TEN
“Did you get the corset?” The phone rests on my shoulder as I listen to Sayo’s naggy little voice. My fingers tap through the page on the screen, Cavanagh U’s logo a bright red crest with swirling loops of white and silver.
She’s going to bitch at me. “I ordered it Tuesday.”
“Autumn! Halloween is next week and we still have to do a dry run.”
“Friend, you are a perfectionist.”
“Because of you we didn’t get to compete in the costume contest last year. Do you really want to ruin our chance at winning?”
Man, has my best friend got the Catholic guilt thing down to an art form. I suspect she’s also somewhat grumpy from our training early this morning. When I tell her that, she accuses me of being the grumpy one since Declan had to miss it in favor of his forced rugby practices. Mullens wanted him training despite his suspension. He’s been so tired he even pushed back our date until after Halloween. But I was not grumpy.
“No one in this town reads great fiction, Sayo, unless it’s got something to do with Ireland or rugby. They won’t get our theme.” I’m not particularly eager to get on with Halloween. I love the series we’re basing our costumes off of—the steampunk “Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences” and their core characters, Agents Wellington Books and Eliza Braun—but my breasts are large, much larger than my friends’ are. A corset will make me look like some exaggerated comic book pin up.
“It’s not just the Ministry. We’re steampunked. It’ll be cool, you’ll see.”
The fitting at the costumers had been embarrassing. The old man at the shop had to tug and pull and bend me in between the brown leather and sharp steel boning and I felt like a sausage busting out of its casing. “But a Braun without a Books? Makes no sense. Unless you’re going as Wellington.”
“Sophia del Morte, dahlink.”
“She’s Italian, not Hungarian.”
“Whatever. Besides, um, Books is handled.” Oh God. She’s up to something. Her voice always gets clipped and shrill when she’s hiding something from me. That was definitely shrillish.
“By whom?”
“Oh, sweetie I’ve got to go. There’s a Library Science class coming in. I’ll call you later.”
“Sayo, I smell a lie.”
“Huh? Of course not, sweetie. See ya.”
Then line goes dead and I replace my office phone on the receiver. Those sneaky little tarts. They are clearly up to something, but then the college’s Admin screen on my computer opens and I forget about what my friends are planning behind my back. I type “Fraser, Declan” in the search box feeling somewhat like a creepy stalker. My door is shut; still, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder to double check. Nope, it’s closed, but just to make myself feel better I stretch over the ancient radiator and pull my wood blinds closed.
I hear the small beep from my computer as the file uploads and Declan’s transcripts immediately fill the screen. That smug jackass has been holding out on me. His GPA is nearly perfect. Other than one semester at his last university, Declan has had a near flawless academic standing.
I click over to his admissions form and see his SAT scores. Wow. 1800s. Then I scroll through his current classes. Huh. He’s a computer science major. When I hear footsteps coming down the hallway, I exit the database and minimize the screen. If Declan can’t control his temper then he’ll be booted off the squad. It gives me some comfort to know that he could likely swing an academic scholarship. Just as the thought enters my mind, I curse myself for being nosy. It’s not my place to worry about Declan. I’m not his mom. Or his girlfriend, so why do I care what happens to him?
Two sharp taps on my door shake against the paper thin frame and I slide my chair over my tiny office to open it, the door swinging out. Tucker stands in my doorway with a bundle of flowers in his hands. Instantly my temper flares. “What do you want, Tucker?”
He walks inside, then steps back when I stand, clearly noticing that there isn’t room for his tall frame in my office. “Okay, I know I deserve the attitude.”
“You think?”
He extends the flowers out to me and I grab them, only to chunk them in the trash. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. Autumn, I am, but you can’t stay pissed at me forever.”
“Watch me.”
“Come on, babe.” My eye twitches at the endearment. He knows I hate being called “babe” by anyone. I’m not a talking pig.
My worn leather chair pinches my thigh when I sit back down. I grab a stack of empty manila folders and sit on them. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t call me that.”
