Jess
This might be my most boring Halloween costume to date.
Blame it on the fact that it’s my first Halloween out of college, or that I’m exhausted from work and didn’t have time or creative energy to think of something better, or perhaps that I have no idea what I’m walking into tonight — or what I want to walk into — but this year, I’m a classic witch.
My long, blonde hair is curled and flowing over my shoulders, the highlights fresh and bright under the black pointy hat on my head.
My makeup is dark and fierce — smokey eyeshadow, long, fake lashes, black glittery lips.
The dress I picked for my witchy vibe is an old black sequin one that I wore on New Year’s Eve one year.
I shredded the bottom of it, ripping it in triangle strips of different shapes, sizes, and lengths, and I ripped holes in the midriff and chest area for good measure.
Wide fishnet leggings and pointy-toed high-heeled boots finish the look — along with a broomstick I paid some kid two condo doors down to spray paint and glitterfy.
And while I didn’t aim for sexy, as I usually do, I think I landed there, anyway.
It’s classic and simple, but the darkness of it matches my mood completely.
I’m fixing my lipstick when my phone lights up with a text from Kade.
Have fun tonight.
My stomach tightens at the words because I know he’s not saying them genuinely. I know there’s a bit of jealousy underlining them, a bit of worry, a bit of unmanageable rage at the fact that he has to share.
I wonder how he doesn’t already hate me — how they both don’t. Ever since Jarrett confessed he still had feelings for me, the two of them haven’t so much as talked, let alone been in the same room.
I’ve driven brothers apart, and what’s worse are the head games I know I’m submitting them to.
I should just let them both go. I should tell them that they’re better off without me, that they’ll both move on and find someone better. Because I don’t see a single way this can end where someone won’t get hurt.
And yet, I can’t let them go.
I groan, typing back a response before I slump down in the barstool at the kitchen island. “I’m the fucking worst,” I mutter to myself.
My phone rings again, and this time, it’s Herb downstairs.
Jarrett’s here.
I tell Herb not to send him up, that I’ll be right down, and then I stand as tall as I can in front of the full-length mirror by the front door.
“Okay, bitch. This is the night. You figure out what the hell you’re doing and either choose Jarrett or cut him loose.
No hanky-panky, okay?” I say to myself, making a peace sign and drawing a line between my eyes and the girl’s in the mirror.
“It hasn’t even been a month since you fucked Kade. Don’t be a whore.”
I swear, I see the girl in the mirror wink before I turn for the door.
My palms are slick on the elevator ride down to the lobby, and when the doors slide open and I see Jarrett standing in the middle of the marble floor, my mouth goes dry.
His back is to me, lean and muscular, his hands sitting easily in his pockets. His head is smooth and freshly shaved, and he must sense me, because he turns — ever so slowly — until his dark eyes lock on mine.
He’s wearing an all-black outfit, just like me.
And he looks like every sin I’m trying not to commit.
A black tunic is tapered at his waist with a belt, the chest of it ripped open to show the muscles and tattoos underneath.
He’s shoved the sleeves up to just below his elbows, showing off his tanned, toned forearms and the ink that covers them, too.
His beard is neat and trimmed, salt and pepper gray touching the dark brown of it, and the leather pants he’s wearing are something out of a GQ photoshoot — fitted, but that slouchy kind of casual that makes your mouth water on sight.
He smirks when my eyes make it back to his, no doubt loving the fact that I just ogled him and almost had the elevator doors shut on me in the process.
I step fully out, standing tall as I stride over to him in my heels, and that’s when I see the tastefully painted blood dripping from one side of his mouth.
“Vampire,” I muse, arching a brow when I notice he’s wearing blood-red contacts. “I’ll be honest, I thought you’d show up as a beach bar bartender.”
“Didn’t want to turn you on too early in the night. Although, I can drive my truck instead of us catching a cab, if you’d like. Just in case.”
He doesn’t wink, doesn’t make any facial expression with the tease other than to smirk just a fraction more. But the memory of that first time fucking in his truck makes my neck heat, my core tighten.
I flick him off and shove past him before he’s on my heels, chuckling as he catches up.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Dancing.”
