I shivered as he grasped my hand. When we touched, the air chilled. Frost crept up the glass. My breath clouded between us. He rimmed the lowball glass with my index finger, sliding it through the honey that was ever present with his whiskey.
The ashen hue of his skin was so at odds with the red lights as he leaned forward with a devilish grin and sucked the sugar from my finger. A moan caught in my throat as his tongue swirled around the tip, my legs squeezing together like they were capable of taming the fire between them.
With a final lick, he withdrew my finger and dropped my hand.
“I’ll be expecting you,” he said pointedly, and the red ring around my wrist struck fire like a match.
My lethargic fucking brain wanted to tell him that the clock had already started, and I’d collected the first soul before I got here. It couldn’t though, because it was still stuck on the feel of his tongue twirling around the tip of my finger like a suggestion I was both eager and terrified to accept.
“Until then, dearest Dany.”
Between one breath and the next, he was gone, and so was the cloying cloud of lust that clung to him. I sat back and concentrated on quieting the chaos he left inside of me.
It was a near impossible task, however.
I knew the script. I played it over and over for thirty years.
Lucifer appears, gets me all hot and bothered while simultaneously trying not to piss myself, and reminds me what’s owed-–three deaths, their souls, and no excuses. The deal never changed. I rubbed at the raw ache left behind on my wrist as I grew more unsettled, incapable of shaking the feeling of change.
I told myself I wasn’t surprised, that this would be like every other time: a command, a deadline, and then he’d disappear as if he never existed.
I swallowed and glanced down at the red ink circling my wrist. My stomach twisted, and I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that tonight might rewrite the rules.
The thirty-third year was approaching, and I was running out of time.
“Okay, okay. Fuck, marry, kill. Swayze from Dirty Dancing, Judd Nelson from Breakfast Club, or Brett Michaels.”
“Ah!” My scream was shrill, rivaling the clink of our beer bottles as we shouldered one another. “Those choices are bullshit!”
“Well,” shrugged my best friend Tiffany with a smirk. “That’s it. The world is dead and reproduction is up to you.”
“Remember, Dany,” slurred Rebecca, the third leg of our friendship triangle, before she leaned in for a not so subtle whisper. “You get to fuck who you marry, too.” She tipped her beer, pointing it conspiratorially with a wink, and then proceeded to spill some on her Mötley Crüe tee.
“Becca!” Tiffany gasped and smacked her shoulder. “No cheating!”
“She’s right though,” I laughed. “Unless the game is called ever-fucking, loveless marriage, and aggravated murder, I would get to fuck who I marry. So–”
Tiffany threw a french fry, laughed when it hit me in the eye, and said “Shut up and pick your fucking husband!”
“Jesus, Tiff!” The salt should have stung my eye, but I had plenty of laughing tears washing it away. “Fine!” I threw the fry back at her back, and it landed on the Aqua Net prison her teased curls lived in.
Our laughter turned to cackles, and fuck if that didn’t make us laugh even harder.
“Alright!” I swatted the air around us. “Alright. I know my answers. Are you ready?”
Becca squealed and Tiffany bit into a chip as she leaned in with excitement brightening her eyes.
“I would subject myself to a loveless marriage with Swayze, commit aggravated murders against Brett, and fuck the shit out of Judd Nelson for the rest of my life.”
The sound of our squeals turned every head from the surrounding tables and we couldn’t have cared less.
I stared at my two best friends and the amount of love I felt burning in my chest could have engulfed the Earth and burned brighter than the sun we orbit.
“I love you guys.” I reached out for their hands, relishing the moment they both squeezed me back with a smile.
“We love you too, Dany,” Becca said.
“Cheers to three badass bitches!” Tiffany while our bottles clink together.
