Page 12 of Masks and Mishaps

Everett lets out the trademark bored sigh he’s been throwing around the entire twenty-nine years we’ve known each other. He leans back, exposing more of his neck while Cora licks it with the flat of her tongue, dragging her piercing over his pulse point. “If you wanted her to be your business, you should have made her your business months ago.”

My eyes narrow. I hate how he’s right, but hell is going to turn into a froyo shop with unlimited toppings before I admit it.

“I cannot take you seriously when you’re wearing eyeliner, my guy,” is my response, but Everett doesn’t hear me because his tongue is so deep, I have to assume he—being a consummate environmentalist—has discovered an alternative fuel source in Cora’s throat and is trying to mine it.

There’s a spare shot of tequila on the table. I throw it back and grab the discarded Ghostface mask next to me—the only costume I could pull together after barely surviving late nights at Hannington-Hale this week. I’m on a mission now.

Everett and Cora are prodigiously good at keeping secrets, but Lan and Valeria are soft. Bet I could wear them down.

The club is the best kind of bedlam tonight: loud, teetering on the edge of full-on disorder, and packed with miles of skin and bright clothing. The pounding music escalates as I move closer to the dancefloor, and I raise the mask to the top of my head so I can see in the dark. Flashes of green cut with shades of purple and blue, and then it’s bodies—sweaty, gyrating bodies.

The collision of limbs and elbows and the slickness of the dancefloor tickle my brain just the right way. Hot energy brews in my fingertips and legs, working up my body. A hand touches my exposed arm. Another slides along my neck. I brush them off, resisting the urge to get lost in other people, in throbbing bass, and in the burn of liquor.

In the center of the dancefloor, music thuds in the recesses of my body, winding itself into my bloodstream. I feel it from my feet to my throat. I could feel it everywhere if I wanted, and maybe that’s what I should be doing—chasing highs instead of chasing girls. Then a pair of women dressed like milkmaids envelops me, and I can sense it: the radiating tingle of a sure thing.

This could be fun.

But then one rests her hand on my chest, and my body still prickles with Essie.

I don’t want to fuck these milkmaids—a sentence I never thought I’d utter (sort-of pun intended) because, one: I don’t think being a milkmaid is a real job anymore except at Colonial Williamsburg, and two:I like to fuck. Up until two years ago, I’d rarely turned down an opportunity.

I turn down the opportunity a lot now.

Lander and Valeria are on the far side of the dancefloor where it’s darker. If I thought Cora and Everett’s public foreplay was overkill, I was a sweet summer child. These two may already be fucking.

Unlike Cora and Everett, who showed up dressed as intimidating hot people, Valeria and Lander are in costume…maybe. I think Lander is Peter Pan because he’s wearing this green shirt and the tightest green pants I’ve ever seen. Valeria, on the other hand, is wearing bright orange—barely. She’s showing a lot of skin, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing since her livelihood hinges on her showing skin. But I need Lander to focus, which he literally can’t do when Valeria is dressed like this.

The guy can barely focus when she’s wearing a parka.

“Hey,” I announce myself, which has zero impact whatsoever on Lander clutching Valeria’s hips while she grinds her butt against his crotch. “Sick costumes. You look amazing.”

I still have zero idea what these costumes are supposed to be.

Lander has his mouth against Valeria’s ear, either licking it or whispering. With Lander…it’s a tossup.

I’m genuinely not sure what else to do, so I start dancing next to Lander. He doesn’t notice at first, so I dance a little harder, adding in a fist pump (which I know is dated, but actually looks really good if the vibes are right.)

Then the song changes, so Valeria turns around—finally. With his face briefly unoccupied, Lander notices me and bobs his chin. “What’s up?”

“Do you two know where Essie is?” I shout over the music.

“What?”

“I’m asking where Essie is.”

Lander’s face pulls into a frown, but quickly smooths as his eyebrows rise over his bright blue eyes. “Yeah, they were German,” he says while he grips Valeria’s butt over her minuscule orange skirt, which has a jack o’ lantern printed on it. “They were mercenaries from Germany who fought in the Revolutionary War.”

“….Why are you talking about German mercenaries?”

“You asked me about Hessians,” he snaps—as if military strategy is a perfectly normal thing to talk about in a nightclub.

Then again, it’s Lander, so…

“Lan, he asked where Essie is,” Valeria interjects, sighing before she faces me. “And if she didn’t tell you, we’re not telling you either.”

“Baby,” Lander murmurs, glancing at Valeria before he faces me again, “look at him. He’s going to find out eventually.”

“No,” Valeria warns, expression stern. “Absolutely not.”

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