CHAPTER 3. TRICKTREAT
The gay club Eric takes us to on Saturday is called The Velvet Flute. I only find that out when we’re already in line for face control out front—because all week, he’s been calling it TVF.
Which, yeah, makes total sense now—he knew I’d say no the second I heard the full name. And yes, it means exactly what you think it means. The logo’s a giant neon sign of a mouth licking a flute. Like, with tongue.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” I say, turning to Eric, who’s grinning like an idiot—at me and at my brother.
Eric’s dressed as Conan the Barbarian, which basically means he’s almost naked except for some leather-fur shorts, sandals, and way too many accessories.
People are actually staring at him—because his muscles look like he’s been dehydrating for three days.
“The Velvet Flute? Seriously?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “That’s so cliché.”
“It’s post-ironic,” Eric says, laughing, one hand on the handle of his oversized sword. “Reviews said it’s the biggest and best gay club in Dallas. Don’t worry, it’s not as kinky as it sounds.”
“They said the cocktails are good too,” my brother Nick adds, tipping the giant striped hat from his ridiculous Cat-in-the-Hat costume.
I sigh and leave out the part where I don’t even like cocktails. No need to be the buzzkill.
The line moves fast, and soon we’re at the front, facing the bouncer—a big bald guy in a black T-shirt and jeans. The only Halloween part of his outfit is a pair of vampire fangs, which I only notice when he looks straight at me and says,
“Take off your mask, please.”
I peel the plastic up off my face and look at him. I’m wearing one of those Squid Game guard uniforms—which, yeah, I know, not the most original costume—but at least it keeps me anonymous.
For a split second, I see recognition flicker in the bouncer’s eyes.
Then he smiles and says, “Congratulations on the win this week, Mr. Woods.”
“Thanks,” I say, giving him a quick smile, though I’m already itching to pull the mask back down.
He waves all three of us inside—but doesn’t recognize Eric. Which always kind of amazes me, honestly. Sometimes I think Eric has an actual superpower—he takes off his soccer uniform and suddenly people just see a hot guy, not that guy.
And yeah, I envy that. Especially now, because this mask is already starting to suffocate me.
We walk into a dark vestibule and follow the thump of music into a packed upper level—a balustrade overlooking the bar and dance floor below, both crammed with people in Halloween costumes.
Some are basic—devils, angels, vampires, housemaids. Others are just…weird. I spot a falling Tower of Pisa, a bottle of Tylenol, a pregnant Edward Cullen, and what I think is a torn condom.
Eric steers Nick and me down the stairs, his hands hovering at our backs like he’s afraid we’ll get lost in the crowd—or trip over our own ridiculous costumes.
I’m already seriously considering taking off my mask. I can barely see, and honestly, I doubt anyone could recognize me in this green strobe lighting anyway.
We squeeze through the crowd toward the bar—Eric and I manage fine, since we’re both tall, but Nick gets swallowed somewhere behind us until Eric reaches back and drags him forward by the hand.
Behind the bar are two huge chalkboards—one listing cocktails, the other beers—and to be fair, the names are hilarious.
Nick and Eric both light up immediately, already plotting which ones to try first.
“I want The KGB Special!” Nick shouts, excited like a kid in a candy store.
“Count me in,” Eric laughs, flashing the bartender a huge grin. “Hey, handsome,” he adds—and the guy freezes like a deer in headlights, then flushes bright red. He’s wearing a Scooby-Doo costume.
Yeah. Eric has that effect on men.
“You’re not gonna make me say it out loud, are you?” Eric asks, still grinning.
The bartender raises an eyebrow. “Say what?”
“‘Can I get two KGB Specials?’” Eric says. “Feels like I’m putting myself on a watchlist.”
That gets a tiny laugh out of the guy. God, sometimes I forget how good Eric is at flirting.
“Are you Russian or something?” the bartender asks.
“I’m not, but my parents are,” Eric says, leaning casually over the bar.
That earns him a confused little frown while the bartender does the math—then realizes it’s a joke.
“Nice,” the guy says, then gives Eric’s upper half a once-over. “Are you supposed to be a Russian Viking or something?”
Eric rolls his eyes in mock offense. “How dare you. I’m Conan the Barbarian. How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine,” the guy says, laughing. “But I didn’t have a TV.”
“You’re lying,” Eric says, pouting. “You found out about Scooby-Doo, didn’t you?”
“Scooby who?” the bartender says, but at this point, he’s obviously flirting.
Eric laughs out loud, then turns to me. “What would you like to drink, Mark?”
I scan the beer list and pick something at random. “I’ll have The Housing Crisis.”
