sometimes.” He smiles. “Enough about me. Tell me about your work.
I know you’re an artist.”
Art—my
favorite subject. Before I get a word out, someone calls Bryce from across the
room. A waiter waves frantically from the doorway.
“Hold that
thought,” Bryce says, frowning. And away he goes, my white knight in black.
Nothing
like I’d imagined.
That Bad
T he party
gets louder as more guests squeeze in. I sip the last of my Champagne, keeping
an eye out for Karen or someone familiar. The fire has my right side toasty.
A man
stumbles toward me, polishing off a bottle of Heineken. “Yummy,” he says, his
beady eyes grazing my body.
“Excuse
me?” He’d better be referring to the beer.
“Power
wrapped in foil,” he slurs, leaning in close, his weight supported by the
mantel.
Mental
note—avoid the drunks.
“What are
you supposed to be?” I say, looking for a way to get past him. His skin is
pasty white, almost translucent, and gives me the creeps. Gauzy material clings
to his limbs, a couple of rounds in the dryer too many. His head twitches on
his shoulders and his lips move, but I don’t think he’s speaking English. I’m
busy trying to stay out of his reach. With every step he takes toward me, I
take two steps back.
“Dude,
you’re bugging me out.”
I’m
planning an escape via body slamming when a hand takes mine, pulling me away
from the wall and more than an arm’s length from the freak. Bryce has
materialized out of nowhere. The freak looks startled, then embarrassed. He
turns and disappears into the horde of costumes.
“I
appreciate—”
“You need
to eat,” says Bryce, leading me from the room.
I’m about
to protest but he’s right: I’m hungry. I didn’t have much dinner and the wine
is dousing my defenses, which apparently I need to keep sharp. We zigzag
through the crowd, and I glance at our interlocked hands, tempted to pull free.
Bryce holds tight, as if he has the right, and I wonder what kind of playboy
this guy really is. I’ve seen them all, but he’s an enigma.
In the
dining room, Bryce hands me a plate and I make my way around the table,
collecting goodies. I dole out compliments—the spread is amazing. It’s
just the two of us in the dining room, and the chatter filtering through is
quiet. While I munch, we talk. Bryce adores art and seems truly interested in
my work. Of course, when I talk about painting, I have the tendency to ramble.
At one point I scrutinize his eyes, curious to note if I’m boring him, but he
stares right back, a corny grin on his face until I look away.
“I’m a
starving artist lately,” I joke. I’m lucky Meyer was well insured and the house
is paid off. “It’s been a while since I completed a painting and even longer
since I’ve sold one.”
“You have
gorgeous curves for someone starving,” he says.
And the
tiger returns, a man on the prowl.
I lower my
plate to the table, no longer hungry. “Yes,” I say, suddenly the hairless
body-pierced Goth teen I once was, “but you’re chasing the wrong tail.”
An
uncomfortable silence fills the room. I turn to leave, and Bryce appears before
me like a ghost.
“Please
don’t,” he says, mock punching the wall. “I can be a gentleman.”
I open my
mouth to comment and he places a finger on my lips. My mother, when I was
twelve, broke a guy’s finger for silencing her. It was the first time I
considered her illness, her lack of control, dangerous.
“Promise,”
he says, his expression extinguishing my fire.
I remove
his finger, gently, and collect my plate.
A few
minutes pass before either of us speak, but soon enough the charismatic Bryce
makes an appearance. For twenty minutes he revels in stories about his family
and how they’ve thrown Halloween parties for generations, “As a way of keeping
friends in check,” he says. “It’s my favorite holiday, and like Lemuria,
predates all known religion. The Romans first recorded Lemuria as the name
I know you’re an artist.”
Art—my
favorite subject. Before I get a word out, someone calls Bryce from across the
room. A waiter waves frantically from the doorway.
“Hold that
thought,” Bryce says, frowning. And away he goes, my white knight in black.
Nothing
like I’d imagined.
That Bad
T he party
gets louder as more guests squeeze in. I sip the last of my Champagne, keeping
an eye out for Karen or someone familiar. The fire has my right side toasty.
A man
stumbles toward me, polishing off a bottle of Heineken. “Yummy,” he says, his
beady eyes grazing my body.
“Excuse
me?” He’d better be referring to the beer.
“Power
wrapped in foil,” he slurs, leaning in close, his weight supported by the
mantel.
Mental
note—avoid the drunks.
“What are
you supposed to be?” I say, looking for a way to get past him. His skin is
pasty white, almost translucent, and gives me the creeps. Gauzy material clings
to his limbs, a couple of rounds in the dryer too many. His head twitches on
his shoulders and his lips move, but I don’t think he’s speaking English. I’m
busy trying to stay out of his reach. With every step he takes toward me, I
take two steps back.
“Dude,
you’re bugging me out.”
I’m
planning an escape via body slamming when a hand takes mine, pulling me away
from the wall and more than an arm’s length from the freak. Bryce has
materialized out of nowhere. The freak looks startled, then embarrassed. He
turns and disappears into the horde of costumes.
“I
appreciate—”
“You need
to eat,” says Bryce, leading me from the room.
I’m about
to protest but he’s right: I’m hungry. I didn’t have much dinner and the wine
is dousing my defenses, which apparently I need to keep sharp. We zigzag
through the crowd, and I glance at our interlocked hands, tempted to pull free.
Bryce holds tight, as if he has the right, and I wonder what kind of playboy
this guy really is. I’ve seen them all, but he’s an enigma.
In the
dining room, Bryce hands me a plate and I make my way around the table,
collecting goodies. I dole out compliments—the spread is amazing. It’s
just the two of us in the dining room, and the chatter filtering through is
quiet. While I munch, we talk. Bryce adores art and seems truly interested in
my work. Of course, when I talk about painting, I have the tendency to ramble.
At one point I scrutinize his eyes, curious to note if I’m boring him, but he
stares right back, a corny grin on his face until I look away.
“I’m a
starving artist lately,” I joke. I’m lucky Meyer was well insured and the house
is paid off. “It’s been a while since I completed a painting and even longer
since I’ve sold one.”
“You have
gorgeous curves for someone starving,” he says.
And the
tiger returns, a man on the prowl.
I lower my
plate to the table, no longer hungry. “Yes,” I say, suddenly the hairless
body-pierced Goth teen I once was, “but you’re chasing the wrong tail.”
An
uncomfortable silence fills the room. I turn to leave, and Bryce appears before
me like a ghost.
“Please
don’t,” he says, mock punching the wall. “I can be a gentleman.”
I open my
mouth to comment and he places a finger on my lips. My mother, when I was
twelve, broke a guy’s finger for silencing her. It was the first time I
considered her illness, her lack of control, dangerous.
“Promise,”
he says, his expression extinguishing my fire.
I remove
his finger, gently, and collect my plate.
A few
minutes pass before either of us speak, but soon enough the charismatic Bryce
makes an appearance. For twenty minutes he revels in stories about his family
and how they’ve thrown Halloween parties for generations, “As a way of keeping
friends in check,” he says. “It’s my favorite holiday, and like Lemuria,
predates all known religion. The Romans first recorded Lemuria as the name
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