Checkmate

Chapter One

Chapter One

The pounding beat of the music roars in the ears of everyone. Repeatedly proving themselves, the battered speakers vibrate with the driving melody, trembling the floor and sending ripples through the red glasses of wine. Mounted atop gilded pedestals in each corner of the ostentatious ballroom, the brazen rhythm is inescapable, no matter where you may wander. Ordinary stage lights loom high above in the metal rafters, lowly workers holding fractured slices of stained glass over the powerful bulbs to color the strobes as they flash over the antique dancing hall.The magnificent beige tiled floor is dusted with a cover of crimson rose petals, perhaps to set a mood. Women swing to the lively music, twisting their hips and flipping their hair. Though their postures may be easy and relaxed, you can see the tension in their eyes. Each and every one of them are terrified, deathly so. And with reason.  

It can be understood with a simple glance around the ballroom. Men, clad in colorful suits and flamboyant masks, hug the walls and gather around the ornate snack tables. From the eye sockets of their feathered apparel, they inspect the women, never once wavering or glancing away. Many finger glasses of wine with fine primped hands, and others lick their lips hungrily. This is a chance for them as much as it is for anyone else.

Cautiously, I step forward once again. The sole of my sneakers feel alien on the tiles.

A few men ringing around a beautiful stone statue rip their eyes from the slutty display on the dance floor, their expressions hidden by their eerie masquerade masks as they turn to me. The black lips of one in a flashy emerald suit curves into a smile that might've been intended as alluring. I cannot hide the horrified shiver cascading down my spine.

This is my chance as much as any of these women. I have been preparing for months. This is my chance to shine.

Squaring my shoulders, I proudly stalk into the room and out of the jeweled entrance hall. Some of the dancing women on the outer edge falter at the sight of me, breaking from their entrancing jigs.

Worry clouds my brain. Perhaps I should've gone for a more prostitute look as well to grab the lords' attention, but it's much too late now. I eye a simple silver slip with envy. This took me half a year to create.

My dress is a long, one-shoulder gown. Hugging my body tightly until the waist, it shows both my cleavage and figure. From my waist it elegantly flows in a waterfall of shimmering fabrics in red, gold, and orange. It looks as though my body fades into glistening flames. The fabric covers my battered sneakers beneath their folds of elegance. Along the breast of my crimson gown, I'd deployed some of the last golden spray paint. With a light spritz here and there, I had glamored the top half with just the sheerest layer of metallic sparkles, only visible when a particularly bright beam of colored light dances over my skin.

My mask is another work of art, one that'd taken so long. Crowning my right eye with three dappled topaz feathers, it covers only a fraction of my face, daring to venture only halfway across my cheek. The ruby red hem halts at my cheekbone. The large eye holes are shaped with a sultry flair I hope will attract masculine attention. Excluding the shimmering red border of sequins, most of the mask is orange and gold to sharpen the fiery tones in my dress. Supposedly, these colors bring out the dark color of my brown hair, and compliment my bright blue eyes.

Joining my placement with the other women, I pick nervously at my tightly bound braid. Though the music is blaring blatantly, it feels silent in the room, as if everyone is looking at me and only me. My throat closes up. Slowly, constricted by the beauty of my gown, I rock my hips from side to side. From inside the mask, my eyes dart about. My hands shake and sweat uncontrollably.