“Sorry. I forgot.” Tucker kneels in front of me, lays his hand on my leg, but I push my chair back, hitting the radiator. His face hardens. “Fine. I won’t touch you.”
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to check on you. Your father was…”
“Tucker, that was a week ago.” I don’t tell Tucker all the things Joe had to say about him during our visit. Warning me away from Tucker is something he’s continued to do in the brief phone conversations we’ve had since that day at my apartment.
“We had away matches, remember, and I didn’t think you’d pick up if I called you.” He scoots closer and despite my anger, I can’t help but enjoy the sandalwood smell he gives off. My knee bumps against the metal desk when I turn away from him to click onto my email. When I wince, Tucker tries to rub my knee. “Careful.”
“I’m clumsy.”
His hand goes to his pocket when I slap it away. “You’ve never been clumsy, Autumn.”
“People change.”
“I see that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask
He grabs my hand and I get an odd sense of déjà vu. I’m reminded instantly of why I want to avoid him. To put him off further, I grab a pen from the holder and drum it against my desk.
“When I saw you in your classroom and your face got all flustered and you were spitting mad, well, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone more beautiful.” His face inches dangerously close to mine.
“Are you crazy?” I say, jumping up. I suppose Tucker didn’t expect my quick reaction, because he jerks back and lands on his butt, knocking his head against the metal trashcan.
“Shit!” he says and I immediately feel guilty. Pulling him up, I touch the back of his head. There is already a small knot forming.
“That was my fault.”
His laugh is low, barely audible. “I’m the fucking clown with the flat balloon.”
My own laughter is instantaneous. It’s just like him to bring me back to the past. As a surprise, when we were first dating, Tucker took me to the circus. I’d never been fond of clowns, they truly freaked me out and reminded me of horror novels and my father for inexplicable and ridiculous reasons—had since I was eight years old. Tucker seemed eager to show me the fun of the circus and how harmless clowns were.
We’d gone in the afternoon and, at first, avoided the clowns, but typical of Tucker, he pulled me into the Big Top to watch the main event. There were lions and elephants being whipped around the Big Top, dirt and dust mingling with the fire rings and the ferocious sound of loud music and the “ohs” and “ahs” of the crowd and then, the clowns emerged. Dozens of them, running through the crowds, dosing everyone with glitter, their horns squeaking.
There was one clown, with orange pants and a polka dotted shirt that was too tight across his round belly. His hair was purple, his make-up poorly brushed onto his face so that it seemed like his wide, fake smile was melting. He was sweaty and clearly new to his job. The clown caught my eye and must have sensed my ridiculous fear. He approached and I kept my face buried in Tucker’s shoulder. The guy kept throwing confetti on me, kept squeaking that damn horn.
When I still wouldn’t pull my face off Tucker’s shoulder, the clown tried balloon animals. He tried and failed miserably. The giraffe he attempted to make looked like some perverse version of a crocodile. His snake looked like a swollen penis and suddenly, I started to laugh. The clown was god-awful and the louder my laughter got, the more nervous he became until, finally, every balloon he attempted to inflate raspberried into a flaccid mess. We left the circus laughing and my unwarranted fear of clowns stayed behind.
Tucker nudges my shoulder and I return his smile, still thinking of the pathetic clown whose first day at the circus hadn’t gone very well. “Not everything was bad with us, was it?”
“No. Not everything.” I help him to his feet and grab a towel from my file cabinet and two small cubes of ice from my mini-fridge. He flops in my chair and I hand him the ice. “But we can’t go back. There’s been too much that’s happened and I really don’t think you’d like who I’ve become.”
“Will you let me find that out for myself?”
Shoulders falling, I sit on my desk next to him. “God, Tucker, I don’t want to date you. I don’t want to date anyone.”
“I never said I wanted to date you.” At my confused expression he laughs. “Okay, I totally want to date you, but since you seem to be opposed to that, do you think we could at least try being friends? We were good friends once.”
