long day at the office.” He shrugged and she winked at him, her bottom lip slipping between her teeth. He stopped the scowl before it could mar his face.

“I’ll be right back. Gotta freshen up,” she cooed, going up on her tiptoes for a kiss.

Harvey took a deep breath and pressed his lips to hers, swallowing back the bile that rushed up to greet their mated mouths. “I’m gonna refresh my drink. Need anything?”

She frowned. He really wished he could remember her name. “Nope, just you,” she said cheerily, then whispered, “Sober.” She winked before walking away.

“Yeesh,” Harvey breathed. Immediately he went off to the top-shelf bar, signaling the bartender he knew a little too well for another gimlet. He relaxed as the bartender went to work ignoring several other socialite and blue blood customers and scanned the crowd. It was the same old shriveled faces working desperately against the tide of time with plastics and Botox injections with a few young and bored facades in the mix. It was a hobnobbing adventure, one Harvey should’ve been used to, considering his time with his agency, but he just couldn’t. His poor Southern upbringing filled with moral warnings and generosity grew him to the man he was that day. Sure, he had his demons, but he could never imagine being so jaded and gross to other humans.

Which was why he needed to get away as soon as possible.

The bartender handed over his gimlet and he nodded to the modelesque young man with a top-knot and the best kush Harvey had ever had since leaving the Marines. He turned away and immediately ran into a soft chest, his drinks spilling everywhere down the front of some poor woman’s white dress.

“Oh shit! I am so sorry!” he cried out, dropping his drink on the bar and reaching for a stack of napkins. Chase, the bartender, handed him a clean damp cloth instead and Harvey made to start wiping. But the young woman ducked him with a speed that reminded him of his time in the service, of a more elite faction that he’d once striven to be a part of.

Obvious reasons why you didn’t make it, meathead, he thought, self-deprecatingly.

“I have it,” she snapped, snatching the cloth from his hand.

It was then he noticed her. Her face was down as she worked, but her figure was on full display in the modest, knee-length dress. Full hips and thighs, generous breasts, and a skin-tone to die for. Her thick hair obscured her face and Harvey felt an inexplicable and sudden rage at the inability to really see her.

But he didn’t have to wait long.

She looked up as she handed over the cloth and their eyes locked. Obsidian. There was no other way to describe the black orbs that captured and bounced the low lighting surrounding them. Square face, perfectly arched eyebrows, thick, plush lips, high cheekbones, big expressive eyes.

Harvey kept being drawn back to those eyes as they stared at one another for a brief eternity.

Someone to his left cleared her throat and Harvey broke the trance, the anger in his chest flaring up again.

“If you’ll excuse us, sir, we would like to get our drinks now,” the attractive Dominican woman at his stranger’s side said, a small smile in the corner of her mouth.

“Uh, yes, let me get that for you,” Harvey sputtered, looking back at his stranger. She was still watching him, just as mesmerized as before. Goddamn.

“I think we’re capable of doing so ourselves,” the Dominican said, a little bite marring her playful tone.

“Of course,” Harvey breathed. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “But it’s the least I can do, considering the damage done.”

“No damage,” she finally said. His stranger had the voice of a 27-year-old expensive whisky. He wanted to taste her, drink her, consume her. “See? Like new.” She stepped back a fraction and gestured to the dress, fully restored as if nothing had happened.

“Club soda,” Chase called out from behind them.

Harvey grit his jaw as he turned around. Chase nodded to him with a smug smirk and Harvey returned the look, taking the drinks he’d prepared for the ladies. “Let me guess: gin and tonic?” he said, holding up the cocktail in his right hand to his stranger.

“Why, yes,” she said, her voice light and flirty.

“And a Manhattan for you,” Harvey said smoothly, handing over the other drink. The Dominican gave him a tight smile, significantly less impressed.

“We should get going,” she said just as tightly, looping her arm with his stranger’s.

“Of course, but I’d love to know your names,” he said, his tone a lot more relaxed than he felt. “In case we bump into one another again.”

His stranger extended a long, elegant hand. He took and felt his entire being catch afire. Her skin was like silk. He wanted to be wrapped within it, within her.

“Aria,” she said.

“Mm,” he muttered, suddenly needing to hear her personal symphony as he stroked his ministrations between her thighs. “Harvey.” He gave his real name, a first. Tonight he was supposed to be Benedict, though he looked nothing like a Benedict in his opinion. With some difficulty, he let his hand slide from hers and turned to her companion.

“Gladys Mercado, new Director of Curators here at the museum,” the Dominican said, her handshake professional and strong. And a warning, if he was reading it right.

“Ah, so you’re the guest of honour?” he said smugly. “Congratulations are in order, though with your credentials, the advancement is well-deserved and long overdue.”

Gladys’ light brown eyes widened with pleasant surprise, her grip easing before they finally let go. “Why, thank you, Mister . . .”

Harvey held the beat for longer than any of them were comfortable. It was bad enough he’d revealed his real name, he damn sure wasn’t giving his last, since he couldn’t lie around his stranger. No, Aria. He couldn’t lie to his Aria.

“Just call me Harvey,” he finally said.

The curtains closed on Gladys’ face, his short-lived moment in her grace cut off by his vagueness. “Thank you, Harvey, for the drinks,” she said with a hint of disgust. “We’ll be heading off now.”

“Of course,” he said, turning to Aria. He didn’t give a shit about Gladys’ opinion of him, even though it may work against him depending on how close she was to Aria. “Hope to see you around.”

“Likewise,” Aria said, her voice breathy.

Gladys gave a curt nod, then guided Aria away by the elbow. Aria turned around look at him exactly once and it was all he needed.

Harvey watched them until they were swallowed up by the crowd.