Chapter 25 COWABUNGA #2
Betty raises her drink in a toast. “I think you’d make a great dominatrix, you know. Got the body for tight leather, Sugarplum.”
“YES, Betty!” Zoe says, pointing her whistle right at her.
Eli turns swiftly on his heel, throwing his hands in the air, which only makes the turtle shell on his back sway harder. He saunters off down the street, no doubt to find more candy and distract himself from what he’s deemed a nightmare circus.
My eyes slowly go to Logan’s, who’s gazing intently at me, jaw working as if he’s trying to stop the thoughts of me in tight leather from circling his mind. I bite my lip, and he shakes his head, muttering something about needing a drink.
Chase cups his hands around his mouth. “I’m betting on Little Red Riding Hood. Bonus points if she’s got the basket.”
The guesses keep flying, and before long, the kids are tugging their parents down the street, ready to start trick-or-treating.
Jake and Charlie head off with Noah and Meadow, Theo perched on Jake’s shoulders, every so often emitting a loud “WOOOAR” which echoes down the street. Ryan and Claire join them with Poppy.
Zoe and Tamara flit after them all; their candy referees on patrol. Chase makes a production of flipping his shell back onto his shoulders before jogging to catch up, jumping into the air, and bellowing “COWABUNGA” loud enough to scare the birds from the trees.
Which leaves me on the lawn with Betty, Logan, and Reid, and a steady stream of kids in costumes shuffling up the walkway for candy.
Miso takes the opportunity to launch a one-dog campaign against Logan’s turtle shell, stalking him with all the subtlety of a cartoon villain. The second he turns his back, she lunges, tiny teeth snapping at the edge of the foam until it wobbles on his shoulders.
“Goddamn gremlin,” he mutters, twisting to swat her off, only for her to dance just out of reach and circle back for another go.
Betty hoots from her perch. “Get him, baby Yoda! Bite the mutant!”
Logan shoots her a murderous look, shell askew, while Miso crouches low and waggles her butt, ready for another strike.
By the time Chase, Zoe, Tamara, and Eli circle back from trick-or-treat duty—Logan breathing a sigh of relief as Tamara picks up Miso and distracts her from destroying him—the street is a full-blown circus.
I’m bent over helping a tiny firefighter adjust his plastic helmet when I hear the sharp click of heels on asphalt, and look up in time to see a real-life witch.
Pamela.
She floats up the driveway in a bougie designer witch outfit—black silk cape, pointy hat that looks as though it was imported from Milan. Dylan trails behind her, sulking in a skeleton onesie two sizes too small.
Pamela’s eyes flick over the decorations, the fog, the crowd of neighbors and teammates she doesn’t recognize on my lawn.
Her smile is sharp. “Well. This is spirited.” She turns to me, gaze skating over my porch. “Bit much for a renter, isn’t it, Ms. Parnell?”
I straighten slowly, meeting her head-on. “Good thing I’m not renting, then.”
She waves a manicured hand. “Ah. Well, very… cute. Over the top, though. A lot of fussing to be festive.”
Dylan pipes up from behind her, voice nasal. “Mom says only losers decorate this much.”
The air shifts, and every conversation, every laugh, every whistle cuts off behind me.
The entirety of the Storm boys turn their heads in perfect unison.
Logan and Eli both take a step forward, shoulders squaring like they’re about to make the evening news, but Logan falters when Eli’s eyes cut to him, perplexed.
Pamela doesn’t even notice, too busy fixing her cape, until Dylan gasps. He’s noticed Chase standing in my yard, and his eyes go wide.
“Oh my god, you’re Chase Walton,” he blurts, barreling past his mom to stand in front of Chase. “You’re, like, my favorite.”
The pivot is so fast, I almost get whiplash.
Pamela’s head snaps up. “Chase Walton? From the Storm?” And suddenly, she’s right there beside her son, lashes fluttering at his giant, ninja turtle form.
“That was the fastest attitude change I’ve ever seen,” mutters Tamara. “Pity his mother still needs one.”
Eli snorts. “Kid went from troll to fan club in ten seconds flat.”
Logan mutters something that sounds like “unfuckingbelievable,” but he stays put. His eyes are on me, soft in a way that makes my chest fizz even in the middle of all this madness.
Zoe folds her arms, voice dripping sugar and venom as Dylan asks for an autograph and forgets to say please.
“How convenient. Chase, honey, make sure you sign nice and big so it distracts from the manners lesson they both skipped.”
Chase plasters on his brightest, fakest smile, ignoring Zoe’s venom. “Of course, buddy. Got something for me to sign?
Dylan practically rips the paper candy bag out of his own hands and offers it up. Pamela leans in, watching with glassy-eyed pride as Chase scrawls something across the cardboard in the world’s most illegible handwriting.
“There you go,” Chase says, handing it back with a flourish. “One of a kind.”
Dylan beams, and Pamela sighs a breathy thank you, clearly starstruck. Then they sashay down the sidewalk to the next unsuspecting neighbor.