We were. I remember that. We were undergrads screaming our heads off at McKinney’s at the New Zealand vs South Africa match. That night I drank him under the table and he told me that I was the perfect woman.
“You wouldn’t be trying to distract me from the bet, would you?”
“Would I do that?”
“You would absolutely do that.”
He reaches for my hand. This time, I don’t jerk away from him. “What about you and Fraser?”
“What about us?”
“You like him. I know you. I can tell you like him.” His eyes take on a small glaze, but I try not to focus on it. He’s trying to make me feel bad.
My hand comes up, away from him and I cross my arms, not willing to let him touch me again. I don’t want him encouraged in the least. “Maybe, but it’s not anything serious.”
The familiar hand-on-the-back-of-the-neck returns and I know Tucker is trying to calm himself. It annoys me that he has to purposefully calm himself.
“Stop,” I say. “We’re getting along. Don’t start with the caveman, jealous ex-boyfriend shit.”
“He’s a punk.”
“And you’re an asshole. Under normal circumstances that would make you two the best of friends.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m honest.”
“I’m serious, though. I want us to be friends again.”
Could I be Tucker’s friend again? I don’t see how. That would lead to other things, to us talking like normal people, to us laughing together. That’s what friends do. But friends don’t punch guys you flirt with just because they don’t like them. Friends don’t also make you feel like an idiot for your opinion, or for the things that you enjoy.
Sophomore year comes to mind. We were playing cards with some of his squadmates and someone mentioned Edgar Allan Poe. Tucker picked a fight with me over “Annabel Lee.” He claimed Lovecraft wrote it. I stared at him for two full minutes, then politely explained that, no, it was Poe.
When he shook his head and looked down at me as though I was an insipid dumbass, I quoted the full poem.
Flustered and clearly embarrassed that I’d proven him wrong, he said “Whatever, Autumn. It’s not like it matters anyway.”
“It matters to me,” I’d said, annoyed that he’d dismiss me so quickly.
“It doesn’t matter to people who count.”
Tucker always had a way of ridiculing everything I did, the books I read, the movies I liked. And, he refused to watch “Doctor Who”. How could I be friends with anyone like that?
When I don’t immediately answer his query about us being friends, Tucker stands up, throws the impromptu ice pack on my desk. “I know that things with us got bad. I know I didn’t always treat you the best and I’ll be honest, I came back hoping that we could give it another shot.” Tucker pulls my hands apart, rubs his thumb over my wrist. “I’m not going to lie to you and tell you I don’t want you when you know I do, but if all you can give me right now is your friendship, then I can wait.”
If I’m not perfectly frank, then he will persist. Tucker is many things: confident, independent, fiercely diligent and above all else, stubborn beyond belief. Letting him believe that I will simply get over being angry with him won’t be enough. Brutal honesty is essential. I straighten my shoulders and force myself to keep my face indifferent.
“You don’t get it, do you? I’m not the same. You left me and I thought I’d die from it. But other things happened to me. More important things. I stopped focusing on you, on what you did because I was trying to heal, from the wreck, from my mother’s death.” I don’t smile when his fingers squeeze against my hand, don’t give him any indication that I’m touched by his sympathy. “You weren’t the most important thing in my life anymore and I realized that was a good thing.” I pull my hand away. “I spent this past year putting myself first, something I never did when we were together.” He starts to argue, but I shake my head. “It was something you never did for me either.”
There is a moment, a brief second where I see all that runs through his mind fracture across his face. He is shocked. His eyelids curve. Then, by the slope of his bottom lip and the paling of his cheeks, I know that what I said has usurped everything he believed was true about our relationship. A small voice whispers against the firmly guarded emotions in my mind. It tells me I’ve hurt him, I have been cruel, but then I close my eyes and ignore the guilt I feel.
“I didn’t know…did you…did you always feel that way?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” This, he speaks in a whisper, as though he can’t wrap his mind around my honest revelation.
