Chapter 1
LINDSAY
Halloween Night
“Hit me again, Johnny,” I shout, slamming my empty glass too forcefully on the bar top. I examine the bottom of it for any cracks and let out a relieved sigh when I find none. “Sorry.”
“I’m only letting you get away with calling me Johnny because of your hot ass. You get that, right?” Vyla, the orc bartender with the jacked arms and purple face tattoo, asks with an amused and slightly annoyed smirk.
I nod. “Me and my hot ass thank you.”
The flirty orc pours me another dirty martini, fluttering her long lashes. It’s hard to tell if Vyla has a crush on me, or if she’s like this with everyone. While I do find her attractive––that septum ring and long Viking braids would make anyone salivate––I’ve taken myself off the dating market. There will be no swiping, no matching, no messaging, no flirting, no first or second dating, no casual sexing, and absolutely no relationship-ing for me for the foreseeable future.
After many failed attempts, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m simply not built for it.Itbeing sharing my life with another person.
“How could you possibly look so glum on the best night of the year?” Vyla asks, leaning her elbows on the bar. Her eyes are bloodshot, and she sways on her feet. A strong earthy scent wafts in my direction, making me wonder if she’s high, if she has any more weed on her, and most importantly, if I can have some.
I follow her gaze as it scans the room, packed to the gills with monsters of every species, surprisingly not wearing Halloween costumes. It’s not like I expected the vampires of Mapletown to dress up as werewolves, but I assumed in terms of accuracy and creativity, monsters would crush the costume game on Halloween. Instead, most of them are wearing fancy dresses and suits more appropriate for New Year’s Eve.
“I think this is the first time I’ve ever felt underdressed,” I mutter, looking down at my ripped jeans and ratty sweatshirt. My hands instinctively wrap around my middle as embarrassment crashes over me. I’mneverunderdressed. I pride myself on being the one in a room making others question ifthey’reunderdressed. Holey jeans and hoodies are not my standard look.
“Oh, come on,” Vyla says, interrupting my mental tallying of the dresses in my closet I should’ve worn instead. “I think you look cute. Relaxed.”
“Depressed is the more accurate word.”
“Depressed?” Vyla sounds aghast. “Baby girl, what for? Didn’t you and Natalie just make up?”
Her confused expression has me reevaluating my word choice. She’s right, I did just reunite my best friend with the ghost man she’s madly in love with, and right now, they’re presumably in the middle of a bumping uglies marathon that will only cease when the sun comes up. I still feel like a fly-covered pile of turds for coming between them in the first place, though. Natalie seems like she’ll forgive me, but will this always be a wedge between us? A layer of discomfort that keeps us from being as close as we once were? I sigh as I envision stilted conversations and forced laughs between us. “Mm, not depressed, exactly. More…emotionally exhausted.”
In my defense, men are shit.
When Natalie told me, “So, there’s this guy…” after years of heartbreak after heartbreak, I was thrilled for her. However, when she revealed thatthis guywas the ghost that had been secretly living in my late grandmother’s house for over a century who’s possessive and bossy and had been giving her the most incredible orgasms of her life, well, of course I was skeptical, because it sounds shady as hell.
The ghost thing was easy enough to get over, along with the idea that the monsters I once thought to be mythical are actually real. I’m not sure why that didn’t bother me more than it did. Maybe because I’ve discovered more than a couple of people in my life whom I thought were decent human beings who somehow believe vaccines cause autism, as if autism is something to fear. We’ve reached a point in the downfall of society where I don’t give a solitary fuck what you are, as long as you aren’t stupid or evil.
The red flags waving frantically inside my head about Winston were due to my very vulnerable friend coming fresh off her mother’s death and falling for a guy who never wanted her to leave the house. He never wanted other people around and was rude to anyone who interrupted their time together.
It sounded like a train wreck in the making, and I wasn’t about to let her face another devastating loss just for some giant ghost dick. Of course I intervened. I was only trying to protect her chronically trusting heart. Thankfully, I was wrong, and they’re madly in love with each other, and Winston’sunpleasantness to everyone who isn’t Natalie is something she finds adorable. My loving bestie has found the happy ending she deserved, so why do I still feel so heavy? It’s like there’s a boulder on my back that I can’t shake.
I shrug, taking another deep pull of my martini. “It’s been a long year.”
“Christ, Lindsay,” she says with wide eyes. “You need to slow down.”
It isn’t until the olives are in my mouth that I realize I’ve just emptied my fourth martini glass in under ninety minutes. Luckily, a pop cover of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” blasts out of the jukebox, filling my ears and pulling my body off the barstool. My feet take me to the dance floor, and I shout over my shoulder, “Imma do the opposite of slow down,” as I start to sway my hips to the beat. Soon, I’m in the middle of the crowd, bouncing and singing along, sweat coating my hairline as the booze settles in my blood.
The regret I felt about interfering in Natalie and Winston’s relationship has receded in my mind, becoming a distant memory. The only thing that matters right now is this song and how my body feels as I move to it.
My sweatshirt and jeans are mildly prohibiting my dance moves, but that’s probably for the best. Nobody wants to see a forty-one-year-old mom popping her booty. That’s what my kid said the last time I chaperoned her school dance, anyway. However, given the way Mr. Hickson, her history teacher, was fucking me with his eyes for the rest of the night, I’d say there was at least one person who enjoyed the show.
By the time the song ends, my bladder is full and my bra is soaked through with sweat. I tug off my hoodie as I enter the bathroom, and take my time dabbing my chest, armpits, and the edges of my pink tank top with a paper towel before throwing my hair into a high pony. “Red Right Hand” is playing when I comeout, and since it’s not a song I can easily dance to, I make my way back to the bar.
Before I can get there, a blond blur of a man steps in front of me, blocking my path. I think he says his name is Finn, or Fergus, perhaps. It’s too loud in here to know for sure, and I don’t care enough about the answer to ask him to repeat himself. He’s objectively cute, I guess, with straight teeth and a thick build, but I’m not the least bit interested in chatting him up. I wanted to drink enough to forget about everything I didn’t get done this week and all the things I need to get done next week, and dance until my body demands sleep.
“Hi,” I say, wary and irritated as I point to my chest. “Lindsay.” I hope the vibe I’m giving off is Woman Who Desperately Wants to be Left Alone. Normally, I wear a plain gold band on my left hand to prevent this type of interaction, but I wasn’t planning on hanging out at the Mapletown bar all night when I left my apartment in Boston, so I don’t have it.
He leans into me, far closer than is needed, and I feel his hot breath on my neck as he says, “Lindsay, you’re the hottest creature in this bar. Can I buy you a drink?”
It would be a decent line if he weren’t slurring every single word, and if his breath wasn’t acrid from what smells like a drink-a-thon of exclusively cheap beers.
