I think about sitting comfortably at home with a sandwich versus sitting next to Chess in a room full of people I don’t know. There is no contest. “Give me the address.”

* * *

After a quick shower and change at home, I head out to meet Chess. The party is at a house in Uptown, near Audubon Park. Light, misty rain is falling by the time I pull up before the double gallery home, every window blazing with light. Louis Armstrong’s version of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” drifts through those windows and, for a second, it’s as if I’ve stepped back in time.

You get that a lot in New Orleans. Old jazz, older houses, cracked pavements, and gnarly oak trees that drip with moss pull you out the modern world and leave you feeling haunted by history. I push past the short wrought iron gate and make my way up to the door.

It occurs to me that I’m nervous, as I ring the doorbell and find my hands clammy. And I have to laugh at myself. I’m grilled by reporters at least once a week and never break a sweat. I’ve won national championships with a crowd of one hundred thousand people screaming in a frenzy, and didn’t flinch. Yet here, I’m nervous as a teen on his first date.

A woman wearing a purple 50s style dress opens the door. For a long second, she stares at me.

“Hey,” I say, when she doesn’t speak.

She blinks and then shakes her head as if coming out of a fog. “Please tell me you’re a stripper.”

“Stripper?” I repeat, half-amused and a little confused. Behind her, the house is full of people in dresses or suits, and I wonder if I have the wrong address.

“We’ve never had a stripper at a C&C before,” she explains in an excited rush. “But I am totally on board with this development.”

C&C?

“I’m looking for Chess Copper.”

Purple Dress frowns as if she’s never heard of Chess, and I’m about to drop the whole thing and leave when James suddenly appears, all but tumbling into Purple. “Manny,” he exclaims with a happy smile. “You’re here.”

Relief eases my stance. “Hey, James.”

He grabs my arm and tries to tug me in. I could have told him I’m too big to be randomly pulled, but I just step inside. Purple Dress makes a disappointed sound. “So, not a stripper?”

“Stripper?” James sounds appalled. “This here is The King. Show some respect.”

“He needs a crown then,” a woman with poufy hair and wearing a green dress says as we walk past her.

Inside, it’s crowded and close with people. The furniture is nineteenth century, with gilded framed portraits hanging on the walls. Cigarette smoke hovers overhead, several people smoking in groups and holding cocktails. And I swear, I feel a moment’s trepidation, as if I actually did fall into some freaky time warp.

“Why is everyone dressed like they’re auditioning for a Mad Men reunion?” I ask James.

“It’s standard attire for Cocks and Cocktails,” he says, as we stop at side table set up with a bar. “Want a beer?”

“Sure, but… Cocks and Cocktails?”

James hands me a bottle of beer before fixing himself a gin and tonic. “It’s a cocktail party. Only you wear your best vintage duds.” He sweeps a hand over his black and white pinstripe suit, topped with a hot pink bow that clashes with his red beard. “Point is to be the sharpest dressed cock of the walk, so to speak.”

Given that I’m in jeans and a plain, gray long sleeve shirt, I’m grossly underdressed. Since I’m also about a foot taller than everyone here, I stick out like a sore thumb.

“Don’t sweat it,” James says, clearly reading me well. “When someone looks as good as you, no one gives a damn how the window is dressed.”

I eye his suit again. “Somehow I think this will go over your head, but sometimes it’s nice to get lost in the crowd.”

James smirks, taking a sip of his drink. “Maybe. Then again, if that were true, you wouldn’t have someone looking at you the way that particular lady is right now.”

I turn toward the direction of his gaze, and there she is. Any response I can give James is gone; I’m at a loss for words. Up until now, I’ve seen Chess in jeans and casual tops. This version of Chess is like a present.

She makes her way to me, and my heart knocks against my chest like it’s trying to break free. Her usually stern expression is lighter, green eyes smiling. “Trish was babbling about some GQ model looking for me,” she says in greeting. “I assumed it was either you, or it was my lucky night.”

“It was both,” I finally answer, too aware that my voice is thick.

She’s wearing a dress, a black velvet bodice that hugs her slim torso and hangs off the curves of her shoulders. The skirt is a white cloud that reaches her knees.

“You’re staring, Finn.”

“Rear Window,” I blurt out, making her blink. “That dress. Grace Kelly wore a dress like that in Rear Window.”

James laughs. “Holy shit, I can’t believe you picked that up.”

I take a sip of beer to wet my dry throat. “It’s my mother’s favorite movie.”

I don’t add that I might have had a small crush on Grace Kelly when I was a preteen.

A soft flush of pink colors Chess’s cheeks. “Most people haven’t figured it out. They expect the ice blonde hair too.”

Her ink black hair is swept up in one of those twisty buns pinned to the back of her head that exposes the long line of her neck. She is fucking beautiful, and I tell her so.

The pink in her cheek deepens but she shrugs my compliment off. “You find the place all right?”

She seems flustered, her gaze darting around to the people staring at us. At me. The attention prickles on the back of my neck. I ignore everyone but her.

“Yep.” I dip my head, and the light scent of her perfume tickles my nose. “I could have dressed up too, you know.”

Her cherry red lips pinch. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about it when we were texting.”

I can’t resist teasing her. “Hmm… And here I thought maybe you were afraid I’d back off once I heard, ‘Cocks and Cocktails’.”

The corner of her mouth quirks. “Well, maybe not the cocktails.”

“It’s okay, Chester.” The urge to touch the soft curve of her cheek has me gripping my beer. “Thanks for inviting me.”