The thought curdles.
There are so many hands on me.
I just want water.
“Let’s get you up to our room,” Deadpool says kindly, and I try to remember if Deadpool is kind or not. He’s a lot of trouble, I remember that. He fights bad guys, I know that too, and usually that makes a good guy, but sometimes the enemy of the bad guy is also a bad guy. “We have lots of water there for you.”
He says it with that kind smile, but he’s got his mask half on. I can’t see his eyes. They’re whited out, hidden behind the scrim of the mask. I can’t even tell if he has eyes.
And Ghostface, his mask is fully on, with the loose black fabric like a cowl covering his neck. He has a drink, but he’s negotiated the mask by sipping through a straw he’s tucked up under the fabric. He doesn’t have a real mouth, just a scream.
I smile, but it feels weak and watery, a dog cowering. “I, umm, I don’t . . . I just need water,” I whisper so softly I can’t hear my own voice.
They do, through ears I can’t see, other than Red Shirt’s, but he’s dead. He isn’t real. They all stand and put their hands on me, coaxing me off my stool, but it’s too many hands.
I crawl right off the stool, wishing it was my skin I was crawling out of. I find myself facing them as they crowd me, pushing forward so I don’t have a choice but to walk backwards toward the exit of the club, into the heavily trafficked thoroughfare. They’re all laughing, enjoying themselves, and even though this feels wrong, I wonder if I’m being paranoidand I’m going to laugh like this when I come down. Maybe they are nice guys.
But then Ghostface runs a hand down my arm, along my bicep and down to my elbow.
The panic wells then, and I don’t know if I’m being as clever-footed as I think I am or if it’s just another round of exceptional luck that happens to be good, but I manage to slip through the space between Red Shirt and Ghostface.
The moment I pass through them, I slam right into another body. Dark bronze chest, naked all the way down to a simple gold codpiece. Despite my heels, it hits me above the navel, owing not just to the man’s height but also the incredible thigh-high boots he wears.
I tip my head up to see the prosthetic-encased face, recognizing him not as someone I truly know but as a character that fits well with mine. We are fated mates, I, the voice of logic, the voice of truth, good and bad and never holding back. He, the golden god of chaos, telling only lies, so many lies that they circle back to truth, but we lock together seamlessly.
“Mokushiroku.”
He smiles.
It is kind.
And I can see his eyes, their intensity, their support, their protectiveness. Their anger, but not at me.
At the men who dared pull me away from him when we are fated mates.
He teases a synthetic white curl that’s framing my face. “Sotchoku-chan, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Chapter 3
Blaise
The moment I walk into the club, I see her sitting there.
It feels like destiny; for a moment, at least. This anime is so obscure that I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be in cosplay from it, let alone someone in Sotchoku, who’s not a character who gets much screen time. The fact that she’s Mokushiroku’s lover is an even more incredible coincidence.
I’m not someone who generally approaches ladies. I don’t need to. They approach me, even when I’m in a mask. It’s kind of been my thing ever since coming to Wilmington, where I was given a substantial pay raise in exchange for an extensive code of conduct. There are several pages addressing sex scandals, and I’ve already had a tiny strike that landed me a six-figure fine. I’ve been avoiding additional strikes by remaining anonymous.
Hence the whole meeting-Denny-at-a-BDSM-masquerade thing.
I have no issues attracting partners at those parties, even when I’m fully dressed and masked. I’ve also been a football star since before I figured out what my dick’s here for, so nope, not used to having to approach women. And the ones who come to me are a sure bet.
Sotchoku is not a sure bet.
In the flashing lights of the club, it’s hard to study her too closely, but I get this strange feeling that there’s something off about her. I don’t know what it is that gives me a funny feeling, if it’s the pallor behind her olive complexion or the way she sits on the wall or how her body moves, but something feels unnatural.
“Holy shit, are you for real?” a girl coos next to me, distracting me. “Or is it makeup?”
She’s a generic Harley Quinn. Bi-colored wig and eyeshadow, Daddy’s Lil Monster, booty shorts. She looks fun. Easy. A quick fuck behind a curtain. What I want right now, why I entered this club. I don’t plan on spending the entire weekend fucking; I just want to start off on the right foot.
