“Is that Moon?” Eric asks, leaning in to yell into my ear.
I nod, glancing to the right to check if Moon might’ve heard. There are two people between us, and with the music this loud, I doubt he caught anything.
“He’s wasted,” Eric says, smirking. “And who’s the Joker?”
“No idea,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation. “Did you pay? This round was supposed to be on me.”
“Relax,” Eric says, waving me off, already back to eyeing the Scooby-Doo bartender who’s shaking up his cocktail. The guy glances up, catches Eric staring, then ducks his head—cheeks flushing.
I give it five minutes before Eric breaks his celibacy pact and fucks him in the storage closet. The guy’s the walking definition of his type—big eyes, soft curls, that wide-eyed, slightly overwhelmed baby deer look Eric goes feral for.
“Your drinks,” another bartender says to my right, setting two cocktails on the bar. I turn—and realize the guys who were standing next to me are gone. Now it’s Moon and his date beside me, the Joker’s arm still slung possessively around his neck.
The Joker grabs his drink. Moon takes his too and starts to turn toward me. I shift closer to the bar to give him room—just as he stumbles, his drink tipping and spilling down my front before he crashes into me. The glass slips from his hand and hits the floor, shattering with a clink loud enough to cut through the music.
The crowd pulls back with a few shouts, clearing space around the broken glass. Moon’s still clinging to me, all his weight leaning into mine as he tries not to go down, while his date’s already a few feet away—cursing, pissed, like Moon’s just embarrassed him in front of the whole club. There’s noise allaround us, bartenders calling for a janitor, people stepping back to avoid the mess.
I grab Moon by the elbows, trying to steady him, but he’s so out of it he keeps swaying, barely able to stay upright.
“Come here,” the Joker says, reaching for him.
But instead, Moon leans into me, arms looping around my neck, his face close—lips brushing my ear—as he whispers, slurred, “He spiked my drink.”
CHAPTER 4. MASKS
A cold chill runs through me as it clicks—his unfocused eyes, the blank expression, how strange he’s been. It all makes sense now.
“Hey, I said come here,” the Joker snaps, stepping closer and grabbing for Moon’s shoulder, trying to yank him off me.
The anger hits so hard it knocks the buzz out of me. Whatever dizziness I felt before is gone—burned off in a second.
“Back off, asshole,” I say, shoving his hand away, hard.
“Who the fuck are you?” he spits, eyes blazing. He’s tall—about my height—and built too, but if this turns into a fight, I already know he won’t stand a chance.
“Did you drug him?” I growl, jaw tight, nodding toward Moon, now completely slumped against me.
“Are you crazy?” the Joker says, faking a frown—but there’s no real surprise in his eyes. And to me, that says everything.
I see the flicker of a decision cross his face, like he’s about to try yanking Moon off me again—but that’s when Eric steps in, a wall of muscle at my side, looks him dead in the eye, and says, “Problem?”
“Fuck you,” the Joker snaps at me, then turns and disappears into the crowd.
Eric turns back, giving both Moon and me a quick once-over before asking, “What the fuck is going on?”
“Can you help me get him out of here?” I say, suddenly aware of how many people are still watching. We need to leave—fast—before anyone realizes who we are. “That douchebag spiked his drink.”
“What?” Eric says, totally thrown—then he blinks and springs into action, wrapping one arm around Moon’s waist while I steady him from the other side. But before we can get him away from the center of attention, the bartender in the Scooby-Doo costume steps in front of us.
“Do you need help?” he asks, looking at Eric, then turns to me. “I heard that guy spiked his drink.” His voice is low, serious, waiting for me to confirm. “I can call the police.”
I pause, glancing at Eric, unsure. If we involve the cops, this could end up in the news—and I’m not sure that’s what Moon wants.
“No,” Moon says suddenly, lifting his head and turning toward me. “No police. Take me home. Please.”
“Alright,” I say, nodding. “We’ll take you home.”
“Do you know him?” the bartender asks, looking between us, concern etched across his face.
