Page 33

Genre: Pop

***

The party is at a dive bar, albeit a dive bar absolutely crawling with private security, since the people inside are all famous.

It’s probably not even a real dive bar, but a luxurious private event space that some interior designer stage-dressed immaculately to look like a hole in the wall.

Your own black-garbed giants are among the corps on the sidewalk.

You almost tried to get Cal to don a pair of cat ears, but decided that his withering disdain wouldn’t be worth it.

The lights are low, the music is loud, and there’s a ton of dry ice in fog machines, which crawls under the high-top tables and drifts damply across the dance floor.

Somebody spent a lot of money to make the place look this bad, you think.

A girl dressed like Magenta from Rocky Horror winks at you and takes your coats at the door.

The night isn’t necessarily cold, but there is no chance in hell that you two could get caught out in public dressed like you are for the party.

You’ve gone with a two-man Village People theme, a cop and a cowboy.

You have a little blue romper open to your sternum and barely covering your ass, accessorized with a peaked cap, a shiny gold badge, and a pair of handcuffs swinging from your belt.

Kai looks like Woody from Toy Story took a wrong turn into an XXX superstore: fringed leather chaps over a skimpy bikini brief, a matching cowhide vest, and a jaunty red bandana tied around his neck and hanging down over his bare chest. He’s got a Stetson and pair of holstered pop guns that he got way too much pleasure out of pointing at you and muttering pew-pew in the town car on the way over.

Most Halloween costumes are shitty polyester—you think of the slutty football player getup—but these were custom, made by hand in an atelier.

What ateliers make Halloween costumes for celebrities, you aren’t sure, but Maeve procured them with her infinite professional network.

You greet the host and introduce Kai, then make the rounds of the room.

The music is blaring so loudly that you can barely hear yourself think, let alone carry on even shallow conversations.

Against the back wall, a ceiling-mounted projector is playing sexy music videos.

Currently, Madonna is writhing her way through Justify My Love, crawling all over Tony Ward in Paris.

As people pass by the wall, the projection throws their shadows on the whitewashed brick and the action on their bodies.

Madge’s plush lips are currently superimposed on a model’s head.

“Wanna sit?” Kai mouths at you. You let him grab you by the hand and lead you across the crowded dance floor, which is already packed, to a table by the bar.

You’ve no sooner started thinking about what to order than an androgynous femme server with stilettos and a witch’s cape plunks a bucket down on the table.

It’s bright purple with a plastic handle, like a child might take to the beach.

There are half a dozen twisty straws emerging over the side.

“What’s this?” you ask them, talking loudly over the noise.

“Trick or Treat Fuck-It Bucket,” they say. “Enjoy.”

Kai leans over the table to look into the bucket, so you do the same. It’s full of ice, liquid, and assorted fruit pieces and candy… you see maraschino cherries, Swedish Fish, and gummy bears. The liquid, which is obviously intended for drinking, smells sweet and aggressively alcoholic.

“Fuck-it Bucket,” you mumble, rolling the words around your tongue. To your writer’s brain, it’s not wholly displeasing.

Across from you, Kai shakes his head. “I went to too many frat parties at Bama to drink anything from a damn bucket at my age,” he says. “I’m going to get something less toxic from the bar. You want?”

You shrug. “Surprise me.”

It’s a pleasure to watch his tight ass, framed by the chaps, disappear into the chaotic swirl of beautiful people and fun-house fog in the room. Once Kai’s gone, you fiddle absently with the badge on your costume. Madonna has given way to Elvira bumping and grinding through the Monster Mash.

A girl dressed like a Playboy bunny nearly trips over your high-backed stool. When she rights herself, she makes eye contact and smiles big. You think you vaguely recognize her, which probably means she’s from TV, which you mostly don’t watch.

“I love you, Sterling!” she says, loud and happy and drunk. It’s only 9 PM. “I don’t care what those bastards say; they could never make me hate you.”

“I love you, too!” you call back. She blows you a kiss as she shimmies towards the dance floor.

Curiously, you take a sip of Fuck-It juice.

It tastes like it smells, fruity and sweet with a boozy kick like a mule.

You can’t help but poke at the ice with your straw.

Who else has drank from this? Was it made for you?

You’re frowning at a bobbing Sour Patch Kid marooned against the plastic when Kai makes his way back.