The second they’re out of earshot, Tamara arches a brow. “That didn’t look like your signature.”
Reid snorts. “Didn’t even look like letters.”
Chase drops the act, grin stretching ear to ear.
“Relax. I signed Michelangelo. That’s who I am tonight, the jokester turtle.
Green shell, orange mask, and pizza, the works.
” He sweeps his arms at the decorations in my yard, as if unveiling a masterpiece.
“And I’m big on the OTT, baby! You gotta commit to the bit! ”
I smile my gratitude as Betty cackles so loud that half the block turns. “Oh, Sugarplum. You just earned yourself one of Betty’s Boopers.”
Chase blinks. “Betty’s what now?”
“Boopers, darling.” She holds out a neon-green martini glass toward him. “One sip and—bippity, boppity, boop—you’re on your ass.”
Logan mutters “Christ” into his drink.
Chase, of course, is already bounding up her porch steps. “Hell yes. Gimme that potion, Witchy Woman.”
Zoe blows her whistle after him, shaking her head but grinning. “Technical foul! Turtle brain thinks neon is a safe color to drink!”
Meanwhile, Dusty is working the street party like a seasoned thief, slinking under tables in front yards to swipe hot dogs and unattended cookies. Every so often, a neighbor shrieks, and he trots past with a bread roll hanging out of his mouth like a cigar, tail wagging, and proud of his haul.
Miso, however, has fully staged a coup. She’s stolen Zoe’s whistle, and every single breath out of her tiny gremlin body is met with a shrill blast that ricochets down the block.
Zoe’s doubled over, wheezing with laughter, while Eli and Tamara chase after Miso like frantic first-time parents, pleading for their “child” to give it back.
“Give it back, Miso!” Eli groans, lunging for her.
She darts between his legs, a furry torpedo blaring the whistle again.
Tamara claps her hands, desperate. “Mi-soooo, sweetie, please—come here!”
The more they plead, the louder she blows, until half the neighborhood sounds like a fire drill.
Zoe’s still doubled over on the curb, tears streaming. “She’s got more stamina than Chase!”
“HEY!” Chase shouts from the porch, but he laughs as he takes another gulp of his Betty Booper.
Betty decides it’s the perfect time for a life lesson and begins corralling the kids to her corner of the porch with a sweep of her broom. “Mocktails, sugarplums! Because no one should wait till twenty-one to learn how to shake a proper martini.”
Jake nearly chokes, Theo tucked under one arm. “Betty—no.”
“Betty, YES,” she declares, plunking a plastic shaker into Theo’s tiny hands. It’s filled with apple juice and grenadine, and he immediately slams it against the railing of her porch. Red juice splatters across his lion’s mane.
“Oh my god,” Jake moans, lunging to intercept. “Absolutely not, this is—”
“brILLIANT!” Chase cuts in, clinking his own cocktail against Betty’s in some deranged cheers.
Meadow beams up at Betty as she’s handed a plastic cup with a wedge of lime on the rim.
“Mine looks like a real cocktail!” she says proudly.
“It is a real cocktail, darling,” Betty croons. “One of Betty’s Baby Boppers.”
Logan turns his head, horrified. “Baby what?”
“Baby Boppers!” Betty announces grandly, swirling her martini glass for emphasis. “Non-alcoholic, of course. Just enough sugar to put them on the ceiling. You’ve got your grenadine giggle juice, your apple spritzers, your Shirley Templars—”
“Shirley what?” Reid mutters around a mouthful of macaron.
“A cocktail, Sugarplum.” She smiles seductively at Hutch, clearly her favorite person here tonight.
Jake frantically tries to swap the cups for juice boxes before anyone’s scarred for life. “Stop saying cocktail around my daughter.”
In amongst this chaos carnival, the calls for me to change only get louder.
“Tallulah Parnell!! Costume!” Zoe bellows, blowing her backup whistle.
“Yeah, quit stalling, Lu,” Charlie chimes in, Meadow now at her side in her marshmallow bride gown, with a big splash of Betty’s Baby Booper down the front.
Even Betty joins in, raising her glass. “Get moving, Sugarplum! Show us what you’ve been hiding.”
I laugh, but nerves flutter sharp and fast as I slip away from the porch. Upstairs, the noise dulls to a distant roar, but my pulse doesn’t calm. My hands shake as I dig out the folded Storm jersey, the one that carries his name bold across the shoulders, atop the number eighty-two.
Not just the jersey, though. I pull on the shorts and shin pads I borrowed too, the full effect. For good measure, I smudge a few black stripes of eyeshadow under my eyes—because if you’re going to play dress-up, you may as well commit.
In the mirror, the reflection staring back at me is equal parts ridiculous and terrifying. His jersey hangs huge on me, falling mid-thigh, but the pads and gloves and stick I’m holding give it some weight. Make it look like more than an excuse.
Butterflies riot in my chest.
And then I head back downstairs.