A Redd Face, A Grey Matter, A Fine Shot of Tequila
Greyson rocked into the beat of the big band record crackling on the turntable. His gold padlock clinked on the metal plates of his mask, flashing against the leaded picture windows overlooking sunlit gardens. "Cross back tap tap. Cross back tap tap. Hop hop right." A sharp jingled head shake. "Your other right, twinkletoes."
This dance lesson had been Redd's brainstorm, his alternative to the mischief Greyson had proposed while stroking his beard over a bathtub gin fizz cheekily passed off by the house as a venom cocktail. His dreamy vision of stepping up in the most literal sense rather than supporting the nearest wall of the grand lobby w