I have to shout—my mask muffles half the sound. The bartender doesn’t catch it, so Eric repeats it for me.
“Coming right up,” the guy says, flashing Eric a shy smile.
That’s when I finally push back my hood and slide the mask up onto the top of my head. I can breathe again. And see.
“I’ll go find a table,” I tell Eric and Nick. “I’ll text you if I find one.”
“Okay,” Nick says. “Don’t get lost.”
“Okay,” I echo, though I’m more worried about him, honestly. He seems a little too excited for his first time at a gay club.
I squeeze back through the crowd and cross the dance floor, lights flashing in my face, music pounding in my ears. I head toward the far end of the club, where booths line the wall, and start scanning for an open table.
It’s pretty dim back here, so I have to walk up close to each booth to see if anyone’s actually leaving. Most are packed—groups smashed into the seats, laughing, drinking, eating. I catch bits of conversations, random bursts of laughter, and the occasional couple making out.
I move along the row, checking if anyone looks close to done.
Then I reach the last booth, tucked into the corner—and freeze.
There are four guys sitting there, two on each side. The pair closest to me is kissing—both in vampire costumes, fangs, blood and all.
But it’s the other two that catch my attention.
One of them’s tall and muscled, wearing a Joker costume with a green wig. He’s leaning in, one arm draped casually over the shoulder of the fourth guy, whispering something in his ear. His other hand slides over the inside of the guy’s thigh, cupping him through the fabric.
And the fourth guy—
He’s in a Squid Game costume too. A teal tracksuit with a white number 10 on the chest—the participant kind, not the guard uniform I’m wearing.
But it’s his face that stops me cold. Unamused. Familiar in a way that makes my chest clench.
My heart stutters—then kicks hard. Because I know exactly who he is.
His long blond hair isn’t tied into a bun like usual—just thrown over one shoulder, long and silky. His fair, velvety skin gleams in the green semi-darkness of the room.
It’s Sawyer Moon.
For a second, I just stand there, staring, thinking I must’ve mistaken someone else for him.
But then he looks up and catches my gaze.
We both freeze, looking at each other—my heart going wild, my stomach flipping.
He definitely recognizes me too, though there’s no shame or embarrassment on his face.
Just calm acknowledgment, like: oh—you’re here too.
The Joker guy—who’s been whispering sweet nothings into Moon’s ear this whole time—seems to finally notice he’s lost his attention and turns to look at me too.
“What’s up?” he says, eyeing me like a dog spotting a trespasser—clearly not thrilled about being interrupted.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, then turn on my heel, catching a faint “Do you know that guy or something?” behind me.
I walk off, adrenaline pounding in my temples.
Fuck. So Moon’s gay. Definitely now.
I mean, sitting on top of me with a hard-on and going in for a kiss was kind of a giveaway.
But still, I wasn’t sure. I mean, this guy has been bullying me for years—called me a slur, even—and now he’s got some hunk all over him in the dark corner of Dallas’s biggest gay club.
It’s a lot to process, and I don’t think I have the capacity to do it without at least a little alcohol in my system.
“Oh, you found us, Mark!” Nick yells when I slump into the booth next to Eric, still completely in my head. “Did you see my text?”
I honestly don’t even know how I found them—last I checked, they were at the bar, and now they’re at one of the booths on the other side of the dance floor. I didn’t even realize there were tables here. Running into Moon threw me so hard my brain just…blanked.
“Is this mine?” I ask, pointing at the beer.
Eric nods, sipping his bloody-red drink from a martini glass. I pick up the beer and down it in one go.
“You good?” he says, raising an eyebrow as I set the glass down.
“Guess who I just ran into,” I say, glancing between them, jaw tight, heart pounding again.
“Who?” they both say at once.
“Sawyer Moon,” I mutter, my face heating—for no good reason. Lucky no one can tell in this neon-green light.
“What?” Nick says, scandalized, leaning across the table with his whole body.
“Moon?” Eric shouts, and I smack his shoulder to get him to lower his voice. “Didn’t he call you a fag?” he says—still loud, but at least not yelling now.
Nick shoots me a shocked look. “Didn’t you tell him about the kiss?”
“About the what?” Eric blurts, eyes going wide. “He kissed you and you didn’t tell me?!”
My whole face goes hot. I forgot how fast these two turn into gossip goblins the second they’re in the same room.
“Yeah,” I say. “But I need another beer before I can tell you that story.”
“I’ll go with you,” Eric says, finishing his drink and shooting me a look. “But I’m still pissed you didn’t tell me. I thought I was your best friend.”