Jon had to admit, he made a killer Dread Pirate Roberts.
He posed in front of the mirror, his plastic rapier smacking his dresser and getting stuck on a pair of black scrubs hanging out of the middle drawer.
“I’m not left handed either,” he said in his best Westley drawl, then tossed the sword up and leapt back when his right hand didn’t do the smooth thing and catch it.
He picked it up and headed out, scratching at his cheek where the mask was rubbing his razor burn. He normally carried a healthy case of scruff, but he decided to go authentic for his costume, giving himself a thin mustache he was going to shave off the second this night ended.
He knew to take everything his mom said in jest; she liked to tease about his lack of game, but in his defense, his main focus since seventeen years old had been his career. Now that he’d “made it,” it was harder and harder to be treated like a normal person. He only interacted with the staff at the office and staff at the hospital. He was either treated like a celebrity or a saint—both of which he definitely wasn’t.
He was pretty indistinguishable as Dr. Bateman, but his Westley was on point. Hopefully tonight he could have a few genuine interactions with his coworkers before they figured out who was under the mask.
The venue the office had bought out for the night was a bit of a drive, considering he was used to being ten minutes away from everything. After five minutes, he ripped his mask off to let his face breathe. He tapped the wheel to the beat of Newsies, a soundtrack he’d downloaded after hearing it in the billing office earlier. A small smile hit his lips. He was hoping to find the Marvel girl tonight. If she enjoyed musicals, they’d at least have something to talk about.
A half hour drive later, he pulled up to a parking garage, grabbed a ticket, and parked in the only spot available—which he found after another ten minutes of driving around the place. Apparently, he was way past fashionably late. Maybe people would be drunk enough to treat him normally.
His stomach grumbled, despite the half a pizza he’d put away. There’d better be food left; he was a bit of a nervous eater.
He tightened his mask and took the long walk to the front door. As soon as he opened it, a spider swung down and smacked into his face. His heart fell straight from his chest, and a curse that would make his sergeant granddad proud dropped from his lips. The front door slammed back in place, and he checked his breathing—and his pants—before attempting to step through it again.
As soon as his pulse had calmed, he dove inside, avoiding the Halloween trick and searching immediately for the treats. Fun, spooky music played in the background, overshadowed by the drunk karaoke that was loud and proud from the corner. The infamous karaoke duet “Summer Nights” was currently being sung by a Dalmatian and a fire hydrant.
His phone vibrated against his sword tucked in its sheath at the waist. Ignoring it, he slid along the wall, careful to look up in case another jump scare awaited him.
Where in the world was the food?
A Walking Groot smacked into his shoulder and muttered a gruff apology.
“No worries, man,” Jon said, fixing his black shirt. The tree turned around, and a large rock plummeted into his stomach.
“Um, I’m a woman.”
Obviously. Heat ran up his neck, and instead of trying to recover, he bolted. Hopefully it was no one in the practice. Or their wife.
He passed through a group of sexy nurses and one of the phlebotomists dressed as a blood bag, ready to find the open bar the memo had promised.
“Oh! Sa Sread Pirates Soberts,” someone sweating beer-scented buckets said on his right. A heavy arm swung over his shoulder, nearly putting him on the floor. “I—hic—saws your princess ‘round heres.”
The corner of Jon’s lip lifted. “I bet you could help me find the bar.”
The bloodshot eyes of his drunk savior—ironically dressed as either Jesus or Obi Wan Kenobi—brightened, and he pointed his beer bottle toward a cobweb-filled archway.
“Bless you,” he joked, then handed the guy off to an equally wasted buddy. Maybe he should’ve come much earlier; he wasn’t having the best of luck so far making friends.
The unmistakable scent of cake ran heavy in the air past the cobwebs. His eyes skated over the costumed party-goers chatting, drinking, and holding promising paper plates, following his nose to the source.
“Hey!” a Dolly Parton look-alike said, clomping up to him in heels he couldn’t imagine any person walking in without breaking an ankle. “My girl was holding out on me.” She stuck her hand out, and though Jon wasn’t quite sure what she was talking about, he took it.
“Hello, Dolly.”
She laughed at his joke, pointing a long painted nail at him. “Cassidy said you weren’t coming.”
He tilted his head. “Who?”
“Cassidy.” She whipped around, her big hair almost smacking him in the face. “You obviously coordinated costumes.”
A dead ringer for Buttercup was over at the potluck table—food!—frowning at the empty platter that had hosted something chocolate. Damn, he’d missed it too.
He let out a laugh and shook his head. “Good to see I’m not the only fan.”
“Wait,” Dolly said, and recognition finally flashed through his head. Dolly worked in the office. “You aren’t Steven?”
“Uh…”
She started babbling, more to herself than him, and he let his mind wander. He was lost anyway.
