Immediately, her eyes scan up and down my costume, burning with judgment. And I think mine might do the same. For a second, I really have no idea what she is, except maybe a Victoria's Secret model. But above the booty shorts and bustier, I notice a little pair of ears. A cat. Why am I not surprised? She does have claws after all.
"How adorable, you're Sandy," she says in too sweet of a voice, stepping closer to run a finger over my jacket, instantly able to tell that it's fake leather. "I was Sandy for Halloween back when I was fifteen. Of course, not for the whole night. Just long enough to get past my mother, but then I changed into a real costume when I met up with my friends. Not that you need to change or anything. You look really cute."
How unusual. A backhanded compliment from Blythe. I open my mouth to respond, but Bridget beats me to it.
"I really love your costume too," she says, copying Blythe's tone almost exactly. "Considering how objectified female bodies are in the mainstream media, I think it's really brave to come dressed as a porn star. I really appreciate the political statement you're making."
I bite my lips, while my cheeks puff with contained mirth.
Hold it.
Hold it.
I breathe deeply, swallowing the sounds back down.
"And who are you?" Blythe asks, glaring at Bridge, crossing her arms.
"Bridget McDonough, Skye's best friend," she says sweetly, still not giving up the act, and offers her hand.
"Blythe Keaton."
They shake. And just like that, a new pair of archenemies is formed.
But I don't have time to separate the two of them before the catfight begins, because a pair of muscular arms wraps around my torso, pulling me back into a firm chest, and soft lips come to rest a teasing distance away from my neck.
"You look great," Patrick whispers, breath tickling my skin, brushing the sensitive spot below my ears. A tremor races down my spine and spirals back up again, deliciously hot.
I spin in his arms.
And then recoil, stepping back.
What the…?
I'm speechless
Patrick is wearing a headdress—a full-on Native American headdress with feathers that stretch all the way down his back. My eyes dip to his bare chest, a little farther to the nicely tanned and chiseled abs I've only ever felt through fabric, and then farther to fringe-lined chaps stretching down his legs.
"Please don't tell me those are assless…" I murmur.
"We're the Village People," he says, grinning.
"You and who?" I glance from side to side
"The guys, wherever they are, probably in the other room with the drinks. I lost a bet and had to wear this costume. I had my eye on the sailor outfit, but Dan got to wear it since he's captain of the yacht for the night. But, this isn’t so bad, is it?"
I scrunch my brows tightly and then relax, stretching my fingers out to run them slowly over the contours of his six-pack. "No, not so bad."
"Hey, guys."
I jerk my hand back instinctively at the sound of Ollie's voice, and when my eyes land on him, my heart clenches, squeezed by an invisible fist.
Ollie is a T-bird.
Leather jacket. Black pants. White shirt. Hair slicked back. Brood—oh man, the brood. He looks good—really good. A little dangerous. But what else is new? And then it hits me, right as Patrick slips his fingers through mine, draping his arm across my shoulders, claiming ownership—it looks like we're here together. Like Ollie and I are the couple.
"What are you wearing?" I yelp and then slam my lips shut, wincing.
Ollie looks at me, confused. "What? This is what I wear every year." And then his eyes rake my entire frame, slowly, down to the tips of my toes, taking his time on the way up. And he grins. He actually grins. "Oh."
Patrick tugs me a little closer. And I let him.
"This might be my fault…" Bridget mumbles. I turn my glare from one McDonough sibling to the other. She's biting her lip. "I heard someone mention Grease and I just thought it was someone at work since I couldn't remember. And then I thought—Oh! Skye would make the perfect Sandy."
"Which she does," Patrick adds, squeezing me gently for emphasis. I smile up at him. Feeling a little better, until…
"Oh, everyone, this is Aubrey. Aubrey, this is everyone."
A girl steps out from behind Ollie and my jaw actually drops. I'm gaping. In awe. She's freaking beautiful. And her perfectly toned legs stretch as high as my neck. I'm not even kidding.
"Hey, I'm Bridget."
"Blythe."
"Nice to meet you, I'm Patrick."
And I hear them all speak, but my mind and body are completely disconnected. It might have something to do with the fact that my jaw is still nailed to the floor… But I can't move. Can't say anything.
Where did he find her?
Did he buy her? Is she even human?
"When she comes out of her coma, that's Skye," Ollie chimes. And I'm so transfixed I can't even glare at him. I mean, it's bad. So bad, that Bridge leans over and pinches me, hard. I twitch—growing painfully less attractive with each passing second it seems—and snap out of it.
"Oh, sorry, yeah, I'm Skye. I just love your costume," I add, trying to cover my tracks. And then I actually look at her costume, which is a black leotard showing a rather aggressive amount of butt cheek—really it might as well be a thong as far as I'm concerned—and then nothing but bare leg all the way down to the warmers scrunched around her ankles. Oh, I mean, she also has on a gray cut-off sweater that covers most of her torso and just falls off her shoulder a bit. But that's a lot of leg, like four feet of bare skin. And bum—bare bum too.
Okay, ugh, fine. She looks amazing.
Whatever.
"Oh, thanks." Aubrey shrugs. "It's Flashdance. I have so many old leotards laying around, I almost always use them for Halloween."
"Are you a dancer?" Blythe asks. The accusation in her tone makes the word dancer sound ugly and despicable. And you know what? I think I'm learning to appreciate Blythe in ways I never have before.
"Yeah," Aubrey says, smiling kindly, totally sincere in her sweetness. I could probably really like her, you know, if I didn’t have a fiery level of hatred burning my insides like I do right now. "I'm a Rockette, actually."
Well, that explains the legs.
Blythe doesn’t even respond, she just rolls her eyes and exits the conversation without so much as a goodbye. I need to steal that move. I mean, it's utterly rude, but completely effective.
Instead though, I swallow. "Who wants a drink?"
Because I need one, ASAP.
"Come on, I'll show you," Patrick says, slipping his hand under my coat to lay his palm fully against the small of my back. I focus on the warmth of his skin as he guides me through the crowd. "We have cocktails or Jell-O shots, pick your poison."
I look at the fully stocked bar with mixes and liquors of all kinds. And then my eyes drift down to the half-empty tray on the table. I grab two and hand one to Patrick.
"Happy Halloween," I toast.
And then we both slurp, downing the Jell-O in one easy move. And all I can think is, oh man these are dangerous. Sugary and sweet, I barely notice the alcohol except for a bitter aftertaste. Patrick takes two more from the tray.
Oh, what the heck!
"Happy Halloween," he whispers after, leaning down to kiss me. And right when I think he's going to pull away, he deepens the kiss instead, arching my back. My hands grip his bare shoulders for balance, and I can’t say I mind the feel of his smooth, warm skin or the firm muscles beneath it.
"Get a room!" someone calls and I pull away.