Chapter 27
Halloween Is For The Baddies
Harlee
Halloween night arrives like a deadline with lashes.
I’m in my bathroom in a strapless black bra and boy shorts, leaning into the mirror like it owes me money, when my flat iron decides it wants to participate in the festivities.
The thin plastic edge of my makeup bag catches the hot plate and starts to melt, curling in on itself like it’s trying to escape.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Wynter calls from my bedroom.
“Nothing.” I snatch the bag up with two fingers, flick it into the sink, and wave my burned fingertip in the air like I’m auditioning for a dramatic role. “Just burned a hole in my bag. Again.”
Wynter appears in the doorway, amused, unbothered, beautiful. “Again? How do you keep doing that?”
“Talent,” I mutter, unplugging the iron like it personally betrayed me.
She steps closer, and my eyes catch on her reflection before I can stop them. “Okay, girl. I see you.”
Wynter grins and turns, letting me take in the full chaos of her costume.
Tonight’s costume theme is Troop Beverly Hills. Not “Girl Scouts,” not community service, not a PSA. A pop-culture homage for adults who pay taxes and still make bad decisions on purpose.
Wynter is doing sexy Phyllis Nefler in 2024. A fiery red wig that glows against her rich umber skin. A cropped ranger vest and sheer mesh top. A sequined green skirt that barely qualifies as fabric. Thigh-high boots. A tilted hat dripping rhinestones like it’s sweating diamonds.
Across her chest: badges. Real ones.
“Loridonna made these,” she says, patting the sash like she’s collecting merit points for being fine. “I’m obsessed.”
“Lori is a menace with a glue gun,” I say, and it’s not even shade. It’s fact. Lori took an empty box of Famous Amos and turned it into the flyest purse I’ve ever seen in my life. Like, if your childhood had a couture section, it would look like this.
Wynter leans in, holding up a tube of lipstick, pouting at her own reflection. “Can I get a different shade than red? The color scheme is doing the most.”
“I got you.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and grab my lip bag off the toilet seat. “There’s nudes in there. Neutrals. A few ‘I’m not here to play’ shades.”
My phone pings.
August’s contact photo pops up. That same stupid-perfect selfie from our lake dinner a few weeks ago. The kind where his smile looks like it was made for trouble.
Warmth blooms in my chest before I can tell it not to.
Wynter takes the bag from me, rummaging like she’s on a scavenger hunt. “Also, thank you again for the beat. I was not about to pay somebody to have me looking busted. I do not have time to be looking cray, especially tonight.”
“I know,” I say. “My reputation cannot survive that.”
She finds a nude, holds it up approvingly. “If this office career change doesn’t pan out, you could be a makeup artist. Side hustle. Put that talent to work.”
“I’ll add it to my list of ways to avoid sleep,” I deadpan.
My eyes flick to the clock on my phone and my stomach drops.
10:15.
Of course it is.
Wynter had taken over my living room earlier for a “quick” content moment that turned into a full-blown photoshoot. I spent two hours tiptoeing around my own apartment like a guest, terrified I’d sweat out my blowout and ruin the one thing in my life currently behaving.
Doing Wynter’s makeup took forever because she gets fidgety when she’s nervous. Trying to apply eyeliner on her felt like painting on a moving train.
I flip off the bathroom light when I leave. Wynter immediately clicks it back on with an offended sound. “You’re sick.”
“You’ll survive,” I call, already heading into the living room.
Lori stands over a dress form like a scientist with a vendetta, shears in hand, squinting at the last details.
“How’s it coming?” I ask.
“Good.” She taps the shears against her lip. “Too good.”
“That doesn’t sound like a problem.”
“It is,” she says with full seriousness, then gestures to the couch. “Mine’s done.”
Lori is Loonette, but make it grown. Red overalls turned into bubblegum-pink high-waisted overall shorts that snatch her waist like they were tailored by God. A white crop top with hand-stitched yellow suns and moons. Bedazzled purple accents. Striped black-and-white leggings. A matching beanie.
She looks like a nostalgic fever dream with a skincare routine.
I glance back at the mannequin and my costume, and my nerves spike. “So… that one is mine?”
Lori circles it once, then makes two sharp cuts like she’s freeing it from captivity.
I gasp. “What are you doing?”
She doesn’t answer. Just unzips the sweater off the mannequin and hands it to me.
That’s when I realize my costume is basically… a sweater.
A slashed, blood-splattered sweater and a hat and a glove.
I hold it up. “Is this all there is?”
“Yes,” Lori says, pleased. “Wynn got the glove. The hat is somewhere. Trust me.”
“Didn’t you just say it was too perfect?” I ask.
“It was.” She points at the sweater. “So I made it worse. Go try it on.”
