The Brokenhearted Read Free Page A

months. In real life, I never quite know where to stand or what to do with my hands.
    “I’ll stash these and find us some drinks,” Z shouts, taking my coat.
    I nod and sway self-consciously to the music, my eyes glued to the angels swinging on their trapezes. Seconds later, I feel two women dancing too close on either side of me, feathers from a peacock boa scratching my right forearm, then fingernails digging into my left hip. I try to dance out of the way, but a third woman, this one short and stocky in a leather catsuit, steps in front of me, blocking my way, keeping me planted.
    “Ballerina,” the one with the boa whispers in my ear, her breath hot. I step backward, but I’m surrounded. She’s got SYNDI tattooed on her bare shoulder, and the word ripples as she reaches for my tulle skirt as if appraising its value. “So young,” the one on my right hisses. She’s skinny but sinewy and strong, clad in a tuxedo jacket, frilly bloomers, and heels, her bobbed hair neon yellow on one side of her part, black on the other.
    “She’s just the right size,” Catsuit says, twirling around to face me. Her pink hair is shellacked into a towering pompadour, and one of her eyes lists slightly to the left. She grins, and her teeth are sharp and small, feral.
    I turn to look for Zahra, my heart racing, but her back is to me and she’s headed toward a row of speakers along the far wall. I start to back up, my lips frozen in a panicked smile.
    “Don’t go,” Boa pouts. She’s the prettiest of the three, tall with flawless bone structure, but her head is shaved down to the scalp and her eyes are ringed in two-inch orange false eyelashes. Her hands are around my waist, pulling me toward her. “We like nice girls like you, don’t we, ladies?”
    “My friend is there—” I say, too softly. I stick my elbows out and get ready to thrash, gulping in air. But just then the one in the catsuit takes a step away from me, motioning for her friends to do the same. “Forget it, bitches,” I hear her mutter.
    Their eyes are glued to a tall, shaggy-haired guy in a crisp white shirt and a velvet jacket. His rangy body and sharp cheekbones are freshly torn from the pages of a magazine. He’s walking toward them. Toward me .
    “There you are,” he says, smiling as he opens his arms. An expectant smile plays on his lips. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Let’s dance.”
    I cautiously take his hand in mine, too shocked to do anything else. A heartbeat later, we’re twirling around the room in a loopy, confident waltz. My body goes into ballroom mode even as my eyes stay glued to the bald woman, who winks at me before she turns away. In seconds, they’ve all faded into the crowd.
    “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I stammer.
    “Nah.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I thought you might need an escape route from those syndicate girls. The dance was a bonus.”
    Syndicate girls . My skin prickles at the mention of Bedlam’s crime ring. Everything bad that ever happens here—murders, muggings, gambling, prostitution—is said to be the Syndicate’s doing. “We can stop now,” I say. “They’re gone.”
    “How about one more dance?”
    I look up at his face. It’s broody and square-jawed, with thick, straight eyebrows above beautiful eyes. He has a half-wilted white flower stuck in his lapel. For a moment I think there is something harsh, even mean in his expression, but then his mouth softens into another disarming grin.
    I crane my neck over his shoulder to check on Zahra and spot her up on a platform, waiting in line for drinks. She flashes me the thumbs-up and mouths yummy , which is Zahra-speak for handsome . I swallow a smile, then pull my head back so he can see my face when I nod yes.
    He pulls me closer, and we begin to move again. He leads effortlessly, his hand warm on the center of my back. As we spin under the chandelier, I notice a splotch of blue in the brown