Chapter Twelve
Chapter
Twelve
Mona’s on her second bottle of soju when she suggests, “We should go dancing.”
She’s changed out of her cosplay, but she still has the sparkly blue eye shadow and high pony; it swings as she looks eagerly around the table.
I’ve met up with her and the others at a local Korean BBQ spot. It took a round of beer and shared appetizers, but the group seems to have relaxed around one another for the first time.
Well. Relaxed around me.
The stickers helped, I think. Arthur’s eyes had crinkled around the corners—he stuck the paladin sticker right to his shirt, like it was a name tag—and Shay asked me for Sadie’s info so she could commission her own portrait.
Soon after, the whole table eased into talking about our game, which evolved into Wesley, Shay, Arthur, and Colin sharing stories about their old campaigns.
I particularly enjoyed Colin’s recounting of his character’s romantic saga with a bugbear, and Shay’s story of how she managed to hide her character’s secret identity as an assassin for more than half of a campaign.
I’d even admitted to everyone that this game is the first time I’ve played and not DMed in years, and something in Arthur’s expression shifted.
It was like an epiphany struck as he muttered wisely, “All makes sense now.”
At that comment, I caught Wesley hiding a smile behind his glass of beer; I rolled my eyes.
Now Mona’s suggestion garners mixed reactions.
“You want to ruin a perfectly good day with a crowded bar and sticky floors?” Colin snorts. “Absolutely not.”
Shay reaches for Mona’s soju and pours herself a small glass, a grin tugging at her lips. “Sure, babe.”
Mona looks to me, and I shrug. “You know I’m not saying no.”
Wesley leans back in his chair and says, “I’m game.”
I pause with my beer halfway to my lips, but I’m not going to back out on Mona now.
Shay glances sidelong to her dad and waits silently—for him to back out, I assume. Arthur scoffs. “Your mother and I used to be the life of the party, Shay,” he says, feigning offense—though his mouth quirks up. “I could put that dance floor to shame.”
“Save it for the Halloween party,” Shay begs.
Arthur wrinkles his nose to the rest of us. “Not my scene, anyway.”
We say goodbye to Colin and Arthur and meander down the street, which grows more crowded with each block we pass.
Quiet restaurants give way to loud bars with music spilling out through open doors and from sprawling decks.
Mona, extra bubbly from the soju, has begun to hum snatches of the songs that she can hear.
Shay threads her arm gently through Mona’s and flashes Wesley a quick smile over her shoulder.
I lead the way, assessing which venue will be a good fit for the four of us; after all, I’ve spent the last year visiting nearly all of them, exploring new things and, admittedly, numbing the pain of the Cataclysm.
Zoe’s is the obvious answer, as it’s Mona’s favorite and the best gay bar in the city, with immaculate music and vibes—but there’s already a long line out the door, and it’ll be packed shoulder to shoulder on a Saturday night.
Limbo has the cheapest drinks but a rank atmosphere, and it’s not like we’re trying to get shit-faced, anyway.
Spirit Society, with its inventive cocktail menu and music played low enough for conversation, is where I’ve met many of my one-off connections, but its mood is a touch too romantic for current company. Not for Mona and Shay, maybe, but—
I make a point of not looking at Wesley.
No, what we really need is a small club with a fun, disco-y dance vibe, low pressure, and drinks that are yummy but not so delicious that I’ll be dropping fifty bucks on our first round.
Wesley suddenly slows his gait, seemingly pulled into the orbit of a pulsing strobe light.
His profile is painted in flashes of blue, purple, and red as he peers up at the bar’s sign, the lights shifting in sync with the beat thumping from within.
I smile when I see the familiar looping text on the sign above the bar’s wide-open doors: Wizardry.
Wesley is many things, and unfortunately, he is a man of taste. It’s the perfect pick.
Without warning, I duck inside, and everyone follows after.
The bar has a playful vibe, with a collection of disco balls hanging from the ceiling and purple and emerald velvet curtains draped along the walls.
The music is funky and easy to dance to, and after shouting their orders in my ear, Mona wastes no time in dragging Shay out onto the floor.
It leaves me stuck with Wesley with at least five other people in line before us.
Shit.
He gives the silence only a good ten seconds to stretch before he finally asks, “Are we going to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“NEWT, Reagan.”
I try to keep my tone breezy. “What is there to talk about?”
Wesley lets out a low laugh. “Everything. I heard what you said to the recruiter, about the other games you’ve published.
