Manon tilted her head, her lips edged in a matte, mischievous red curving into a smile that hinted at her playfulness , "And your boss, is he single? Asking for a friend," she drawled in a voice that betrayed her interest.
I know she's extremely open about that kind of topic, but that sentence seemed to come out of nowhere while I was talking about my job.
"Hum... no... well, I don't know," I stammered, my voice dissolving into the bar's noises.
Her short hair, a plunging bob of vivid red that caught the bar's dim glows, framed her face. Her fair skin was dotted with faint shadows under her green eyes, lined in thick black eyeliner. For Halloween that night, she had transformed into a punk vampire (this choice is so typical of her that those who know her might almost think she's not in disguise). A black leather corset laced tight over her slender torso, accentuating the subtle curve of her breasts beneath the white lace straps of her usual top, while her short leather skirt skimmed her thighs clad in deliberately torn fishnets. Silver chains jingled against her knee-high boots, and a frayed cape stained with coagulated fake blood trailed behind her, her plastic fangs glinting under the neon lights when she laughed. Manon, at twenty-four, embodied that raw freedom.
Beside her, Camille glowed with feline confidence, twenty-eight years of athletic elegance sculpted by early-morning runs in the Parc Monceau. A stunning blonde woman with sparkling blue eyes who, tonight, had transformed into the guise of a witch: a sheer black cape, embroidered with silver runes, draped her generous curves, parting just enough to reveal the plunging neckline where subtle droplets of fake blood pearled like scarlet tears on her warm flesh. Her red stiletto heels clicked on the sticky floor, and a tilted hat adorned with a twisted feather shaded her brow, accentuating the sensual curve of her nape when she leaned in to listen.
Me? Emma, twenty-six, redhead, green eyes, but you must know me by now.
This year, I think I'd chosen the antithesis of seduction: zombie. Picked in the rush, true to our vow never to recycle a past disguise. My white blouse with puffed sleeves and ruffled collar, once pristine, now streamed with scarlet streaks of fake blood so realistic it clung to my pale skin, underscoring the freckles. It dripped in viscous trails over my shoulders and arms. My lips, painted a matching vivid red, parted in an impish smile, and thick black eyeliner and mascara running in dark swirls for a tousled "smoky" eye.
Anyway, enough descriptions.
We had made a habit of these Halloween nights, Camille, Manon, and I. It was a sacred ritual for us ever since we met. One where none of us dared bail. Our pact, sealed with drunken laughs and whispered confessions, bound us together through the years.
So there we were, the three of us, huddled in a bar, our glasses clinking, dissecting our lives amid the festive chaos.
"Why are you asking that?" I asked
Manon arched an eyebrow, "Oh, well, I get the feeling that when you talk about your job, you talk more about your boss than the job itself. Either he's very, very hot, and in that case, I wouldn't mind letting him hoist me up against the wall, or you've got a crush on him," she retorted. She lifted her beer to her lips, the sip trailing cool down her pale throat, and added, "Anyway, even in that case, I think I wouldn't mind him hoisting me up against the wall ... "
A wave of heat climbed my neck, flushing my skin beneath the scarlet streaks of fake blood. I silently prayed the dancing neon shadows and thick makeup would mask this turmoil.
Camille, for her part, burst into clear, sparkling laughter.
"Emma? A crush on someone other than her beloved boyfriend... Her, who swears only by her lover, I'd love to see that," she shot back, her blue eyes half-lidded in amusement.
"Oh fuck, can you imagine her flirting?" Manon piled on, convulsed with laughter.
I don't have a lot of ego, but in that moment, a little upset by their teasing, and especially emboldened by the Baileys' shots, I fired back with a voice more assured than I felt, "You don't know. You never knew me single. For all you know, I'm really good at seduction..."
Camille and Manon froze for a beat, their eyes meeting, before exploding in thunderous laughter.
Okay, I admit, even I only half-believed it.
"You know, it's not a realm where you need to envy us," Camille resumed, catching her breath, her tone gentler now, a hand brushing my forearm. "It's more like we're the ones a bit jealous of your perfect couple..."
"Speak for yourself," Manon countered, her voice husky with held-back hilarity, "me, the steady couple life? Not for me at all. I love the thrill of the unknown too much." She hastened to add for me, with a serious look, "But I totally respect those who it suits. Really."
