“Well,” she says, softer now, “make sure your doors are locked and secured. With that freak roaming around, killing people, you can’t be too safe.”
“I will,” I promise, ignoring the black faux-fur jacket on my bed and the neon flyer for Cupid’s Killhouse taped to my mirror. “Love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
We hang up.
And the second the call ends, the guilt evaporates like it was never there, replaced by the electric thrill crawling under my skin.
I toss my phone aside, grab my jacket, and glance once at the TV where the newscaster’s voice reaches its peak.
“…another victim found along the coast…”
Perfect timing.
“—Police are urging everyone to avoid going out alone and to steer clear of anyone in costume tonight?—”
“Yeah, that’s definitely gonna stop people where I’m going,” I tell the newscaster, sliding on my platform boots. “Also, if Cupid wants to carve something into me, who’s to say I wouldn’t be into it.”
I grab my little red heart-shaped bag from the dresser. Inside is lip gloss, cash, ID, a tiny vial of body glitter, one emergency condom that’s mostly there for aesthetic, and a cute heart-shaped pill Luna swore was “mild and romantic.”
I still have no idea what “romantic” means in drug language.
But I guess I’m about to find out.
My apartment is small but cozy—one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen that’s basically a hallway with delusions of grandeur. Fairy lights drip over the windows like melted stars. There are Polaroids on every spare surface of me, Luna, Harper, my mom, blurry drag queens from Pride, and a shot of Mark I keep meaning to throw away but never do.
In that one, we’re at the summer fair, cotton candy stains on our mouths, and his arm wrapped around my waist. I look stupidly happy. He looks like he’s already halfway out the door. I guess he always was. I just never noticed.
The buzzer rings, signaling the girl's arrival.
“Showtime,” I tell myself.
I shrug into the fur jacket, grab my phone, and head for the door. The hallway outside smells like old carpet and someone else’s weed. I can hear my upstairs neighbor’s dog losing its mind at the sound of the buzzer, its claws scrabbling over cheap vinyl.
By the time I hit the front steps, Luna’s already outside the building, leaning against the rideshare like the cover of a chaotic girl band album. Microbraids threaded with red tinsel, eyeliner sharp enough to stab, black vinyl skirt that squeaks when she moves. Harper’s beside her in a pink mesh dress and a bomber jacket, cheeks already flushed like she pre-gamed with shame and tequila.
Luna sees me and lets out a banshee shriek. “OH MY GOD, YOU BLOODY VALENTINE.”
Harper’s jaw drops. “Fuck me. Why do I feel like by the end of the night we’re going to get arrested?”
“For once, I can promise it won’t be my fault,” I say, striking a stupid little pose on the steps. “I have plans tonight, and while I’m not completely against the idea of having my hands cuffed behind my back, none of them involve the back of a cruiser.”
“Turn around,” Luna orders, already circling me like a fashion shark. The jeweled pieces catch the streetlight when I move, dripping red over my thighs. She whistles low. “Jesus. If Cupid himself doesn’t hunt you first, I will.”
“Same,” Harper says. “I’m straight, but not that straight.”
I grin, the Cali air already warm and sticky against my skin. The city tastes like salt and exhaust. The sky’s that flat coastalgray that never commits to rain, just hangs there like it’s judging you.
The driver leans over the front seat to look at us through the open passenger window. “You ladies sure you wanna go out? After all the warnings about that Cupid guy. I heard on the news?—”
“Yep,” Luna chirps, already climbing in. “And it’s gonna take more than a wannabe serial killer with a PR team to ruin my night.”
I slide into the backseat next to Harper, tugging my jacket over the most illegal parts of my outfit. My heart’s pounding—not from fear. From the fact that tonight could go absolutely sideways, and I’m kind of excited about it.
My friends and I are headed to a rave literally named after him, and just to really spice things up, my ex will be there too, somewhere in the crowd with his new girl, fully convinced I’m at home crying into overpriced ice cream.
He’s about to be so fucking wrong.