“Do I need fishnets?”
“You said you had some.”
“I don’t.”
Lori blinks. “Okay. Well. Too late. Go put it on.”
From the kitchen, Wynter calls, “Lori, you can use my bathroom if you need to rinse off. I don’t have to show face until eleven. I just need a few ‘candid’ shots for the ’gram.”
Lori sighs with gratitude. “Bless you. I got glue in places no respectable adhesive should ever venture.”
I retreat to my bedroom, closing the door on the chaos, but Wynter’s playlist still punches through the walls. I strip off my shirt, stare at the sweater in my hands, then at myself in the mirror.
Freddy Krueger… but make it cute.
I slide it over my head carefully, protecting my hair. It falls mid-thigh. Slashed neckline that can slip off one shoulder if I want it to. Fake blood splatter that looks disturbingly realistic. Strategic gashes. Cozy fabric. Evil energy.
I pull on Wynter’s vegan leather thigh-high boots and stand.
Okay.
It’s giving “nightmare,” but also… “come here.”
My phone buzzes from the nightstand.
A: I can’t help but wonder what you’re dressing up as tonight.
My mouth curves before I can stop it.
Me: Wouldn’t you like to know? ??
A: A hint would be nice. A sneak peek. Come on, give a dog a bone here.
I should ignore him. I should stay focused. I should be a serious graduate student with a bedtime and boundaries.
Instead, I adjust the neckline until it slips off one shoulder and stare at my reflection like it’s a dare.
Lori did her thing.
I look good.
Like… eat-me-with-a-spoon good.
I take a quick full-body picture in the mirror, enough to tease without giving him everything. Then I switch back to the thread.
Me: Let’s just say it’s something that might give you nightmares. In a good way.
Me: And what exactly do you mean by “worth my while”? ??
A: Nightmares, huh? Sexy vampire? Sultry witch? You know exactly what I mean. ??
Me: Not even close, Mr. CEO. You’ll have to do better than that.
I hesitate, then send him the photo.
Me: 1-2-3…
The second it leaves my phone, my whole body goes hot, like I just volunteered as tribute.
His response comes fast: wide-eyed emojis, then a pained one.
I laugh and type.
Me: What’s wrong?
Before he replies, my phone rings.
August.
I answer like I’ve been waiting for it. “Hello?”
“You really like torturing me, don’t you?” His voice is low, rough, the kind that makes my brain go blank and my body go honest.
I drop onto the edge of my bed. “What do you mean?”
“I haven’t seen you in days,” he says, and there’s frustration there, restrained but real. “And after I ask you for a simple selfie like a hundred times, you send me this. The sexiest Freddy Krueger costume I’ve ever seen in my life.”
My smile is immediate and stupid. “Is that a good thing?”
“Woman.” He drags it out like a warning and a prayer.
I laugh, covering my mouth with my hand like that will help. “For the record, Lori made this.”
“I don’t care if the devil himself stitched it.” His voice drops. “I’m going to be dreaming about fucking you in those boots and that sweater.”
A sharp heat curls low in my belly. “Who dreams about fucking someone in a slashed Christmas sweater?”
“When you’re wearing it, I do.” He exhales like he’s trying to behave and failing. “I never thought Freddy Krueger could be sexy. I stand corrected. Jesus, Harlee.”
I can hear him shifting on the other end, like he’s pacing or gripping something that isn’t me.
“August?” I ask, half-laughing. “You still there?”
“Yep.” His voice is tight. “Just looking at your picture again. My God.”
“Okay, stop,” I say, even though I don’t mean it. “You’re going to make me change.”
“Please don’t.” Softer now. Regret threaded in. “I’m just sorry I can’t see you in person. Maldito infierno… you look so fucking delicious.”
The Spanish slides into the line like he couldn’t help it. Like the emotion pushed it out.
My chest tightens. “I miss you,” I admit, and it comes out quieter than I expect. “I’m bummed you’re still in Toronto. I would’ve loved to see you tonight.”
“I would’ve loved to have you under me tonight,” he says, and then he catches himself, reins it in, like he’s always aware of the weight of his wanting. “I’d give anything to be there.”
I swallow, shifting my grip on the phone. “So… where are we going again?” he asks, and I know he’s changing lanes on purpose, giving me air.
“Lucid,” I say. “Wynter’s hosting. VIP. Cameras. Unlimited bottle service. She might perform. It’s… a lot.”
“And how are you getting there?”
“The club sent a car for arrival,” I say, because Wynter is nothing if not booked and busy. “They’re basically treating her like she owns the building.”
“Good.” August’s tone eases, protective creeping in. “Then let me have Jackson pick you up after. End of the night. So you can leave whenever you want.”
My heart tugs. “You don’t have to do that.”