And maybe I could make it work — her hobby in exchange for kinky sex. “I’ll call you next week,” I say. And I will. I can take her to dinner on my own terms and bring her back to my own apartment.
“I’d like that. Here, I need to unlock the door.” Removing a key from a jar near the door, she adds, “Rules of the game.”
“Good night, Lena.”
She gives me a tiny, pathetic wave — alerting me that I will never see her or my Stetson again.
Once I’m outside, I walk a few blocks, enjoying the fresh air and laughing at my own stupidity. I take out my phone and text Adam.
ME: You will never believe where I was.
Adam: In the library with the revolver.
11:45 p.m.
By day, Bleecker Street is a typical Downtown avenue with businesses and apartment buildings. Tonight, in the midst of ghouls and goblins, it rivals Sixth Street in Austin during the South by Southwest music festival. People spill onto the street outside Bixby’s bar wearing an array of costumes — although I doubt anyone else has a story like mine. After squeezing through some pimps and hookers and stepping on the rubber claw of an oversized chicken, I spot Adam and his girlfriend, Chloe, standing at a high cocktail table.
Chloe, enchanting as usual, sashays toward me wearing layers of suede and floral, and a skirt that drags the floor. She has a daisy tucked behind her ear and a beaded headband fastened around her long, brown hair.
“Chris!” Smiling dazedly, she forms a ‘V’ with her index and middle fingers. “Peace, my brother.”
“Nice costume, Moon Beam.”
Chloe takes my hand and drags me to the table with Adam and a tray of pumpkin-flavored beer. “I heard you had an interesting night,” she says over her shoulder.
Adam smiles arrogantly and adds, “Hey, Brooks, glad you made it out of there alive.”
“Ha ha. Get all the jokes out now so I can enjoy the rest of my night,” I demand. “Where’s your costume?”
Chloe laughs as she says, “Did you expect Adam to be wearing anything that might make him look slightly ridiculous?” She passes me a pumpkin ale and places her elbow on Adam’s shoulder. “Show Chris your costume.”
Adam sighs and then points to the front of his gray T-shirt. I can make out some lettering and a canoe forged inside a circle. Ah, Camp Crystal Lake, the fictional camp of the Friday 13th franchise. My cousin, Daisy, was an extra in the first movie — and if the VHS tape is paused at just the exact second, her sneakers with the rainbow laces make a cameo. “Understated brilliance, bro,” I admit.
Chloe then puts her arms around Adam’s waist as he wraps his arm around her shoulders. I want that someday — someday when I’m ready.
“So Chris, how did you end up as a prime suspect in a murder dinner theater?” Chloe asks.
“I can answer that. It was payback,” Adam interjects.
Surprised, Chloe asks, “So you knew where he was going? Sometimes you two act like little boys.”
“He kidnapped my cactus!” Adam sarcastically whines.
Puzzled, I ask, “How did you know about the party? Wait, lemme guess — she invited you to go before she even met me.”
Placing his empty bottle of beer on the table and taking another one, Adam answers cockily, “Of course she asked me first, Brooks.”
“Wait, who are you talking about?” Chloe interrupts.
Adam turns to Chloe, rubbing her shoulder and smiling. “Remember that mystery writer I told you about? Lena DeMarco? She’s been researching white collar trials for the past month. She’s friends with someone important because I was instructed to give her full access.”
“Oh, yeah. I read her last novel,” Chloe says, nodding her head.
DeMarco. I only knew her as Ms. White.
“She came in today for a file. Before Lena left, she invited me to the Clue reenactment. I declined and found her a replacement,” Adam teases with a smile.
Chloe looks at me and asks, “And then what happened?”
“Adam introduced me to Lena. She introduced herself as Lena White — Adam didn’t correct her, and he failed to give me a heads up.”
“Ad-am.” Chloe pinches his waist as he laughs.
“Chloe, it was fine. At first,” I whisper.
“Really? Like how?”
“Don’t think I’m crude, okay?” Chloe is a lady, and my intentions are sometimes ungentlemanly.
“I’m not a prude,” she defends.
Throwing back some warm ale, I laugh at the night’s events. “Lena’s smokin’ hot, and I wanted to get laid. I was invited to her apartment where I drank cognac and then allowed a woman to sexually control me — she did some dirty things to me.” I raise my t-shirt and show them the lipstick stains on my chest. “And then she promised even dirtier things if I dressed how she wanted and took her to a party,” I say, finger-quoting the last word.
Confused, Adam asks, “So you didn’t know it was a Clue party?”
“No, you jackass. In fact, she kept talking about interacting with other guests and role-playing — even told me to let it all go and enjoy new experiences.” I lower the volume of my voice, knowing that Adam will find my next statement hysterical. “I thought we were going to a sex party.”
They both erupt in laughter. Adam slaps my back and teases, “So when did you figure out the mystery?”
“Colonel Mustard was the a-ha moment,” I answer, embarrassed.
“And that’s when you left?” Chloe asks, still chuckling.
I close my eyes and exhale. “Not exactly. I thought it was just a nerdy swinger party, and when you have such high hopes for sex in a new way, it’s impossible to believe it could be anything else.”
“Shit, Brooks! When did you finally figure it out?” Adam quips.
“Can I get a stronger drink first?” I ask, placing the nasty beer on the table.
Chloe shakes her head. “Not tonight. The bar is only serving pumpkin ale and the house special.”
Frowning, I say, “Well, after the maid was killed with my dagger in the kitchen, it clicked. To make the long story short — ”
“Too late.”
That voice. Her voice.
“Nat, you’re here!” Chloe shouts.
Natalie.
“Looking cheesy, Adam. Who’s the geek with the elbow patches?”
Damn, her snarky mouth is incredible.
Turning around to meet her gaze, I glance at my watch — willing it to stop. Our eyes connect. There she is … the girl that will eventually belong to me.
“Do you remember Chris?” I think Chloe asks the question. But I can’t be sure as I enter a new dimension that only consists of Natalie, smiling in suspended time.
“Hey, darlin’,” I finally say with a smirk.
Her red lips part and slowly form a smile. “Hey.”
There’s conversation happening all around us, muffled and unimportant. Monster Mash pounds through the speakers as a few guys dressed in ridiculous costumes whistle as they walk past Natalie. But I don’t look. This is our bubble — a public seclusion of two people destined to be together.
“Odd costume,” she teases, thumbing my sleeve.
“Long story,” I reply, taking her hand.
Chloe interrupts our moment of suspension by shouting over the music. “Nice costume, Nat! Only you could pull off Marilyn Monroe. Want a beer?”
I glance at my watch as Natalie turns her head. As I suspected, no time has elapsed.
“Pumpkin beer is vile. What else is there?” Natalie asks.
“Blood-orange Sangria. Hey, did Pete come with you?” Adam asks, organizing the empty beer bottles on a tray.