Beside

2 - desire

"If you could be any animal, what would you be, Jellybean?"

"A butterfly, so I can fly anywhere I want."

"I'd be a flower, so you could come back to rest."

"Flowers aren't animals. You're dumb, Fox"

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

c  h  r  i  s

Whitney tosses back another fireball and bounds toward the karaoke stage, sandals flying off somewhere behind her, arms raised as she whoops!

She's a queen—a wild, barefoot queen in this smoky kingdom of strangers.

Everyone's a blur of colour and light, their masks shifting shapes, eyes glinting like stars caught in jars.

I inch my way to the bar, slipping onto a stool, tucking my hands under my chin like a child hiding from monsters.

Whitney's singing breaks through, raspy and raw and so full of life it makes my skin tingle. She's doing Stevie Nicks' part on Dreams. And then there's a tall, dark and handsome guy with the black mask. His low voice slashes through Whitney's like a tone-deaf and off-key sword, but she leans into it.

I sip club soda, the ice clinking against the glass. It's bitter and bubbly on my tongue.

And then, he's here. 

A flash of gold. His shirt, his mask, even his hair—a rich, golden brown that seems to catch every stray beam of light, reflecting it like a thousand tiny suns. His eyes are green, but gold swirls around the middle. He leans against the bar, and when he smiles...

Oh no.

"Is this seat taken?" he asks. I shake my head, struck dumb. He sits in the chair Whitney left—damn her—and orders a gin and tonic from the bartender. "What brings a butterfly to a place like this?"

I sip my club soda again, hyperventilating into my glass. The bitter bubbles hit the back of my throat, and I choke, "My friend's birthday. Hi."

He tilts his head a little. "Interesting. Where'd you get that?"

"The dress?" I smile and smooth the fabric over my knee. It's not flashy. Just something free-spirited borrowed from Whitney's closet. "It's actually—"

"No, that stunning smile," he says like he's sharing a secret meant just for me.

His compliment lands like a sunbeam. I flush fiercely with a smile. "That's very kind."

He leans in, breath warm against my ear. "I made a promise to be good tonight. But if I weren't under strict orders, I'd try to convince you to smile again."

"Like breaking a rule of propriety," I say, reading between the lines. 

His eyes dance with laughter. "Sure."

"I've never had a one-night stand," I confess, "But hypothetically, you'd be a good option."

"Hypothetically," his gaze dips to my lips, "I'd be flattered."

Oh my.

His gold mask shimmers, catching the dim light, and then I notice a cut on his lower lip, small but fresh. His knuckles draw my attention next—bruised.

He catches me staring and says, "Boxing. Keeps me grounded." Then the script flips, and it's he who's staring. I feel every place his gaze touches. My neck, my collarbones, my facepaint. The way my legs are crossed at the ankles, all the way down to the plain white flats on my feet. He's unwrapping me with his eyes.