Page 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
JAKE
“Monster Mash” blasts at full volume when I arrive at the party. I push through a curtain of skull beads and step into the dimly lit room. Black velvet covers the tables, paper bats dangle from the ceiling, and cauldrons bubble over with dry ice. One whole side is dedicated to a dance floor that pulses under the DJ booth. Always have to admire Hunter and Milo’s commitment to the cause.
Logan and his girlfriend, Becs, hold court at the bar, abuzz with bodies pressing together. Laughter rings over the thump of the bass. I catch snippets of conversation, people complimenting costumes, already swapping stories of Halloween misadventures.
“Again?” I shout over the music as I approach, dodging a rogue Marshmallow Man. Logan’s dressed as Wolverine, claws out, broody superhero squint down. “What is this? The eighth year in a row?”
“Tenth,” Becs corrects, laughing. She’s Tinker Bell tonight with a sparkling wand and wings straight out of Neverland. She eyes me, grinning. “Nice top hat,” she says appreciatively.
I tip it. “Why thank you.”
We order drinks and dive into a round of “rate-the-costume.” The typical line-up of Amazon Prime rush jobs and some Comic Con-worthy ensembles are on display. A few ghosts in suspiciously dingy sheets drift by—surely last minute, likely unwashed.
Then there’s Milo, strutting his stuff as a mash-up of Game of Thrones ’s Shame Nun and Cersei Lannister—though his habit is cut so high it’s less “holy sister” and more “hello, Vegas!” A bald, naked Barbie hangs from a barbecue skewer somehow rigged to his chest, swinging back and forth while he chants, “Shame, shame, shame” with the gusto of a televangelist as he parades about. Three linebacker-sized Minions trail him, resembling giant, misplaced yellow and blue Easter eggs rather than cartoon characters.
Hate to say it—his might be the best costume of the night. But me? I’m not here to compete. There’s only one judge I want to impress.
When he spots us, he leads the entourage our way, and more drinks flow. After a round of toasts, I switch to a beer, figuring my liver will appreciate the breather.
“No Yvonne?” Milo asks, looking around as if he expects my sister to poof out of nowhere.
“She’s on backup trick-or-treat duty this year with the kids. Sleepover after. Someone’s definitely going to hurl after all the candy.”
“Yeah, probably happening here, too.” He nods at a guy in a pinata costume, tottering like he’s seconds from dropping an unplanned party favor.
“Fantastic,” I reply, half-distracted. Amelia’s just walked in. She’s in a wedding dress with a little white jacket and a veil of cheesecloth, “blood” spattered all over it, a whole Carrie-meets-Corpse Bride vibe.
When she spots me, her expression transforms from surprise to delight. Her face lights up with an incandescent smile, the kind that could brighten the creepiest of haunted houses. I knew she’d appreciate the effort. Grinning, I doff my top hat in her direction, earning a deep blush.
I’m about to thread my way through the crowd to her when Connor shows up beside me, decked out as Karl Lagerfeld, with Ella in tow as the beloved Choupette. “Nice.” I chuckle, giving them a once-over. “I’ve got to get a photo of you two for Carla. She’s obsessed with that feline.”
“Thanks, man. You wouldn’t believe the debate over who’d play Karl and who’d be the cat,” Connor replies. “I’d wanted to come as the guy from that mind-bending thriller everyone’s raving about.”
Ella rolls her eyes, her voice dripping with faux disdain. “As the late, great Karl would say: Trendy is the last step before tacky.”
I’m itching to join Amelia, but now that the team’s all here, Armaan insists on group photos before everyone gets sloppy drunk and loses half their costumes. I stick around, posing on demand, keeping an eye on the table where she’s laughing with Rani and Terri. They’ve settled at a high-top across the dance floor, empties already piling up in front of them.
