Page 9 of One Killer Night

“Watch it, buddy. You almost got your ass beat,” I call out, entertaining myself.

In my defense, I think all men are suspicious by nature. We’re always on guard. Or maybe it’s just me mixed with ...

God, I hate this night. This street isn’t helping, though.

Truthfully, Halloween always fucks me up. Ironically, the sheet over my shoulder isn’t my actual costume. Tonight, my real disguise is “normal guy.”

This year, though, I’m determined to enjoy the change of course from guy who dreads Halloween to the guy who’s met the most interesting girl.

Lost in my thoughts, I walk closer to the building, only a single door in view, and use my helmet to knock. But when nobody answers, I lean in, pressing my ear to it. Is that music? I swear I can hear the faintest sound. So, I bang again, harder.

With a jerk, it suddenly swings open, making a scraping sound like it needs to be oiled. I step back so it doesn’t hit me as music bounds out, wafting into the air around me.

Ha. There is a party. My liver lives another day.

A giant man wearing a yellow T-shirt labeledThrills Event Stafflooks me up and down, mostly down because he’s got to be almost seven feet tall.

“Entrance is at the front.”

“Oh shit, my bad. I parked here by mistake ...” I say with weaponized incompetence, looking over my shoulder and hoping he doesn’t make me go around.

He looks annoyed but takes a clipboard from another yellow-T-shirt-wearing guy who’s passing by and grunts out his words.

“Name.”

Fuck yeah.

“Noah ... Adler.” Why did I add that? She doesn’t even know my last name.

The Jolly Green Giant shakes his head. “First problem is you’re not wearing a costume.” He looks up from the clipboard. “Second, there’s nobody on the list with that name.”

I smirk because, somehow, I knew this might happen.

She really is the most interesting girl.

I hold out my helmet, my forehead wrinkling for him to do me a solid. He does with a sigh, making me grin as I drape the sheet over my head, adjusting the homemade eyeholes.

“First problem solved.” I gingerly take back my helmet, adding, “Try Damon Salvatore.”

He looks down for a beat, then steps out of my way, holding the door open. “Have a spooky time, sir.”

I’m laughing to myself as I step over the threshold. Because I feel like there’s no other kind of time to be had. This night keeps getting better and better.

Three steps inside the party, the music kicks up as a band introduces themselves. An electric guitar strums a familiar rhythm before everyone onstage begins jumping to “Psycho Killer,” by the Talking Heads. But I’m undeterred as I search the room, looking for a cute little T. rex and coming up short.

However, what I am getting at great lengths are seriously elaborate costumes. There’s prosthetic after prosthetic and fabricated gore everywhere. Damn. One person after another draws my attention with pieces so intricate they could easily be in movies.

Who the hell are these people? And what kind of party is this? The moment I think it, I spot a neon sign by the entrance that saysMass FX—Bringing the Magic to Reel Life.

Oh shit. Okay, that makes sense. She works for a special effects company. That’s cool. Or maybe her sister does, since she said she was taking the fake blood to her for the dead body.

If I ever find her, I’ll ask.

I keep making my way through the crowd, eyes back on the prize.

A woman with fish scales all over her face blurts out “Boo” as I pass by, so I chuckle and lift my hands, waving them to play along.

Peopling isn’t usually my thing. Neither are parties. But tonight, I’m the definition ofIf he wants to, he will.