Page 13 of Masks and Mishaps

“But—”

Her hand shoots up and clenches my best friend’s jaw. “Lander Dawson, if you reveal something I told you in confidence, I will—” And she rises on her toes to whisper in his ear.

Whatever Valeria says makes Lander’s jaw drop. “But you’d suffer just as much—”

“I still collaborate with Essie and Cora once a month,” she reminds him. “I’ll be fine.”

“Sorry,” he mouths at me before resuming the pre-fucking ritual of dry humping his fiancée right in front of me.

Now they’re moving like there’s a shortage of mortars and pestles, and they want to save the species by taking their place. He’s definitely going to bang her in this club tonight, which is annoying because I suspect persuading them to tell me Essie’s whereabouts becomes infinitely more difficult if Lander is inside Valeria. I don’t blame him though. If Essie were my girl and we went to a club together, I’d definitely screw her in the shadows too.

Wait.

Lander, Valeria, and I go to clubs all the time, and whenever Valeria is wearing a skimpy outfit (which is basically always), Lander keeps her phone in his pocket.

Fuck yeah.

I move to the beat, fist pumping just enough so I don’t look too suspicious. To my relief, Valeria doesn’t see me get behind her fiancé and low-key start grinding him. Lander glances back and doesn’t mind when he sees me… And yes, maybe both of us should find it bizarre that I’m basically dry humping my best friend, but honestly? This isn’t the first time.

And anyway, Lander’s a good dancer—even in skintight pants—but he doesn’t notice when I take Valeria’s phone from his pocket.

Contraband in hand, I plunge back into the crowd, getting some space from my friends (mostly to carry out this act of subterfuge without getting caught, but also because Lander looks like he’s going to the elf version of Coachella, and I don’t fuck with that).

…Oh shit, I get it: Valeria’s ass is a pumpkin, and Lander is Peter.

Peter Pumpkin Eater.

Cora and Everett are gone when I get back to the table, which means someone is getting butt stuff in either a bathroom or a storage closet or an alley. I pray to the butt gods for a solid O on behalf of my friends, and then I unlock Valeria’s phone after two tries (her password isn’t Lander’s birthday like I figured, but their anniversary works—because they’re sickeningly cute when they’re not fucking in public).

Damn. Everything is in Spanish, which I barely know. Luckily, the language of logos is universal, and like I suspected, Valeria can track Cora and Essie. The Cora dot is nearby, closer to the alley (called it), and Essie is at the Halcyon.

Weird. There’s no reason why she would spend her favorite night of the year in a building she doesn’t even live in.

I have to know.

For most of my life, even before I dropped out of Harvard Law, my father claimed I had no perseverance. The opinion of a man who made a pass at one of my friends and tried to silence another means little to me, but the notion hasn’t left me.

Well, fuck it. I have plenty of perseverance.

Here’s to my father:May we get what we want, may we get what we need, but may we never get what we deserve.

For once, I’m going to get what I want and need.

I pocket my phone and leave Valeria’s on the table near Everett’s coat. Then I throw back the last shot of tequila, grab my mask, and venture out into the October night.

Five

ESSIE

Amargaritaistwoparts tequila, one part triple sec, and a splash of lime juice…I think.

I only realize how forcefully I’m clutching the glass neck of the tequila bottle when my fingernails dig into my palm, andmaybeI’m a tiny bit anxious. ButI’m completely fine. I’m completely fine.Alec is seventeen minutes late for a stream for hundreds of my subscribers, butI’m so completely fine.

There’s no triple sec in Cora’s makeshift bar, but there’s Cointreau, which sounds familiar. I pour everything into a cocktail glass, but I wonder if I’m supposed to use a shaker. I end up stirring with a teaspoon, but the color is so…clear.

I check the time. Alec is twenty minutes late now, so I tap out a text:Let me know your ETA! Looking forward to screwing you!, which looks as awkward as it sounded in my head, so I delete the second part, butLet me know your ETA!feels a little desperate.

…or a lot desperate, actually, but flakiness ruins careers in this business. I’ve only been late to a stream once—the result of this petty stunt Lander pulled when he was trying to win over Valeria—and I don’t want to deal with the repercussions again. Whatever. I send the text anyway and take a sip—

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