Chapter Twenty-Four Master At Work
Alistair
Vi olin’s echo in the distance as I lean my back against the outside of the Rothchild District, where the Salvatore Dining Hall had been flipped from its normal rectangular tables and dull atmosphere, to something Gatsby might actually want to attend.
I hadn’t been inside yet, but I just knew dangling chandeliers and overpriced decorations awaited me. We only needed to make an entrance, just long enough for people to see that we had attended.
The sooner we could do that, the quicker we could get to the task at hand.
“She could have decided not to show up.”
“She’ll be here.” I tell Thatcher as I throw the butt of my cigarette out onto the ground, stomping on it, crushing the ember beneath my weight.
And if she didn’t show up, then whatever happened to her after she did to herself.
Rook and Silas were busy shutting down security cameras, which left Thatcher and I to escort Briar and Lyra into the pretentious Halloween ball.
It was basically a way for students and teachers to openly judge each other.
On their outfits, their dates, anything their self-righteous eyes could see they would tear apart.
It’s always the people in glasshouses that throw the most stones.
My phone hummed in my pocket, I pulled it out checking the illuminated screen. There’s a message from Shade making me furrow my eyebrows as I click on the green messenger app.
I sent in my recommendation, you should think about applying.
Attached was a link to a shop in New York that was hiring new tattoo artists. They were looking for someone who specialized in black and gray. I thought about what my life would be like if I could accept this offer.
I was a few months away from getting my licenses and I could work anywhere I wanted.
Had Rose not been killed, I would have already been on the east coast. Probably in New York, already working at a shop, living in a one-bedroom apartment walking to work where there wasn’t a single person who knew my name.
I’d be all alone.
Would I even like my life without the boys? I mean I had no doubt Thatcher was already going to move east and so was Rook, but Silas had planned on staying here with Rose. Could we all head out together? Start new lives where the trail of blood would stop following us and we could just, live?
I wanted to say yes, but that was being optimistic.
“What’s that about?” Thatcher asks, sticking his nose towards my phone.
“Have you always been this fucking nosey?” I jerk the screen away, shoving it back into my pocket away from his eyes.
“I’ve never had to be. You’ve never been this secretive before.” He looks down at me like I stole something from him. This deranged need for him to know everything about us gets old, fast.
“Listen… I don’t ask you what you’ve been up to when you come home with blood on your hands, okay? We all have things we keep to ourselves, even you.”
I don’t think he’s killing people. I mean, he might be, but I doubt it. I just think he has his own ways of releasing steam like the rest of us. Thatcher’s is just a little more…gruesome.
This makes him drop it, because even he’s not ready to own up to his own secrets.
“Here, I picked the most basic one I could find.” He tosses me a mask, solid black with swirls of sliver across the front.
“I’m not wearing this.”
I look over to see him attaching the dark red and black one to his face, tying it behind his head. The mask covers the upper half of his face, matching his corresponding-colored suit.
“Don’t be such a wimp, just put the mask on.”
Grunting in irritation as I fumble with the string, pressing the plastic onto my face and tying it tightly behind my head. Mine shields most of my left side, some of my nose uncovered, along with my right cheek bone and lips.
I just knew I looked fucking laughable in this thing.
The click of heels in step makes me turn my head, hoping it’s not another girl wearing a variation of the same dress clinging to her date because she can’t walk in her shoes.
Lyra’s dress is tulle on tulle, the crimson lace stretches around her waist exposing a full figure she hides beneath her normal wardrobe. She reminded me of a girl who’d grown up listening to fairytales. Just not the ones of kissing frogs and happily ever afters.
The Brothers Grimm fairytales.
Ones that told stories of brutality and death. Not of gold and stolen kisses, but blood and the power of dark magic.
The fabric fades into a rich black color at the bottom as the ball gown style dress grazes the ground as she walks towards us. Even I can admit that the way her blunt bangs drape above her black glittered mask, exposing the pale skin of her face, matched with red lipstick is hot.
“Looks like someone is stealing your signature color, Thatch.” I mutter, leaning back into him covertly.
“Evidently.” He breathes, like it took all his oxygen just to say that simple word.
Surprisingly the bug queen carries herself well in her heels as she approaches us looking sour, or at least looking sour towards me.