Her serious expression, plus the alcohol in my blood, made me burst out laughing, a laugh rising from my stomach, drawing my two accomplices into a symphony of giggles.
~oOo~
I couldn't tell how long we'd been dissecting our lives, when a pressing need forced me to leave the table, leaving my two friends to dive into the feverish tales of Manon's latest conquests.
On the way back, I paused at the counter to order one last round, my fingers drumming lightly on the cold wood.
"Decidedly, it seems I'm the only one not in costume," came a deep, slightly husky voice. I turned toward the man leaning there, his half-empty pint between his fingers. Even though he hadn't explicitly aimed at my gaze, I had the impression that he was addressing me.
I sized him up from head to toe, waiting for the bartender to line up our shots on a slick tray. He was the kind of brooding brunette who could make your heart beat faster with just a sidelong glance (I'll spare you another full description, and to be honest, the haze from that night's cocktails has blurred the outlines of my memory into something deliciously vague).
Slightly uninhibited, the Baileys still on my tongue, I heard myself retort, almost despite myself, something like "Really? I thought you were dressed as the perfect boyfriend: cute and boring." (God... looking back, that sharp punchline never would have crossed my lips fully sober, stone-cold, to a stranger)
He smiled, a slow curl of lips that carved a fleeting dimple at the corner of his mouth, and dipped his head slightly, his dark eyes grazing his drink for a moment before lifting, not quite to me yet, as if savoring the pause. "All I caught from your sentence is that you think I'm cute," he murmured.
"Ah la la, men... Sorry, but I already have a boyfriend," I stammered lamely.
He smiled again, broader now, leaning a bit more on the bar to swivel his torso toward me, "Oh, but I never said I found you cute," he shot back.
Amused by his comeback, and perhaps a bit stung, I shot back in a voice I hoped was teasing, leaning my torso toward the counter in a pose meant to be flirtatious but one I felt teetered on the ridiculous, on the edge of an alcohol-fueled wobble where my lips parted on too-warm a breath. "Oh yeah? And now? Still not cute?"
"Ah no, now it's worse," he replied with a broad smile that carved mischievous creases at the corners of his dark eyes, and he blew out softly, an exhalation discreet as a stifled laugh.
"Zombies aren't your type, huh? Too dangerous, maybe?" I pressed on with a smile, straightening in an exaggerated, almost expansive motion: one hand planted on the wood to brace my weight, the other sweeping a copper strand stuck to my damp forehead.
"No, I don't like getting devoured alive," he said simply, his gaze slipping for a moment along the line of my neck before lifting back, "though I think I'd let myself get eaten every day by the zombie I have in front of me right now."
His smile lingered, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes hooking mine. Those words crashed through me, summoning raw images despite myself: his flesh under my teeth, my lips tracing slow bites over the taut skin of his torso, our bodies entwined in a voracious dance where devouring turned to total surrender, freezing my breath in a suspended beat, my face probably blank but my cheeks ablaze beneath the running makeup.
"And here are your shots," the bartender announced in a cutting voice, setting the tray down with a clink that shattered the spell.
"It's on me," the man cut in, pulling out his credit card in a fluid motion, paying before I could protest
"Oh, uh... thanks, but really, you didn't have to," I stammered, my voice betraying a turmoil spiraling downward
"It makes me happy, and it commits you to nothing," he assured in a neutral, almost casual tone, even if his eyes said more. "That said, if you're up to letting your two friends chat alone a bit longer, bring the tray back here. I'll buy you a drink."
"That's really sweet, but like I said, I have a boyfriend," I replied, flattered despite myself.
"Oh, but I'm not the jealous type, you know," he answered simply, with a smile that melted all my defenses.
"I... I really have to get back to my friends," I finally blurted. But my mind imagined, despite myself, those powerful arms lifting me, seating me on the cold counter before diving into gestures as outrageous as they were perverse, given the venue.
"No problem. You know where to find me if you change your mind," he concluded with a smile, fixing his gaze back on his pint in nonchalant feint.
I walked away then, tray in hand, my steps unsteady, heart pounding against my ribs, to reclaim the warm embrasure of our nook, where Camille and Manon's laughter awaited like a precarious shelter from the storm this stranger had ignited in me.
----
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