Rani commandeers another round of shots, and the girls clink glasses. Amelia tips her head back, gaze heavy-lidded as she brings it to her mouth, and I want to drag my lips along her throat. When she sways, I fight the urge to pull her to me, send a message she’s mine. We’re not together. Not really. But I can get close. Dance near enough to her to smell her perfume yet maintain a strategic distance—a perimeter of plausible deniability.
“If you’re going to keep eye-fucking her, you might as well go over,” Hunter says, snapping me back to reality with a smirk.
I yank my gaze from Amelia. “The fuck?”
“You heard me. It’s embarrassing. Even for you.”
I glance over at her, feeling like an idiot. My half-assed plan of getting closer hits a roadblock. I should probably hang with the guys for now. “I’m teaching her about football.”
Hunter laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. “Then, stop looking at her as if you want to rip her dress off with your teeth.” I suppose he’s being helpful.
“We’re not together.”
“You’re not together,” he echoes obediently.
I grimace, not liking the tightness that comes with that statement. I make a noise that is neither affirmative nor negative, because, honestly, what’s the right answer?
“Just football,” I reiterate.
Well, football and sex. I take a deep swig of my beer, snap the bottle down, and deliberately turn away. Plenty of other interesting stuff to focus on in this mess. Maybe.
But when I think I’ve succeeded, Hunter’s low whistle breaks through the din. “Look at that. Creepy Carl’s checking out Amelia. Guess you’re fine with him making a move. Doesn’t he have a knack for football, too?”
That snaps me out of my funk. Oh hell no. I push off the bar without a word, chuckles echoing behind me.
Carl from AV, notorious intern chaser, is in a cheesy devil costume and loitering near the girls’ table. He greets Rani, then zeroes in on Amelia, leaning in to chat her up.
Not today, Satan.
She responds with a tight-lipped smile and nods, takes a sip of her drink. What is that now—her third? I need to get the asshat away from her. Read the room and leave my girl the fuck alone.
I weave through the crowd, dodging Playboy bunnies, pirates, and a Shania Twain in a skimpy leopard print jumpsuit. I slide behind Amelia, my hands settling on the curve of her waist. She stiffens for a fraction of a second before relaxing into my touch, and satisfaction fills me. I lean in, close enough to convey my unspoken claim.
Carl’s eyes flicker between us, and he slinks off.
She sways to the beat of “Tainted Love,” her bloody bridal costume making her look like she just staggered out of a gothic romance. Her movements possess a hint of the undead.
She turns in my arms, a dreamy smile on her face. Her breath is tinged with tequila.
“Why, hello there, Willy Wonka.”
“Hi.” One word, but it’s packed with everything we’re not saying. The air crackles as we hold each other’s gaze, caught in a bubble of our own, even as people swirl past.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to break the spell before I do something reckless. I sweep over her bridal getup. “What’s this then?” I murmur, my voice dipping low. “A bride who had a rough day? Did the groom bail, or did you skip straight to the ‘till death part?”
“Let’s just say he had cold feet. Cold, dead feet,” she quips, her words slightly slurred, but her wit as sharp as ever.
Amelia tilts her head, her finger trailing down the buttons of my purple suit, slow and deliberate. “How’s the chocolate business, Mr. Wonka?”
“Booming,” I grin, leaning in. “Especially the dark and bittersweet varieties. They pair well with tragic nuptials.”
She giggles. “I do have a bit of a penchant for the bittersweet. Maybe you could give me a taste later?” She tries for a sultry wink, but it ends up somewhere between a blink and a twitch. Still adorable.
“Sweets, was that an attempt at dirty talk?” I tease, my lips brushing her ear. “Because I’m not gonna lie, I’m kind of into it.”
She swats at me, but I duck. Her laugh mingles with the music and chatter around us, a touch louder than expected. I drop my voice. “I’d be delighted to offer a private tasting. What would people think if they found out the tragic bride was sweet on the chocolate mogul?”
A Michael Jackson and his zombie partner walk by, giggling. “Did you catch any of the parade earlier? How many times did you hear ‘Thriller’?”