I open my mouth, but she interrupts me,
“Briar had to stop and see her uncle, he wanted to take pictures to send to her mother. She’ll be here soon.”
The awkward silence that fills the air is enough to kill someone.Lyra and Thatcher have engaged in some weird eye contact. Neither of them speaking, just staring, waiting for the other to blink.
I almost laugh thinking about Lyra, the girl who enjoys picking up bugs and having mud on her hands, hooking up with Thatcher, one of the cleanest people I know.
Obsessively clean. Clothes organized by brand, then color.
Bed always made, everything has a place.
Yet, they were standing here fucking with their eyes.
“Thatcher,” I cough, “this is Lyra, Lyra this is Thatcher.” I introduce the two of them sarcastically, but from the looks of it she is very aware of who he is.
“Yeah, I know who he is. I mean,” She clears her throat looking at me, “I know who you all are.”
The way she watches him, like she’s staring straight into his soul through the holes in her mask. It’s not fear, it’s…inquisitiveness that settles in her gaze. Even though she wants her distance from him, she still finds him interesting.
Which was more than most girls would have the balls to do. Our freshman year of high school, a girl ran out of the boys’ locker room naked after Thatcher pulled a knife on her while she was about to go down on him.
“Pleasure to meet you,” He chides with a smirk on his lips, reaching his hand out for hers.
“Now you’re introducing yourself? I didn’t realize introductions came after spray painting someone’s car and chasing them through the woods.”
I face the familiar voice, peering at Briar whose heels are ticking against the walkway as she makes her way towards us. Her eyes burning, teeth bared like she’s ready to rip Thatcher apart for looking in Lyra’s direction.
Even though she’s braced with aggression, looking like she’s ready to go to war against my friend, I’m taken back how graceful she looks.
My mouth waters while I follow the neckline down the front of her dress that halts right above her navel.
I shoved my hands into my pockets to prevent them from racing across her skin. Skin that looked so soft, like flower petals in the summer. I was foaming at the mouth for a taste of her.
Just one.
One agonizingly slow lick up the valley of her breasts where her skin laid exposed.
Purple fabric wraps delicately around her throat exactly where my hands would rest when I was making her sweat beneath me.
Her tits were barely covered with strips of material, the cool wind or maybe my gaze had tweaked her nipples making them hard for me.
Instead of the ball gown direction, she’s opted for something simple. Silk material that clung to her body, chasing the curves of her figure all the way down her body. The purple, that was more of a lilac shade, made the green in her kaleidoscopic eyes shimmer.
Blood rushes to my dick, my boxers suddenly becoming extremely tight around my groin and not because her erect nipples or pretty eyes.
No, it’s the way her small hand raises to her ear, re-tucking a few pieces of hair behind it. My tattoo caught in the light and even though it was small, the decorative font I picked matched her dress too well.
How dainty my initials looked on her body. How fucking good they looked on her finger. It only made me stiffer thinking about covering her body with my name, stamping my initials on the entirety of her skin.
I wanted to smell her. To see if she’d put on that perfume she didn’t know I liked. The one with exotic flowers and something sweet. Striding closer until I was standing directly in front of her.
The heels made her a bit taller, her head right beneath my nose. I laid my hand flat against the corner of her neck, my finger splayed across her collarbone and lower throat. My fingertips fluttered against her pulse, squeezing just enough to let her feel me.
The mask around her eyes does little to hide the way her cheeks flush at the feeling of my touch. The makeup on her face just enhancing what was already there in the first place.
A lot of girls were hot. Being hot was easy.
Not a lot of girls could wear my name the way she does.
“I like your hair like this.” I say, staring down at her feeling her heart race beneath my touch.
The honey-colored strands are all pushed to the right side of her head, falling in deep waves across her shoulder, a shiny hair piece holding it back near her left ear. I liked the way it exposed her neck to me. Slender and creamy.
She smiles, “I’ll make sure to never wear it like this again then. I think if you keep that mask on, I might just be able to get through this night without gagging.”
I grin, rolling my tongue across the bottom of my teeth, “Feeling feisty today?”
Using little force she removes my hand from her chest, swatting me away,“Just tired of your bullshit and ready to get this over with.”