Page 1 of Reckless Hearts

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Ilook like a slut-shamer’s wet dream.

It’s the vibe I’m going for, but I prefer to avoid lingering, roving stares from creepy men twice my age unless I want to fuck them. And I don’t want to fuck my tactless Uber driver.

He must be pushing sixty, which isn’t usually a problem; Jeffrey Dean Morgan would totally get it if he weren’t married and if I had a chance in hell. But it would be a major inconvenience if I gave this dude a heart attack—until I get to The Mansion, at least.

Twenty painfully slow minutes of uncomfortable small talk crawl by, and by the time we’re balls deep in the Surrey Hills approaching the Cambrook Private Estate, I’m ready to end it all. Cause of death: eternal boredom.

The Prius pulls up to a pair of wrought-iron gates. I exit the car carefully, making sure the creeper doesn’t catch a glimpse of my ass as I leave. I quickly rearrange my costume, fix my hair, then press the buzzer.

A woman’s voice crackles through the speakers. “Password?”

I clear my throat and roll my eyes, recognising Daisy, my best friend’s PA. “Titsoak.”

Did I mention Cara is hilarious? Sometimes I wonder how I ended up friends with someone who supports narcissistic vampires and creepy werewolves, but then I remember she’s pretty fucking awesome and the reason for this epic party.

“Tatum? Where the hell have you been, loca?” Daisy chimes in. She has an equally disturbing obsession withThe Twilight Saga. Not that I’m one to judge—I have my own tastes that will never see the light of day.

Before I have time to respond, she buzzes me in. The heavy gates wind open, and I make my way up the long gravel path, lit only by flickering pumpkin lanterns in the otherwise pitch-black surroundings.

The wind picks up, whipping around me and stroking the flesh beneath my barely-there skirt, making me shiver. Music blasts through the house as I enter, the slow, driving rhythm ofDeftones'"Passenger" amplifying the brooding atmosphere. It feels like I've stepped straight into a teen slasher movie.

The place is decked out with skeletons, bats, and cobwebs. Dense fog swirls around my chunky black boots in the dim red light, while the air is thick with the mingling scents of expensive perfume and top-shelf alcohol.

Small groups lounge on the steps of an ornate mahogany staircase, and the steady flow of bodies sipping from plastic cups and puffing berry-scented vapes makes it hard to spot Cara, Daisy, or anyone else I might know.

Nineties final girls seem to be a recurring theme; women in low-slung jeans and tight white tank tops splayed with fake blood, some in grey space overalls reminiscent of theAlienfranchise. And judging by all the slasher masks, spicy booktok is no longer a well-kept secret, either.

The unease of seeing so many hidden faces settles in, but my body betrays me as a rush of warmth spreads between my legs. I squeeze my thighs just as a pair of hands grab my bare ass, nearly making me jump out of my skin. I spin around quickly, ready to confront whoever dared to touch me, only to hear a familiar giggle.

Relief washes over me, and my warning glare softens. "Bro, I was about to snap your arm, I swear..." I trail off, my attention snagged by Cara’s costume. She’s dressed as Dani fromMidsommar, complete with a huge floral headdress that cascades down her lingerie-clad body, adorned with vibrant blooms. It must have taken her hours to put together.

“Any excuse to fuck a bitch up,” she says with a grin, striking a pose. “That outfit is fire, by the way.”

My obvious choice would have been Maxine Minx, given my dark hair and freckles, and my love for Mia Goth. Unfortunately, I can’t quite pull off dungarees and side boob like she does. Instead, I went for an all-black ensemble, complete with a corset, tulle skirt, and mismatched stockings. “Thank you, boo. Likewise.”

Cara smiles proudly. “Daisy helped me. She’s a keeper.”

For a moment, an expression of fleeting self-consciousness crosses Cara’s face, as if she’s just realised she might have overshared. It stings a bit; she should know by now that I’m not the type to judge. She clears her throat and changes the subject. “Anyway, what are you drinking?”

“Anything, as long as it's neat,” I reply. The quicker I calm my nerves, the better.

“Tequila?”

"Perfect." She turns on her heel and disappears around the corner, leaving me to savour the atmosphere—alive and electric with chatter, swaying hips, and bursts of laughter.

I can’t help but envy the incredible makeup and costumes around me, but painting my face would have been pointless. By the end of the night, it’ll be streaked with tears and who knows what else.

In the midst of my musings, my phone vibrates with a text, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Unknown: You look pretty...

Butterflies swarm in my stomach, their frantic flapping screaming danger as bubbles appear on the screen. I try to reassure myself, reminding myself that it’s just a game, but the intensity of it all feels strikingly real.

Unknown: ... for a dead girl.

My gaze flits nervously around the room, darting from one person to another. My heart skips beats as a wave of panic and arousal washes over me, the ache between my legs intensifying. I realise with growing discomfort that everyone around me is deeply engaged in conversation, their phones nowhere in sight.

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