It was goth night at The Skull and Candle and while the place wasn’t crowded singling out a table was a fucking feat and a half. He’d had to scam his way into the one by loudly announcing the presence of a ‘blasted meter maid writing up a storm outside’ and claiming the first abandoned table. Buncha Hosers. So what if it was a bald fib? Serves the wankers right. A, who the fuck drives to the bar and B, the parking police didn’t patrol this late. Duh. Idiots like that deserved a good yank on the chain. Maybe it’d wake the sheep up. Chase curled his hand around the silver goblet filled with some exotic smoking red beverage — the house special of the night — and leaned back into the black velvet plush of the baroque style booth, surveying the room. Bored. Already. The band on stage was mediocre at best but screw it he was here for the scene, everything about this joint from its skull shaped spice shakers to all the classy babes decked out in little black dresses was absolutely on point. Speaking of babes in black, now she was smoking. Eyes stole sideways, stuck on the beauty that’d just waltzed by with a posse of raven haired goddesses of noir and macabre that together still didn’t hold a flame to her. A true Queen of the Dark. Hades have his heart. She was beautiful. The sort of beauty one would sell their soul for. Or give up a hard won table. His heart humming a tune it hadn’t in years, Chase got up and (as if attracted by a force of nature out of his control) followed in her shadow. Stalking wasn’t one of his typical moves — it’s hard to go unseen when you’re this eccentric — but he was urged on by the horror in the thought of never seeing her again. Now that’d be a travesty. “You have a very enchanting smile you know that?” Chase said right to the beauty when she glanced his way, totally shameless regardless of all her friends in earshot. “I’m not sure how I ended up all the way over here, but now that I am I might as well ask for your name.”
It was fast approaching midnight, and the girls still weren’t ready to call it a night.
Half-empty silver goblet in hand—it was either that or the mug shaped like a skull; weird as it was to frequent these kinds of Gothic establishments on the daily, touching anything resembling a skull too often exposed her to this awful thing called uncomfortableness—Vivian listened in amused silence as her friends, girls she’d met in college who shared similar interests, easy enough to get along with and fun to be around, pointed out various men and rated them on a scale of one to ten, making a game of it.
And, judging from the nature of their conversation, if they’d decided to title said game, it’d probably be something along the lines of ‘Who would we not kick out of bed for eating crackers?’
So far, only one man made the cut.
A shame for the rest.
Content to remain on standby in case they needed new input, maybe something a little more original and debatable; amicable disputes kept the friendship alive and kicking, Vivian allowed her gaze to wander, taking casual note of the couples schmoozing it up on the dance floor, swaying to the fast-paced beat of a band that no one would remember come morning; ah, the joys of mediocrity.
“Not bad, huh?” Chelsea, the youngest at twenty-two, whispered, her voice almost too soft to hear over that annoying racket.
“Maybe ...” She flashed an impish grin, amusement coating her tone. “If the lead guitarist could play half as well as he strutted across the stage, they would’ve cleaned house by now.” Hip movements like that ought to be illegal—somebody should protect those poor, unfortunate souls from bleeding eyes. “And don’t even get me started on the drummer ....” She clucked her tongue in mock disappointment, trying hard not to dissolve into laughter when she noticed the way the younger woman wrinkled her nose, not quite in disagreement but getting there.
“At least they’re cute,” Meghan chimed in. As the alleged wild card of every party, she took her duty seriously. “But god—I can’t get over the hair on that one.”
Couldn’t really blame her there—raging Mohawks didn’t deserve a spot in the Gothic hall of fame, let alone on stage, in full view of everyone.
“Hottie alert,” Casey, the last member of their girl band, suddenly piped up, drawing their curious gazes to the approaching male.
Vivian didn’t say anything but she had to agree. There was something almost hypnotic about the way this guy moved. Like a sleek predator on the hunt and quite capable of ensnaring vulnerable prey with but a glance. She wanted to deny it, but, well, she and Casey had similar tastes—even if they knew better than to cross that line.
And then he opened his mouth, and she snorted—pretty unladylike if you asked her, but she just couldn’t help herself. “And I might as well not give it,” she quipped without hesitation. As always, her first instinct was to argue when instant attraction reared its confusing head. “Identity theft is quite prominent in these parts—the thought of another me running around is kind of, maybe, a little too terrifying to process.” But her twitching lips gave her amusement away—even as she struggled to maintain a serious facade.
And her giggling friends didn’t help.
“Can I take a rain check?”