“Careful with that,” he says, setting two glasses down on the table. “Who knows what the hell is in there.”

“I think I taste vodka,” you say, licking your lips. “Some kind of fruit liqueur. Peach, maybe?”

“I got you an espresso martini,” he says, pushing one glass towards you. “Cheers.”

Obligingly, you take a sip. It’s not bad, more coffee than anything. After the bucket, it tastes off-puttingly bitter.

“What did you get?” you ask Kai.

He rolls his eyes. “Sparkling water,” he says. “This place is weird.”

It’s not especially weird for an industry thing. You’ve definitely experienced weirder. There’s a certain freedom in the environment, knowing that there’s a battalion of security outside, and nobody inside particularly cares that you are Sterling Grayson.

“Let’s finish this round,” you suggest. “If that’s okay with you. We can always find something else to do if you’re still not feeling it.”

He shrugs, and plucks a slice of lime from his drink to suck between his teeth.

Sensing that he’s distracted by people-watching, you edge the bucket a little closer and take another pull.

This is… okay. Your ultra-liberal bleeding heart thinks it’s slightly gross that wealthy celebrities are cosplaying as working-class barflies, but not enough to complain about it.

The music is too loud, the people are being too rowdy in their skimpy, bespoke costumes, safe from the fish-eye of the press, and you really think that you are starting to become a serious homebody, because this is not your scene anymore.

You used to like parties. Then, things changed.

You met Kai. Now, home has a lot to recommend it.

Today, “home” is Los Angeles. You don’t like LA, and you may not like parties, but Kai has a brand meeting in town, and you have resolved to make the best of everything.

Unashamed, you take a swig of your bucket of mystery hooch and tuck yourself against Kai’s side.

He smells like leather and Creed Aventus, good enough that, without thinking, you poke your tongue out and lick his bicep.

He looks down at you in surprise. “Maybe you wanna slow down on the jungle juice.”

“It’s not jungle juice; it’s a Fuck-It Bucket,” you announce. “And I’ve only had a little bit.”

“You get crazy, and I’m stealing your handcuffs and chaining you to your chair,” he warns.

“I have much more to drink, and that might not be the only thing we do with these handcuffs tonight,” you volley back, leaning up towards his ear.

Kai’s laughter is delighted, louder than the music.

The projection on the back wall has been playing the whole time.

You’re seated with a direct view of it, but you haven’t been paying attention.

The last song playing comes to an end, a sibilant, distinctive hiss fills the room.

It’s the intro to another song; there’s a CGI snake on the wall.

A few cheers erupt from the crowd. They like this song.

Throaty moans join the hissing. As you watch, intrigued, the snake on the projection rears back and strikes, breaking in half to form two human silhouettes. A short woman, and a tall man. Their black outlines move towards each other, circling in a clear mating dance.

A thumping bassline joins the weird, erotic sound.

I’m a snake, baby

Snake, baby (yeah)

Short and sweet, nothing fake, baby

Wrap me round your body tight

Steal your breath all through the night

Bite you while you fuck me right

I’m a snake (snake, snake, snake)

The beat drops, and so does your jaw. It’s Gabi in the video, and she’s totally naked.

Well, technically, she’s wearing the world’s least-substantial g-string, but she’s covered from her bare feet to her neck in body paint scales.

Her blonde hair looks wet, pushed back from her face.

Her eyeliner is stark. You almost wouldn’t have recognized her, except for her sweet eyes.

Seeing her is a knife directly through the heart.

“Kai…” you say dumbly.

He’s still chewing the lime wedge when the other silhouette materializes: GoGo.

His hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, and he’s wearing leather pants.

Like Gabi, he’s barefoot, but he towers over her.

He puts his hands on her bare hips and thrusts her ass against himself, no subtlety.

Gabi’s lips part in a sinuous smile. She has fangs attached to her canine teeth.

You can see her nipples, diamond-hard under their coat of paint.

As she starts the second verse, she rolls her body against GoGo.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you hear Kai mutter beside you, but you are transfixed.

Two people walk in front of the screen, and Gabi’s near-naked body is projected on them, her face full of sharp teeth and harsh makeup distorted by the shadows they throw. You don’t know whether you want to cover your eyes or run across the room and block the projector yourself.