Page 27 of The Trick

The past few years, whoever has dressed as the Headless Horseman has won, which isn’t a surprise because nothing is appealing or scary about someone dressed in their colonial best with their head still attached.

But this year is different, it doesn’t matter how good the Ichabod, or the Horseman costumes are, or who is declared the winner because tonight,Katrinais mine…just like every other night.

The music fades as I find an empty seat at the center of the bar that faces the DJ standing in the middle of the contestants, separating the Ichabod Cranes from the Headless Horsemen.

The DJ, who is dressed like Frankenstein, is holding a clipboard in his painted green hands.

Grabbing the microphone, an ear-piercing shriek erupts before he speaks into it.“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he begins with as much enthusiasm as someone who is filing taxes. “Before our Katrina comes out on stage, we must decide if she will be whisked away by Ichabod or the Horseman.”

“Neither,” I mumble to myself as the crowd rumbles in applause.

“All those in favor of Ichabod, say ‘I’,” the DJ mumbles into the microphone.

I stare at a woman who can’t be more than five feet tall, dressed in a long navy-blue coat with a ruffled white top beneath it. Her auburn hair is combed back, giving the illusion of a short haircut. She is pretty and definitely Blair’s type—Blair has been known to entertain the likes of men and women but judging from the way the woman comes off as meek, she doesn’t stand a chance in the storm that is Blair Van Tassel.

In unison, the crowd yells “I” just as the DJ instructed. It’s loud, but not loud enough to win.

A few moments later, after the chants have subsided, the DJ repeats the same spiel, this time pointing to an absolute abomination to the Horseman’s legacy. There stands a drunken buffoon who can barely stand up straight. He raises his hands in the air and his equally intoxicated friends roar louder than those who cheered for the other costume.

Confusion takes over the DJ’s face as he scans the audience, trying to get a gauge on who the winner should be.

I reach for my phone, checking the time, growing anxious with this dragged-out contest. I just want him to declare the winner so I can mess with Blair a little. Letting her think she’s free from me for the evening, even though she knows deep down I’d never allow that to happen.

I watch as the DJs lips part to speak but my focus is stolen by an aggressive tapping at my shoulder.Shifting in my seat, I see the scowling face of an older woman dressed like Herman Munster’s wife.

I raise myself up on my forearms, leaning in close to make sure she hears me through the thick plaster of my mask. “Yes, Lily?” I annunciate through the barrier of my mask.

I watch her expression teeter between annoyance and horror as her eyes bounce from side to side of my mask. She inches closer to where my elbows are on the bar top and I clear my throat, trying to break her judgmental gaze, but my attention is stolen when I hear the guy dressed as the Horseman cheer like a jock at a frat party, his equally lame friends cheering him on, for winning a private dance with Katrina…myKatrina.

I glide my hand across the jawline of my mask, feeling for the button that rests just behind my ear. Tapping the concealed button twice, the bottom half of my mask retracts, exposing my scruff covered mouth, while leaving the top half of my face covered. I added this feature with Blair in mind because it allows me to remain masked while having my tongue exposed and ready at her beck and call, if need be. Though now I figure it will help the bartender hear me better. “Lily Munster, right?” I ask, observing her the intricate bat wing sleeves of her costume.

She stands, with lips pursed and a hesitancy deep on her wrinkled brow. “Yes,” she responds, shifting her gaze sporadically across my mask. “What are you dressed as, a paper mache project gone bad?”

My tongue swipes at my bottom lip just as her face shrivels in disgust at the sight of my forked tongue. An audible gasp leaks from her lips before she brings her wrinkled hand to her mouth.

“Calm down, I don’t bite, and I think you meant what do I want? Usually when a patron has this,” I pause, lifting from my seat to retrieve the wad of cash from my pocket before slamming it down on the counter. “You should ask what they want. Whatthey are shouldn’t matter,” I add with a shit-eating grin.

I push the wad of cash closer to her. “Take it,” I command.

Her gaze moves to the stage with a not so subtle side eye, before looking back at me and taking the cash.

“Good girl,” I tease.

“What-fucking-ever,” she rolls her eyes, her previously coy demeanor now frigid. “What do you want?”

“To drink?” I ask, scanning the options on the shelves. “A beer. Miller Lite.”

I move my palms against the bar top, causing the old woman’s eyes to dart in the direction of the custom-made ring on my index finger. Her eyes widen, as she glares down at the full vial that is centered on the elongated ring. Ha, if only she knew what is on the other side of the band.

“And to eat?” she asks as the beginning of Enter Sandman sounds from the speakers.

Hersong.

“Her.” I nod my head in the direction of where the spotlights cross in front of the stage.

And fuck do I ever want to have my split tongue all over that treacherous Van Tassel cunt. I want to kill her, but a man can eat before he kills, right?

“Excuse me?” she moves her gaze from the ring andback to my masked face.

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