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"

ｃｈｒｉｓ

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 Nick's part on Dreams.

And then there's a tall, dark and handsome guy with the black mask.

Oh no.

His low voice slashes through Whitney's like a dull knife, tone-deaf and off-key, grating against the melody. It's awful. The kind of awful that should come with a warning sign. The crowd winces, but Whitney leans into it, trying to lift him with her voice.

I sip club soda, the ice clinking against the glass—a tiny, crisp sound. 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. He leans against the bar, and when he smiles...

Oh no.

"Is this seat taken?"

His voice is a summer breeze that curls around me, making it hard to breathe for a second. His eyes, they're green, but with more gold swirling around the middle.

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?"

"What?" I blink, trying to catch up.

He gestures to me, broad and easy.

"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, burning my cheeks. I flush fiercely, biting my lip in a futile attempt to hide a smile, but it's no use. The grin wins. "That's very kind."

I fumble with the straw in my glass. It slips from my fingers, splashing back into the drink, and I wince, hoping he didn't notice. But he did. I cover it with a smile.

He leans in, breath warm against my ear, and he drops his voice to a whisper, "I made a promise not to take anyone home tonight. But if I weren't under strict orders, I'd try to convince you to let me see where that smile leads."