And then as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, as if I belong to him, as if he never left me or hurt me or pulverized my heart — he takes my hand in his and leads me to the waiting cab.
***
The Lemon Club is one known for its bustling nightlife, often hosting well-known DJs and never closing before four in the morning.
It’s already bumping when we finally get through the line outside, and in the doors, orange and purple lights thumping with the music and fog filling the floor.
Above us, aerial artists hang from hoops and silks, and all around us, girls and boys alike dance in go-go cages, their bodies moving in time with the heavy bass.
The club is packed, people squeezed in at the bar and dancing on every inch of the dance floor. Jarrett pulls me into a dark little corner before looking around with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.
Then, he slips his hand around my waist, tugging me closer.
Again, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My breath hitches at the contact, at the way it feels to be held by him after all these years, to have his hands on me, that familiar energy buzzing through my veins just with that simple contact. My traitorous body hums to life, pussy throbbing, nipples pebbling and aching for more.
I really am the fucking worst.
“Sorry it’s so loud in here,” he yells over the music, leaning in close enough to my ear that his warm breath brushes my lobe.
I swallow. “It’s okay!”
We stand there for a long moment, Jarrett dragging his gaze down the length of me, his jaw tight.
“You look incredible,” he says, and though I know he had to scream it for me to be able to hear, it feels like a weighted whisper in my ear.
“So do you,” I say, and it’s almost a pout — enough so that Jarrett chuckles and lifts a brow.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I offer a slight smile in lieu of answering that yes, it is a very bad thing.
Because taking the summer away from him numbed my brain to the power he exudes over me.
I’d forgotten his rugged, earthy scent, his thick, muscular arms, his devilish smirk, his dark, hypnotizing eyes.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to be pinned by his gaze, to know without him saying a word that he wants me — desperately.
But with him standing right in front of me, his hand possessively holding my half-bare waist, I’m all too aware of everything I’d tried so hard to forget.
Jarrett’s expression is a little more solemn when he says, “It’s been excruciating staying away from you.”
I close my eyes, letting out a slow breath like it’ll somehow save me.
“Did it help?” he asks, leaning in even closer, his breath on my neck. “Did you find the space you needed to think?”
A wave of chills runs over me at the feeling of him being so close, and thinking is about the last thing I can do.
“Let’s dance,” I say instead of answering, and I grab his hand, pulling him deep into the middle of the dance floor.
I know immediately that it was a mistake.
I didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to answer his questions, didn’t want to look him in the eyes and admit that I’m more confused than ever.
I didn’t want to confess that I still love him, that just like he told me — I never stopped.
Because I also love his brother, and it just doesn’t seem fair or right or sane for both of those things to be true.
But now that we’re on the dance floor, his hands snaking around my waist and pulling my back flush to his chest, I realize that talking or crying or literally anything else would be safer than this.
The music seems louder out here — thicker, heavier, like a physical presence pulling both of us in. Jarrett grabs my hip hard with one hand, the other splaying over my midriff, and then he’s moving us, hips swaying slowly at first before finding the beat.
We haven’t even had a drink yet. I can’t blame it on the alcohol that the moment his body lines up flush with mine, I moan, biting my lip and letting my head fall back against his chest. I reach one hand up to hook behind his neck, the other covering his hand where it spreads across my stomach.
Lights pulse overhead, blinding me from time to time as we dip and sway and move together.
It’s intoxicating, that buzz of desire that shoots through me with every new touch. His hand moves from my hip to my thigh, and I gasp. His other hand slides up just an inch, his thumb pressing into the hollow space between my breasts, and I arch my back, grinding my ass against him.
He’s hard as a fucking diamond, and the way he rolls that impressive length against me, I know he couldn’t care less about me or anyone else in this club knowing it.
“Your costume is very fitting,” he rumbles in my ear, sucking the lobe of it between his teeth. “My little witch, spinning her web, keeping me under her spell.”
His words stroke me like expert fingertips, and I grind against him more, grabbing his hand and moving it up until it fully palms my breast. His moan is guttural, a menacing growl as he bites down on my neck like it’s the only thing he can do to keep his composure now that he’s touching me.
In front of everyone.