“I didn’t know how, not back then.”
The shock leaves Tucker’s face and a new expression captures his features, as though he is seeing me, really seeing me for the first time. I don’t know what to make of that expression. It is new, unfamiliar and a small part of me is glad to see him appreciate this new revelation.
I am caught unexpected by his somber expression. “I’m sorry. I really am. I thought about you so much while I was gone. And when I heard about your mom…God, Autumn, I wanted to see you so badly.” He touches my face and idly I wonder why I am not backing up, why I don’t pull away from him when his touch is so familiar. But then something shifts in my brain and I replace that nostalgia with indifference. “I can’t believe you went through that alone.”
Clearing my throat, I finally take a step back. “I didn’t. I had Ava, my girls.”
He nods, then his shoulders lower and Tucker walks into the corridor. “I spent two years with you, Autumn and before that we were friends. I really hope we can get back to that one day.”
I can’t answer him, don’t want to give him any hope. He never gave me any. I turn around, flop back in my chair as Tucker’s leaves my office.
At its founding, Cavanagh’s earliest settlers brought with them the superstitions of Ireland. Our cemeteries were small because many of the most fiercely traditional townsfolk didn’t believe in burying their dead in America. It was thought that they could not rest, could not find peace, until they lay beneath the cold earth next to their forefathers under Ireland’s breast. I’ve seen many old men and women spitting through triangles made with their thumbs and forefingers when a black cat crosses their path or they walk accidently under a ladder.
During Halloween, or Oíche Shamhna in the old tongue, these superstitions cannot be ignored and many of them are forced upon even the youngest of Cavanagh. It’s why I’m sitting at a table in front of McKinney’s pub, waiting for Layla to choose her slice of fruit bread. If she manages to pick a piece with the gold coin, then our traditions tell us that the next year will be prosperous for Layla. Sayo and Mollie had no luck, but Layla is determined and her fingers hover over the small plate, waggling before she chooses her piece. She picks a slice, crumbles it on her plate then squeals like a second grader drunk on Yoo-Hoos and Gummy Worms.
“Yes! Got it.” Layla dangles the gold coin between her fingers, winking at Mollie when she flips her off. “Don’t be mad. It’s just good luck.”
“Dumb luck, more like,” Mollie says.
Layla’s fortune for the next year seems to be set and I watch the crowd inside through the window buzz with loud, ridiculous laughter and versions of slutty witches, slutty nurses, a few Iron Mans and more slutty variations of comic book and film figures as they float in and out of the pub.
We, at least, don’t look like anyone else tonight.
Sayo wasn’t kidding when she said she wanted to honor her favorite steampunk series. As the beautiful Italian assassin Sophia del Morte, her small chest is wrapped tight in a leather corset with hundreds of small clockwork gears covering the bodice. The corset covers a long, crisp white button up which is tucked into skintight, gray riding pants, set off with gray gloves and a riding cap over a jet black wig. She looks positively perfect. The dark wig enhances her complexion beautifully and she’s even taken on her terrible attempted version of an Italian accent.
When Layla dips her fingers into the crumbs of her fruit bread, small bits fall between her cleavage. She is Chandi Culpepper, a secret villain, from the Ministry’s Research and Design Department. Her corset is paisley and perfectly accentuates her slight chest. She wears a long brown silk skirt, and a gold pocket watch drapes across the corset. Sitting next to her is Mollie, suited up like Charlotte Lawrence, captain of the Protectors in simple black men’s trousers, black corset and bandoliers on her back. Mollie insisted on the Pepperbox revolver, though it was not authentic to the novels. She simply thought the revolver was cool with its clockwork gears and a beautiful rustic patina.
I am decked out as Ministry operative Eliza Braun, New Zealand expat with a penchant for rule breaking and large quantities of whiskey. Braun’s not so different from me, but I generally wouldn’t be caught dead in a brown leather corset, not the way my size Cs are pushed up and my cleavage is visible despite the white button up under the steel-boned leather. I have to admit, though, that I like the pistols holstered in my garters, hidden beneath the long skirt I wear and the cute little half boots.
