Page 11 of Masks and Mishaps

Super rude, but whatever.

Everett and Cora are indescribably hot together, but just in case anyone forgets how hot they are, they tend to do things like this: make out right in front of me—like,rightin front of me. When I blow, I can make Everett’s hair move. And Cora Flores—even when she and Everett are passing my best friend’s dignity back and forth with their tongues—seems to know I’m messing with Everett’s hair. Her hand immediately threads through it, tangling his dark brown locks around the aggressively large sapphire engagement ring he gave her eleven months ago.

“Yeah, so this is fun. Best Halloween ever—even better than freshman year when I drank too many boilermakers and had to get my stomach pumped while dressed like an Oompa Loompa.”

No response.

“Cool. Super happy to be here,” I drone even more sardonically now, but my words get lost in the tremors of bass reverberating as the DJ works a new song into the mix, heavy on the downbeats and loud enough to spike the stock price for hearing aid startups across the country. It’s exactly the type of music that makes me want to fuck.

Sighing, I tip the rim of my beer bottle into my mouth and find it empty—gross. So, I drink Cora’s gin and tonic because she’s too busy anyway.

“I saw that,” she mentions while Everett sucks a hickey onto her neck.

“I’ll buy you another,” I promise, sliding the empty glass onto the table.

Instead of resuming the gradual process of swallowing Everett whole, Cora tilts her head to the side and assesses me. “Why are you pouting?”

“He asked for a threesome and I said no,” Everett lies, detaching his lips from Cora’s neck and giving me that asshole-smirk of his.

I flip him off. “Fuck off, Logan. You’re not eventhatgood at kissing.”

Everett’s eyebrow shoots up, and the fake eyebrow piercing he’s wearing catches one of the club’s flashing green lights. His costume, as far as I can tell, is an excuse for Cora to dress him in a fishnet shirt that shows his nipples. On the flip side, Cora isn’t even dressed up because in all her pierced and gothy glory, I think Cora justisHalloween to begin with.

“It’s been years, and I’m muchbetter now.” Everett maintains before he faces Cora. “Tell him, princess.”

Cora straight up ignores Everett because she’s funny as hell. She bobs her chin in my direction. “What’s wrong with you?”

I sigh and check the time. “Nothing. I’m good. Better than good. I’m just grand, really. Hey, so when’s Essie coming?”

Now, Cora’s eyebrow (with its real piercing) rises. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Everett and Cora glance at each other before they look at me again.

“What?” I demand, dropping my phone onto the table.

The only thing faster than Cora’s head shake is the grimace crossing Everett’s face. They know something—something they won’t tell me—which blows. If anyone can keep a secret, it’s my stony best friend who not only hid his obsession with Cora for seven months but legitimately led her to believe he hated her, and Cora, who has zero issues telling me to fuck off.

“Tell me.”

“Fuck off,” she responds.

Case in point.

“Cora Bora. Tell me.”

Now she gives me the finger. “You know I’m not going to tell you shit about my friends,” she replies before she crushes her face back onto Everett’s.

I watch them make out, which Everett notices in his periphery. “Relax,” he tells me, voice muffled because Cora is sucking on his lower lip. “Essie is the most responsible out of all of us. She’s fine.”

But I know it’s about Alec. I still don’t get it. Why would Essie meet someone in a bar when she doesn’t even drink? And why would she bring him to Cora’s old condo? And why the hell would Essie skip Halloween when she loves Halloween?

Like, shereallyloves Halloween. Her costumes are always meticulous and cute—but also super hot. Last year, she was the Windows Blue Screen of Death, which was just a tight blue dress with an error message she printed on herself. She looked so good that I did four sake bombs and asked her if she wanted to be the beneficiary on all my insurance policies.

Not going to lie: Every time my laptop crashes, I get a little turned on.

“Where is she?” I press, glaring at Everett.

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