Amelia lights up. “Ah, Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller.’ Did you know it almost didn’t include the Vincent Price rap? Last minute addition.”
We exchange a smile, but it teeters dangerously close to the line we’ve drawn, and the alcohol is blurring the edges. She’s already swaying, hovering right at the cusp.
Lady Gaga’s “Bloody Mary” kicks in, and I take it as a cosmic cue to dial back the intensity.
“Hey, I’m not just a pretty face with a chocolate factory. My Wednesday Addams dance is on point.” I start flailing my arms around. “My nieces made sure of it, and nobody does it better.”
I have Amelia in stitches in seconds. “Impressive, Willy. Did you know Jenna Ortega choreographed that herself?”
“She did?” I feign shock. That’s one tidbit I was aware of, thanks to the niblings. I crank up the moves. “Come on, let’s see what you can do.”
She gives it her all, but enthusiasm clearly outpaces coordination here. Her attempts are closer to an interpretive dance that’s lost the plot. I’m dying, laughing so hard I’m practically crying, dodging an elbow that comes a little too close for comfort.
Our spectacle draws a crowd Milo bursts through, Minions, X-Men, and the rest of the team following, happy to watch me make a fool out of myself.
Armaan even knows the words and dances along, surprisingly adept as a dancing tent, and suddenly, our duo is a flash mob.
“This dance massacre needs some pain relief. Booze is the only thing that's going to help.” Moments later, a tray of B-52 shots materializes in front of us.
Logan squints at the creamy layers and makes a gagging noise. “No way I’m drinking that. Someone must’ve really despised the band to create something so shitty.”
“Actually, the drink came first,” Amelia states, her hand wavering as she raises the glass for a closer examination.
“And the band thought, ‘Wow, this is so gross it should be our name’? Fucking masochists.”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “Nope, they were named after those big, poofy hairdos that resemble jet bombers.” With a grin, she knocks back the rest of her drink in one go.
Milo snorts. “That’s as good as naming your kid Hoover because you’re proud of your suction power.”
Amelia glows, in her element. “And did you know ‘Rock Lobster’ was inspired by a disco projector? Fred Schneider thought it sounded like a lobster, so naturally, he made it into a song.”
Everyone erupts into laughter, and Amelia basks in it.
“She’s the queen of random music facts,” I add, grinning. Watching her in action? Absolute perfection.
“I am a treasure trove of useless music trivia,” she agrees.
“Not useless. Fun. It’s like a history class. Seriously, Sweets, you’d rock those tours.” I wink at her.
“What tours?” Hunter asks, sliding in and draping an arm over each of our shoulders, wedging himself between us. I give him a side eye, though I guess he’s doing me a favor—since, you know, boundaries and everything.
“I keep telling her she should do music tours,” I tell him. “I’m not kidding. Name any song.”
He looks at me dubiously before turning to Amelia. “All right, how about ‘In a Dream’?”
She perks up. “Oh, you’re going deep! That’s one of Lady Gaga’s unreleased tracks from back when she was still figuring out her style. It’s got this pop-rock vibe with piano and raw vocals. Definitely inspired by Queen and Bowie. She was mixing genres before anyone knew who she was.”
Hunter raises an eyebrow, impressed.
Amelia wobbles on her heels, but she’s on a roll. “Did you know she used to book her own gigs? Some venues would only speak with managers.” A hiccup. “The next day ‘Stefani’ rings on behalf of herself, with a dodgy posh accent.” She delivers this last bit in what I think is supposed to be a faux British accent, which makes her sound like Julie Andrews layered on top of Austin Powers.
Milo pulls out his phone. After a few of seconds of scrolling, he flips the screen toward us, revealing the Wikipedia page. “Nice!”
“See? She should be getting paid for this!” I crow.
Hunter chimes in. “Nah, we don’t want to lose Amelia. We like her!”
“You could do it as a side hustle,” I say. “Like I said before, you need to carpe diem that shit.”
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28 (Reading here)
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53