Eliza makes me walk a little taller, makes my shoulders set a bit straighter. But the way Sayo keeps looking behind me, eyes on the courtyard, has me nervous. All three of my friends, in fact, haven’t acted like themselves tonight and I’m convinced it has something to do with Eliza’s missing partner, Wellington Books. They come as a pair and since none of my friends are sporting a suit, bowler or round rimmed glasses, I have a feeling I will go Wellington-less or the little secret they’ve been harboring for weeks is about to be revealed. They really must think I’m an idiot if they believe I won’t guess who will be sporting the Wellington costume.
When Mollie and Layla join Sayo in mimicking glances, I slap my hand on the tabletop and pull their attention back to me.
“Okay. Enough. What the hell are you hiding?”
Layla pretends to be concentrating on the small remains of her bread, while Mollie takes out her pistol, aims and taps back the hammer, squints down the barrel as though she’s seeking a target. Sayo is the only one who is brave enough to look me in the eye. “What do you mean, Autumn?”
“I know you guys are up to something. You said Books was handled. You never said who. I have ideas, but why don’t you tell me?”
Sayo’s smile is barely contained. She nibbles on her top lip, but her cheeks quiver as though it’s taking all her strength to withhold her laughter. “I never said that was a sure thing, Autumn.”
“Sayo, don’t give me that. I know you.” Again, I slap my hand in front of Mollie and Layla, forcing their attention. “All of you.” When they only offer shy smiles, my hand pounds against the table again. “Spill it.”
Behind me a large shadow blocks out the sunset, shifts over the table and a gruff rumble of a throat being cleared sounds. I don’t have to turn around to see who it is.
“Ahem,” he starts. “Wellington Books, Esquire, at your service. Agent Braun, are you ready for our mission?”
When my supposed friends’ laughter shakes their shoulders, has them giggling like a pack of fourteen year-olds, I close my eyes. Declan clears his throat again and my own shoulders slouch. I’m resigned. I’m betrayed and not in the least surprised by the purported shock, but resigned all the same.
My chair scratches against the pavement below as I back up and stand, coming face to face with a very dapper, mildly impressive Declan Fraser looking every bit the part of Wellington Books. There isn’t the slightest hint of the gruff, tattooed rugby player in front of me. He wears the brown suit very, very well. His glasses are, of course, round and his pocket watch is a beautiful shined brass. He towers above me, smug as usual, but gives me a sweet smile when he bows, tipping his chestnut bowler in greeting. When he straightens up from his bow, his eyes linger, right on my cleavage and instantly the Declan I know peeks out behind the Books mask. His ever-present smirk is lewd, but he doesn’t comment on my ridiculous, obvious breasts and his attention shifts to my friends.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it ladies?” Declan says. Layla and Mollie giggle, ridiculous and Sayo stands, nodding once to Declan. “Well then, we must away. Ne’er-do-wells to contain and all.” He offers me his elbow, but I ignore him.
“Books would never.” I slap his arm down. It would be easy for me to protest. My friends have ideas about me and Declan. They have ideas about me and anyone, but particularly about me getting naked with the Irishman. I could walk away. I could turn around and cradle the warmth of my anger that has held me stable for the past year. But last year I ruined the holiday for them. I can’t do that again. I knew they were planning something, seeking an excuse to get me alone with Declan, despite my constant declarations that I wasn’t interested. Instead of letting my anger lead me back home alone, I stand, take hold of my pistol and cock back the hammer. “Jolly good then,” I say, channeling Eliza Braun. “Let’s be off.”
