“Oh! Idea!” Eric lifts a finger like a cartoon nerd and gives Aksel a sly look. “We’re having acrazynight on the town. Wanna come with?”
Correction. I definitely want to murder him. With my bare hands.
“Crazy, huh?” Aksel says slowly, like he’s genuinely considering it. “I don’t know. I don’t want to make Hale even moremad than he already is at me.”
I choke on absolutely nothing, making a noise somewhere between a crow and a dying engine. Eric thumps my back far too hard as he answers for me. “You can’t make him madder than when you ‘stole’ the apprenticeship from him a million years ago.”
“Whose side are you on?” I mutter, shoving him away before he cracks a rib.
“Very true,” Aksel says, amusement lacing his voice. “Give me a second to throw on some shoes.”
Eric suddenly finds the framed art print on the wallfascinating. Probably easier than meeting the death glare I’m aiming his way.
Aksel’s back in under a minute, and we awkwardly migrate toward the elevator. For the world’s fastest elevator, it’s taking a painfully long time to arrive. Eric whistles a tune I don’t recognize. Aksel is dead silent. I contemplate faking my own death.
Finally, a louddingannounces the elevator’s arrival, and a bachelorette party spills out. A cloud of perfume follows them, and somehow Eric ends up wearing sunglasses and a pink feather boa.
I don’t ask.
A quick ride down, a pass by the massive fountain, and we’re out the front doors and into a cab. Eric claims the front seat immediately, chatting up the driver like they’re lifelong friends. Aksel sits quietly beside me while I do my very best to pretend he doesn’t exist.
Thecabpullsupinfrontofaneonsignadvertising
PIXIE STRIPPERS.
Eric kisses the driver on the cheek, slaps the sunglasses ontohis face, and launches himself out of the car. Aksel and I follow at a much slower and significantly less enthusiastic pace.
A strip club?
Astraightstrip club?
A straight strip club filled with teeny-tiny pixies? Why thehellwouldEricthinkthisisagoodidea?
It’s not even five o’clock yet. What could wepossiblybe doing here?
All of my questions are answered within five minutes of walking through the front door.
A massive screen dominates the back of the stage, and instead of a pole, there’s a pixie in full drag holding a microphone and hyping up a small but enthusiastic crowd. Splashed across the screen in glittery pink letters are the words:
Two hours and several buckets of beer later, we’re crowned the grand prize winners of Miss Sassy Sprite’s Trivia Night. She plops a cheap plastic crown on each of our heads while the crowd cheers like we just cured some obscure magical disease.
Shockingly, the intense trivia showdown does a decent job of breaking down the walls between me and Aksel.Wearen’tfriendsbyanystretch,butwe’re…fine. Better than fine, even. Comfortable in a way I didn’t expect and absolutely didn’t prepare for.
The trivia crowd slowly thins out, replaced by beings far more interested in exposed skin than obscure magical anatomy. I’m still riding the high of answering what minotaur horn is made of. Keratin. Same as rhino horn. No idea why I know that, but it won us a round, so I’m not questioning it.
We’re rewarded with a bottle of vodka, which Eric immediately takes as an invitation to become the evening’s main attraction.
He’s on stage now, sharing said vodka with the pixie strippers while they work him out of his clothes to loud cheers from the mostly female crowd. He’s down to his jeans and feather boa when they shove him into a chair and swarm him like very enthusiastic glittery piranhas.
“How does that guy always manage to get all the girls?” Aksel asks.
He doesn’t soundannoyed. Just genuinely baffled.
“Eric has this… thing,” I say, watching as a pixie straddles Eric’s lap to pour vodka directly into his mouth. “I swear he’s a witch who casts love spells, but he insists he’s just a regular human beta. I think people can feel when someone’s genuinely good.”
Aksel hums thoughtfully.
“How did you guys meet?” he asks, casually, like he’s not poking at something sensitive.
