Page 17 of Dirty Tricks

“Lead the way.”

I head towards the torture room but can’t get close enough to see Jenna or Vonnie through the crush. Not even the tip of Vonnie’s hat, and since there’s no way we’re getting in there, I angle towards the pumpkin carving room instead.

The lower popularity means we easily get a table. I put a hand on the barstool to scramble onto it, but Finn intervenes. “Need a hand?” and when I nod, he easily lifts me into place.

He’s never been this tactile before. Sometimes I think he hates touching me with anything but his dick, so it’s a welcome change.

For a brief second, I think someone else is wearing his outfit, then I shake my head. Finn doesn’t appreciate anyone touching his stuff. There’s no way he’d lend out a shirt.

But there’s an appeal to the fleeting thought. Of course, it’s my boyfriend behind the frightening mask, but for the moment, I let my mind wander. What if it weren’t? What if the man from my dreams had drifted across the thin veil between imagination and reality, his soul taking over the body for just one night?

Then I snort. More likely the sips of vodka from earlier are already making their consumption known.

If anything, the veil’s between the living and the dead, not the imaginary and the real, and it’s not even true Halloween—that’s mid-week.

As he drags his stool next to mine, slinging an arm around my shoulder to stabilise me on the tall chair, making it easy to sample each different drink, I don’t care what prompted the change.

It’s my last night of freedom before the cage of my family home clangs shut around me. With Finn acting nice, it’s doubly important to document the moment.

I grab my phone out and take a picture, smiling with joy at the result, leaning my head against his broad chest as he swaps out the riff on a Bloody Mary for the next drink.

Hopefully, he’s still in this good mood when I gather the courage to tell him I’m leaving tomorrow.

If I tell him.

With so few hours left, I push the troubling thoughts aside and concentrate on my next sip.

CHAPTERFIVE

XANDER

“It must be Marty,”Lexa declares, having hummed and hawed over the occupant of the red devil costume. “Nobody else’s eyebrows are that bushy.”

“Isn’t that him?” I say, pointing to the boy who has a hockey mask matching mine pushed high on his head while he chugs a beer, slopping it over the rim as he loses his footing.

“Damn.” She taps a finger against her plump lips, then clicks her fingers. “Tomas, then.”

“Third times the charm.” Not that I know any more than she does. I barely recognise the names she’s tossing about.

“And what do I win for guessing correctly?”

“The satisfaction of being right.”

She pouts for a second. “Not a kiss?”

I press my mask against the side of her face, and she rolls her eyes. “Yeah. That was totally enjoyable. Nice tongue action.”

My arms slot around her waist, hugging her so close she’s barely seated on the stool any longer. “You’ll have to do a lot better at this game to win tongue.”

Lexa squeals with enjoyment, wriggling against me until I’m dizzy. The overload of cocktails is helping but I’m amazed how easy it is to be with her. There have been a few quizzical glances, but she hasn’t questioned my identity out loud, and the longer my ruse lasts, the more I relax.

I never imagined my spur-of-the-moment plan would work out this well. My memory banks are crammed to bursting, trying to immortalise every second.

She drains the last of a blue drink, slamming it onto the tabletop. “Another mocktail please, sir.”

The real drinks were watered down—someone in the school hierarchy apparently remembers being a teenager—but Lexa’s tiny enough they still had an effect. From our second round, I’ve been fetching her the non-alcoholic versions, and she’s having just as much fun.

“Which one is next on the list?”

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