Page 15 of Devils' Day Party
“Okay,” I say, but she narrows her brown eyes at me, unconvinced, and I reach up to flick the long, bulbous tip of her goblin nose. “I won’t go looking for trouble, I promise.” But that doesn’t mean trouble won’t come looking for me.
She nods, once, satisfied and then takes off through the gyrating bodies around the bonfire. The crowd doesn’t part nearly as easily for her as it did for April. While they might hesitate a little at bullying a heavily pregnant girl, Luke isn’t afforded the same protections. I frown as she squeezes between them, and one of the girls grabs onto the gauzy fairy wings on Luke’s back, the ones she made herself, and rips a hole in them.
I move forward to help as the girl dances away, laughing, but Luke gives me another look from inside the crowd and I pause, right at the edge of the fire’s light, where the shadows live.
“Happy Devils’ Day,” Barron whispers on my right side, startling me. He’s sucking on another lollipop, an infuriating habit of his, clicking the candy against his white teeth as he looks up at me. He’s crouched low, still wearing the red leather mask on his face, his outfit akin to something my mother might paint on a troll prince, this white jacket with long tails that drag across the ground, even as he rises to his full height. The ends are curled and dashed with a bit of black glitter. Of course, he’s shirtless underneath, wearing tight leather pants and boots covered in charms.
He looks like fucking trouble.
See, I knew it’d find me, and much quicker than I’d thought.
“What do you want?” I ask, feeling a drip of sweat trail down my spine. It’s cold out here, fall leaves still clinging to the trees but threatening to let loose at any moment and welcome winter in. But the fire? It burns hot; I can feel it on my face, a singeing, violent sort of heat.
I take a step away from Barron, and he follows.
Around his neck, he wears a rusted, old key. I’m pretty sure I know what it goes to … and I want it.
Licking my lips, I lead Barron just outside the edge of the firelight, leaning my back against a tree and popping my boot up to rest against the bark.
“I think you should come over and talk to us,” he says, his face bereft of emotion, like a cold slate. His eyes—one a warm, auburn brown and the other a pale blue—watch me carefully, like he thinks I might bolt. Instead, I reach up to adjust my mask, making the glass beads and metal charms in my hair tinkle. It’s the only real bit of dressing up I did besides putting on some makeup. Last year, I sewed myself a new gown for Devils’ Day, but then I let Calix defile me in it, and I can’t bear to look at it.
I decided this year that a sexy, modern look might work a bit better.
“Maybe I will,” I say, as if I have some choice in the matter. If I don’t go, eventually Barron will just drag me over there. “But I should warn you, I’ve had a bit to drink.” Lie. But I don’t feel bad lying to him, or any of the Knight Crew for that matter. They don’t deserve my honesty or anyone else’s. Stepping forward, I slide my hands up Barron’s bare tattooed chest, enjoying the sweaty planes of his muscles as I curl my fingers together behind his neck. God, this is painful, I think, lying even to myself. I’m pretending I don’t like touching him, like this is some sort of chore … but it’s not.
“You must’ve had quite a bit to drink,” he observes, but he doesn’t move, reaching up to pull the candy from between his lips. I raise up on my tiptoes, skirting my tongue along his bottom lip. He lets me do it, too. Even though he hates me. Even though I hate him.
Our mouths slide together with a surprising amount of heat, making my skin prickle with gooseflesh. This is all an exercise, I tell myself. But that’s not true, is it? I’m … enjoying this. And I’m disgusted with myself for it.
Barron leans forward, pushing the kiss a step further, sliding his own tongue between my lips. I use that moment to snap the key from his neck, tucking it quickly into my back pocket as I return his attentions with a sweep of my own tongue.
And then I pull back and he lets me go, frowning, like he isn’t quite sure of my motivations, like he suspects that I’m up to something. He’d be right, of course, but he’s also a dick with a dick. That comes first, right?
