Page 3 of Trick of the Flesh
“Keep telling yourself that, little brat,” he murmurs. “Tonight’s gonna tell the truth.”
Then he turns, casual as ever, and strolls out of the room, the scent of him left in his wake. Earthiness from the weed, sandalwood, and citrus.
I’ve missed it.
I stand there, chest heaving, cobwebs tangled in my hands, my whole body trembling.
He’s wrong. He has to be wrong.
But the heat coiling in my stomach says otherwise.
I try to shake it off and focus on the cobwebs in my hands, but my fingers won’t stop trembling. The stretchy material bunches up into knots. I want to curse. I want to throw it down and storm back to the kitchen and pretend none of this happened.
Instead, I stand frozen, Miguel’s voice replaying in my head,that filthy promise curling around my ribs like smoke:Run tonight, pretty boy…
I shove the cobweb against the wall corner, force it to stick, and back away like I’ve accomplished something. My throat is dry, my palms damp. The party hasn’t even started yet and I already want to crawl back to my dorm and slam the door shut.
Just so I can avoid the one person who makes me feel… something.
The restof the afternoon is spent on errands Celeste keeps tossing at me. Hang this. Move that. Carry in a case of beer from the garage. She chatters the whole time about how fun tonight will be—neighbors, Dad’s coworkers, and some of Miguel’s friends. “We want the whole house alive, Caleb. Halloween only comes once a year.”
I nod and smile when I’m supposed to.
Every time I pass through the living room, Miguel is there. Always there. Sometimes with a fresh blunt, sometimes scrolling through his phone, sometimes just sprawled across the couch with his arm thrown over the back like a throne, the TV with hockey highlights going. He doesn’t even pretend to help. He just watches me, lazy and sharp all at once, like he’s cataloguing every move I make.
I hate how aware I am of him.
I hate the way my body reacts when his gaze lingers too long.
And I hate myself most of all for wanting him to look.
At one point, Dad sends me outside to string orange lights across the porch. The air is cool, the leaves crisp beneath my sneakers as I move about. I should feel better out here, away from the suffocating gaze of Miguel’s eyes, but I don’t. Because I know he could step outside at any moment.
He doesn’t.
But I imagine it anyway—him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, blunt glowing in the dusk. Watching me.
Smirking.
Waiting for me to crack.
By the time the sun dips low, the house glows in orange and purple, music thumping from the speakers Dad set up in the living room. Bowls of chips and candy are out, and drinks are lined up on the counter. Guests will be arriving soon, and Celeste has gone upstairs to change into her witch costume. Dad’s already half in one—he bought a ridiculous Dracula cape he insists on swishing every time he passes me.
“Relax, son,” he says when he catches me fidgeting with a plastic skeleton on the mantle. “It’s just a party. Have a drink, and maybe get Miggy to share some of the endless pot he seems to have. Relax.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Relax…right.”
Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have Miguel lurking like a shadow, waiting to pounce.
I go upstairs to drop my bag in the guest room and change out of my travel clothes. Jersey, my favorite jeans; something comfortable and low effort. I catch myself in the mirror and pause.
I look… fine.Average. Nothing worth staring at.
Not like Miguel.
He’s taller and broader, with ink spread over tan skin in patterns I never let myself study too long. His jaw is sharp, and his mouth is always curled in that perpetual smirk that makes me want to both punch him and kiss him.
He’s fire and smoke, and I’m just…nothing.