Eleven p.m. and Fubar’s is already ridiculous. And, clearly, the theme of this night for many of Cavanagh’s female co-ed population is “look as whorish as possible.” There are various expected costumes: sexy nurse, sexy cop lady, sexy nun, sexy Red Riding Hood. Halloween is, apparently, simply an excuse for inhibitions to fly out of the window and for the close embrace of the most decadent, inappropriate fantasies. The men aren’t much better. There are about ten Obama’s, five Bush’s and I see at least two couples dressed as Marilyn and JFK. There are a few originals; several Wolverines, many Tony Starks, Captain Americas, one Thor who I swore was Sayo’s fella Sam, which she assured me it wasn’t. “The Avengers” clearly left its mark on our little town.
But as my friends and I navigate the crowd, I get an instant thrill. No one knows who we are, exactly. Many stop and stare, a few offer wide, approving smiles and others openly gawk as though they are trying to figure us out.
We find a table and after Layla and Mollie convince Declan that we didn’t really eat any of the fruit bread and therefore didn’t break his stringent diet, they head to the bar to get our drinks.
When Sayo and I are alone, I immediately grill her.
“How did you get him to do this? Has he even read the books?”
She moves her shoulders, as if to say ‘I have my ways,’ but she knows I won’t buy that. “He hadn’t, but he has now. Loves the series.”
I find this impossible. “But he’s all…dudeish. You couldn’t have known he’d like it.”
My best friend scoots her chair closer to me, trying to be heard over the loud thump of the music and the constant noise of the crowd. “Last weekend when you worked on your thesis instead of coming to the library?” I nod. “Declan walked past my ‘Silence in the Library’ sign and chuckled—he got the “Doctor Who” reference immediately. Then when he took off his jacket he was wearing an Ironman shirt.”
“So?”
“A vintage Ironman shirt, not one of those reprints they started selling after the movies were released, but an honest to God threadbare, vintage shirt. He’s in the Geek Tribe. I have a feeling.”
I laugh. “No way. He’s too much of a jock for that, Sayo. There’s no way he’s in the Tribe.” She gives me an annoyed frown, but doesn’t respond until we both catch him heading our way with Mollie and Layla yammering behind him.
“He looks great though, right?”
“Hmm.” I can’t disagree with her. Declan is taller than most of the people here and his wide shoulders and bright green eyes clearly make him stand out.
“You’re staring,” my best friends says, but I find it impossible to ignore him or to respond to her accusation. “Not mad at me, are you?” I shake my head and ignore her high laugh.
“So, Tucker’s here,” Layla announces, handing Sayo her drink.
My attention is instantly directed to Declan as he takes the seat next to me and hands me my Scotch. “Promise me you won’t fight tonight,” I say. When he squints, angry, I grab his hand, let my thumb rub over his knuckles. “Please?”
For a moment he doesn’t answer. He simply takes my hand and brushes his mouth against my ear. “If you promise to wear that corset for me again.”
My smile is wide, and I try to ignore the quick tremble in my stomach at his request. For a second, I don’t remember that I’m trying to push him away, that I know his attentions, even his presence here tonight is likely an attempt to change my mind. He did say he doesn’t give up easily and the longer I stare at him, the darker his eyes become, the easier my barriers are reduced. I can’t seem to help myself. “Oh, sweetie, what’s underneath the corset is infinitely better.”
My friends hear that, and there is laughter around our table. Layla chokes on her drink and I feel Sayo’s hard nudge against my shoulder, but I ignore them, focus my attention on my Mr. Books whose smile could now be construed as absolutely filthy.
Declan’s eyes lower over my chest and he begins to speak, but we are interrupted by a girl with devil horns and a red pleather mini skirt and bodice. “Hey guys, are you participating in the costume contest?”
“Of course,” Sayo answers.
The girl scans the table and gets our names from Mollie. “Okay, so you guys are steampunked.”
“We’re from The Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences,” Sayo offers, but the Devil Girl ignores her.
“And you two,” she says, pointing her clipboard at Declan and I. I begin to answer, but she smiles wide. “Oh, don’t tell me! A steampunk Harry and Ginny. Oh my God, that is adorable.” My ginger hair, Declan’s black, round glasses, yeah, I can see that.
