BAITED BREATH

BAITED BREATH Part 4

**CONTENT WARNING: I've had people in Critique Circle tell me the following is incestuous. I assure you, it isn't. But if you think the flustered reaction Bree's dad has when he sees the belly dancer costume is something you don't want to read about, then by all means skip this first part.

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Her dad did a double-take when Bree walked into the kitchen. Even after listening to all the girlish whispering and giggling floating up the basement stairs, John wasn't prepared to see his daughter in so much make-up or such a revealing outfit.

The sumptuously embroidered push-up bra drew the eye to her deep cleavage, while transparent caps over her front teeth gave her lips a pouty allure. Brown contacts darkened her blue eyes and rounded off the illusion of a voluptuous Mediterranean beauty. She picked nervously at the extravagant vinyl nails she had charged to her father's credit card.

"You...you're so brown, and there's so much of you," John stammered, turning red to the tops of his ears.

"Sorry, Dad. I think it will take a while to get the walnut stain out of my bathtub."

He looked relieved to hear her voice, but his blush climbed up the sides of his bald head. Ann elbowed him.

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**CONTENT WARNING:  Okay, you can uncover your eyes now. :)   

"Ann, does she really need all that stuff on her face? I didn't recognize my own daughter."

Ann had applied a heavy layer of kohl to Bree's eyelids before gluing crystal accents to her eyebrows and temples.

"That's the idea, dear. It goes with the costume." Ann straightened the coins on Bree's forehead. "I'm afraid these won't lay correctly when you start dancing. It's too late now to do anything with them." She sighed when another coin on the flimsy headdress turned on edge.

"You'll attract too much attention, Bree. I'm not okay with this."

"It won't matter, Dad. You said it yourself. I'm unrecognizable."

    "She looks perfect, John." Ann stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. "Shoulders back, Bree. Chin up. How will you perform at the party if you can't remain confident if your dad stares at you?" Ann murmured. "Here's your evening bag with everything you need; a little pad and pencil, your lipstick, invitation, cab fare, and business cards."

Ann handed her a slim, rhinestone-encrusted clutch on a long silver chain. Bree glanced inside, snapped the clasp, and shrugged the chain over her shoulder. Ann took one last look. 

"John, let me have your phone. I'll take a picture to remind us of this day." She stepped back and framed the shot. "Try wearing the chain over your head, Bree, so you don't have to hold onto it."

Bree did as asked and said, "I guess I'm ready."

John held the cloak for her and kept his eyes on the coffeepot. "One last thing," he said. "You don't want to fall out of character and speak."

Bree reached a finger into the back of her cheek and secured the hook on the orthodontic device that kept her jaw closed. Her resourceful father had ordered the components from a dental supply distributor.

***

John told her he'd lost track of Jerusalem Brown during the drive to a predetermined drop-off point. "I think that phone he was using has a dead battery. Or, he may have removed it. If I was a criminal, I'd be paranoid about keeping the same phone for more than a day or two. So I don't know if Brown/Bronwell is in town or not."

"I suppose I'll find out. Don't worry, Dad. I'll follow the plan."

"Call before you start back home. I'll pick you up at that apartment on Guilford."

John arrived at a popular Greek restaurant several neighborhoods away from the event center and called a taxi. As it rounded the corner, he took her hand and somberly told her to do whatever it took. She nodded in understanding and got out, crossing her closed hands across her chest as he drove away.

Dealing with strangers strained Bree's patience. Unable to communicate with the cab driver, she showed him the address on her invitation to save time. He didn't sign or read lips, but that didn't stop the middle-aged leftover from the free love era from talking non-stop. She stared out the window and cringed at some of the things he said.

"Yeah, Baby," he crooned. "I'm gonna wait right here until the party's over. Then we're going somewhere to have a private party in the back seat, just you and me. I'll even take you home for free. Seems fair, don't it?"

At the curb, she paid the fare, avoiding his grasp as he reached for the money, and breathed a sigh of relief as his lascivious licorice essence dissipated in the frosty air. She snugged the opera cloak around her and approached the building with her head held high.

The North Side Cultural Center stood as the shining star of neighborhood rehabilitation. The new venue's grounds were winter-bare, but life-sized murals depicted people of every skin shade or ability working and playing side by side. She took her place at the end of a long line of party-goers.

Chilled air seeped through the cloak. The vented pantaloons and sheer slippers completing the outfit did nothing to protect her from the moist February breeze streaming inland from Lake Michigan. Icy metallic coins on her headdress, embroidered bra, and hips added to her discomfort. She slipped her phone out of her handbag to let her parents know she had arrived.

'I wish I was wearing Tom's old heated jacket. Who cares how not suitable it is. I'm freezing!! :('

Three seconds later she received a thumbs up icon from her dad. She double-wrapped the loose cloak around herself before crossing her arms and tucking her hands into her underarms. The line inched forward as guests presented their gold-embossed invitations and entered to a trumpet fanfare.

Arriving at the massive doors, she had her invitation ready in hand. The vanilla scent in the air indicated boredom in the doorkeeper, who wore a vintage maroon tunic that stretched over his muscular arms and chest. He gave her invitation a cursory glance.

"ID, Ms. Doukas?"

She felt blood rushing to her cheeks and thanked her mother's foresight in dying her skin. As she used her hands to sign, the cloak fell open, and gooseflesh rose on her bare midriff. 

"I can't let you in without proper identification," he said.

Bree took a deep breath, wrenched the cloak tightly around her body, and stepped past the man. He grabbed her arm, and the couple behind her protested.

"Hey, who hired you to guard the door? Can't you tell that she's deaf? She can't hear you."

A slender brunette with a military-style haircut tapped her shoulder and spelled out that the man wanted to see her driver's license. Bree tasted her sympathetic vibe. She watched her fingers and allowed a look of understanding to cross her features. Falling back on the easiest method to communicate, she retrieved her pad and pencil and wrote that it never occurred to her to bring ID. She offered a business card to the doorman. Behind them, other guests grumbled about the cold. The doorman compared the name on the card to the invitation and stepped aside. Bree smiled her thanks to the couple.

Grateful to be out of the cold, Bree removed the cloak and surveyed the room. A ten-piece band played at the far end. Men and women in the ethnic costumes of dozens of nationalities and cultures danced or stood in conversational clusters. Waitstaff in uniforms matching that of the doorman wove through the crowd offering refreshments. She tossed her cloak over the arm of a passing waiter as though accustomed to men taking care of her wrap and sauntered farther into the room.

**Well, she got in the door. What do you suppose will happen next?

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