Ah! She was the billing manager, he was certain. Her name was something with an S, but he couldn’t remember. Maybe his mom was right; he did need to put himself out more.
“Your costume is incredible,” he said, and her eyes lit up behind the heavy makeup.
“Thank ya, darling.’” Her accent was incredible, too. “You too. I don’t even know who’s under there.”
He smirked. “Let’s keep it that way for a bit.” She looked a little too sober for him to suddenly be Dr. Bateman. “I’m gonna raid that table over there. Can I get you something?” Look at him go; his mom would be proud.
She made a face. “Good luck with that.” Then she weaved around him to the karaoke room, a playful bounce in her step. Huh… he really thought he had that one.
A rumble in his stomach didn’t allow him to stew in rejection too long. He headed quickly to the table and had a plate in his hand within seconds.
A wrinkle formed above his nose as he gazed at the pitiful selection of food. When Kami had asked him if he was okay with a potluck for the Halloween party, he’d only been half-paying attention. One of his patients had gone into labor, and he was throwing out, “uh-huhs” to any questions sent his way as he ran out the door.
He picked up a spoon in some red slop that sat untouched next to the paper plates. It glooped off the end, splattering the black sleeve of his costume with the back splash.
The napkins slipped through his fingers as he swiped at the sloppy mess, and he wondered if a dry cleaner would take it. He didn’t dare try to launder it himself. He owned nothing but scrubs, one pair of jeans, black and gray t-shirts, and one suit.
As he crumpled the napkin, his eyes caught a flash of red at the other end of the table. A small laugh flitted from his gut as his eyes went up and down Cassidy, donning a look of disgust at the lack of edible refreshment options.
Her eyes met his briefly before glancing at the bowl of red goop. “I would stay away from the Jell-O.”
He laughed, liking the sound of her voice and the way her mouth twitched in the corner. “Is that what this is?”
“That’s what I was told.” She sidled closer, leaning over just a bit to give the Jell-O the sneer it deserved. “I try everything once but…”
“Who wants to throw up all night?”
She shook her drink. “And I’m not sure it goes with a whiskey sour.”
“Whiskey sour?” A laugh bellowed from his throat, plucking up the courage to tease her. “Are you eighty?”
Her mouth dropped open. “I have a sophisticated palate.” She took a generous gulp… and choked on it. “S-see? So… sm-mooth.”
Okay… he was gonna stick with her tonight if she’d have him.
“I’ll get ya another one,” he offered, chuckling as he dropped his paper plate and gestured to the bar. She lifted a shoulder and followed behind, pulling at her dress. She stopped as soon as she saw him watching.
“So,” she said, her eyes on the strong liquid in her glass, “who are you supposed to be?”
He jerked back, ready to educate her on the movie her costume was from. Who didn’t recognize the Dread Pirate Roberts when they saw him? It was half the reason he was talking to her.
A glint appeared in her eyes. “I’m kidding.”
“Geez,” he said, letting out a relieved breath. “I was worried there for a second.”
She took a small sip of her drink and then slid it over the bar top. There was a nervous edge around her, like she didn’t talk to a lot of people. Boy, could he relate. Before his move to the city, he’d been able to make everybody feel at ease. It seemed he’d left that particular talent at his college dorm.
“This isn’t really your thing, is it?” he asked, taking a bold step. Her eyebrow tilted up, and he held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t bolt like Dolly had.
Her shoulders slumped. “I got yelled at by Groot.”
“You too?”
“You don’t have to make fun of me.”
He put his hand on his heart. “Swear I’m not. She was scary.”
A wide smile spread on her lips. She had a great smile. “Did she tell you not to step on her branches?”
“Just corrected me on her gender.”
She snorted into her whiskey, her brown eyes watering. “What’d you do?”
“I got the hell out of there.”
Her laugh was the cure to his sour night. “Smart move. I sat and took it for a good two minutes. All the brownies were gone by the time I got back here.” She flung her hand toward the table still full of questionable food.
“Let’s pretend they were really bad.”
“Made by some weirdo who didn’t wash their hands.”
“Or used sugar free ingredients.”
“Dessert blasphemy.” She pushed away her drink, and he did the same, preferring to stay sober for the moment. “They were mine.”
“Were they really?” He laughed when she pressed her lips together and gave the cutest shrug. “I’m battin’ a thousand today.”
“I bet your most awkward day wouldn’t beat my least.”
Ah, a game he could win. “I’ll take that bet.”
Her brows rose, and a loose piece of her wig got caught on a passing pirate’s hook. She let out a yip while Jon hurried to free her from it before the pirate ran off with her hair.
“Wait, wait!” he told the guy; he could feel the heat radiating from her face as he untangled her. As soon as the hook was out, he leaned against the bar, amusement dancing in his chest. Cassidy’s nose wrinkled as she adjusted the pins.
“So,” she said. “You were saying you were awkward?”