I didn’t even know you still made games.
What was your handle again? Witch Riley?
That’s cute.” The word echoes against my skull like the ringing of a bell. His smile turns sharp. “It’s fitting.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
I press my lips together.
“Is this your first time entering?” he asks. “Do you already know what you’re going to submit?”
“I do.”
Wesley shifts for a moment, anxious for the follow-up question I don’t ask—but he answers it anyway. “Me, too.” We shuffle forward. Only two people ahead of us now. “Well, what’s it about? What kind of game is it?”
Something in his attitude is different. He seems less guarded, his reactions to my barbs less spiky. Ever since he learned we’re competing against each other, there’s a new fire in his eyes, and they’re lit bright with interest. He hovers close to my side.
“I haven’t decided if I’m going to tell you,” I say.
Wesley scoffs. “What? Why not?”
“Because I want to win.”
Finally, it’s our turn. I order the girls’ drinks, and then somehow Wesley and I both end up choosing tequila pineapples for ourselves.
As the bartender makes our drinks, Wesley bends close to my ear so his words aren’t lost in the swell of the music.
“I want to win, too,” he says in a low voice, breath warm against the side of my neck.
“Telling you what I’m working on isn’t going to stop me from doing that. ”
As my shoulders stiffen, I feel the warmth of Wesley’s chest at my back when he reaches over my shoulder to hand the bartender his card before I even realize it’s time to pay. He flashes me a grin and leaves the tab open.
I’m left feeling hot and bothered—and not in the fun way. I grab two drinks and don’t wait for him to follow as I move to stand at the edge of the dance floor, looking for Mona and Shay. Wesley appears at my shoulder soon after.
He sees them first and points. “I think Shay’s really serious about Ramona,” he says, changing the subject.
I watch them circle each other on the dance floor.
Where Mona’s all giggles and laugh lines, punctuating every beat of the music with a jump, fist pump, or twirl, Shay orbits her like a moon, dark eyes sparkling as she looks at my sister like she hung the stars.
Whenever anyone tries to come close to Mona, to catch her in a spin or shepherd her toward the bar, Shay smoothly winds an arm around her waist, drawing Mona to her side and matching her pace seamlessly.
My spine, tense from Wesley’s proximity, softens as something in my chest relaxes. “I think Mona’s really serious about her, too,” I say. “I think—I think Shay can keep up with her.”
“How do you mean?”
I tilt my head from side to side as I consider my words, shaking a lock of hair loose from where I twisted it into a claw clip.
Wesley idly reaches to tuck it back into place; his fingers are wet and cold from where he was holding his drink when they brush the back of my ear.
I shiver at his touch, and Wesley goes still.
I scramble to remember what question he asked me in the first place.
I whip my attention back to Shay and Mona.
“Look at her,” I say, gesturing to where Mona is poorly but enthusiastically trying to shuffle.
Shay laughs, one hand steady on her back to keep her upright.
“Mona’s always been so full of energy. She’s got these wild hobbies, these adventures she’ll embark on every few months to go visit the nation’s largest yarn ball or foster a whole horde of cats just because the shelter can’t take all of them on.
When she’s into something, she’s into it.
She’s just—she’s a lot,” I say simply. “And the women she’s dated in the past, they’d always get to this point where they thought she was ‘too much.’ ” I curl two fingers in sarcastic air quotes to show exactly what I think of that small-minded opinion.
I glance to Wesley, but he’s not watching Mona—he’s watching me. He doesn’t look away when he says, “I think that’s what Shay likes about her. How spirited she is—how passionate.”
Something in his dark, unblinking gaze makes me feel like he’s seeing too much. Like he’s not talking about Mona at all. I swallow. “I think so, too.” I take a sip to combat my mouth’s sudden dryness. “I think she can handle it. So far.”
“You sound like her mom,” he teases. “Does Shay need your approval first to court her?”
I tense. “I just don’t want to see my sister get hurt. I don’t know Shay.”
“Well, I do. Regardless of how things go, I know she’ll treat Ramona with respect. Like any adult.”
I don’t know why I say it. I don’t know if it’s just habit at this point, or if he’s standing too close and it’s just all a bit too much, or if I just can’t help but be defensive of Mona. But my tone is frosty when I mutter, “Forgive me if I can’t trust your word on matters like these.”
Wesley’s eyes roll upward as he coughs out an exasperated laugh. “Reagan—”
“I’m gonna go dance.”
“Have fun.”