“Wait. No,” Sayo says, but the girl turns around, scribbling something down on her papers. “Shit, no. We can’t have that.” And Sayo trails off after her leaving the rest of us laughing.
“Heads up, Autumn,” Mollie says, and nods to my left.
I don’t turn, but do shift my eyes to the side and notice Tucker staring at us from against the bar. He holds a shot in one hand and a beer in another and I pray he doesn’t approach, that he becomes so drunk that he forgets I’m here. I feel Declan tense next to me and my hand covers his knee, drawing his attention. The lights overhead lower and the music slows and to distill any brimming drama, I squeeze Declan’s knee.
“Dance with me, Books,” I say, catching the surprise on his face.
“Alright then.”
He leads me to the dance floor and we are jostled among dozens of slow moving couples. He’s arranged us as far away from the bar as possible, and I relax against him, let him hold my waist tight. My cheek against his chest, I inhale and the clean scent of his body makes the knots in my stomach tighten.
“Have you changed your mind?” he says and I can feel the vibration of his deep voice in his chest.
“About what?” I stare at him, curious.
“That thing you said you weren’t looking for anymore.”
“Why? Because I’m being nice to you?”
Declan pushes my hair off my shoulders. I wore it in waves tonight and he doesn’t seem to be able to stop running his fingers through the ends. “It’s not usual and the last time I saw you, you were spitting mad because you lost a bet.”
Smug bastard. “I lost that bet because you’re a cheater.”
His smile is unabashedly wide. “You still lost. And you still didn’t answer my question.” Declan brushes my bangs off my forehead and I release a long breath.
“I haven’t changed my mind.” I return my face to his chest. “It’s Halloween and I’m here with my friends.” I glance up at him again. “And you.” He laughs. I add, “I’d just like a drama free night.”
He considers me for a moment. “This doesn’t count as our date, you know.”
“It should. We’re here together. We’re dancing way too close.”
“I haven’t kissed you.”
And despite myself, I smile, eager to flirt. I touch his bottom lip. “Well. The night’s not over, is it?”
When Tucker bumps into us, Declan’s body tenses again, but I pull his face down to mine, let my fingers rub across his cheek. “He’s not worth it.”
Tucker dances with the same girl Declan was all over a couple of weeks ago. The scrawny blonde. His hands are everywhere on her, chests touching, and his fingers dig into her ass. Glancing at them, I notice the barely-there costume she wears. I suppose she’s going for some sort of hula dancer look, complete with a coconut bra too small for her large chest and a vibrant flower lei around her neck. But her grass skirt barely covers the curve of her ass and bright pink bikini bottoms peek out between the brown grass. She dons an abundance of too tanned, umpa lumpa skin and a silver belly ring and she doesn’t seem to mind that Tucker’s fingers have slid beneath the hook at the back of her bra. Tucker catches my eye, gives me a wink before he turns his attention to the blonde’s skinny neck. Disgusted, I nod toward the table and Declan follows me. By the time I reach my friends, Tucker has abandoned the girl.
“Who’s the girl Tucker’s pawing on?” Mollie asks.
“Heather Matthews,” Declan says. “I have Biology with her.”
“Funny,” Layla says, her mouth quirked up on one side “I’d have thought it was Chemistry considering the way you were grinding on her a couple of weeks ago.”
Declan’s mouth drops open, surprised, but he doesn’t respond to her ribbing.
“He was trying to make Autumn jealous,” Mollie says.
Sayo takes a sip of her Cosmo. “Must have worked, right?”
When we laugh, Declan inches close to me. “Are they always like this?”
“This is them well behaved, I’m afraid.”
Layla’s eyes drift over my head and her humor vanishes. “Tucker’s not even original.” She jerks her chin up and we turn toward the bar where he is surrounded by a few of his squad mates and a collection of sorority girls. “Look at him. I mean, come on. A toga?”
“He hates Halloween,” I say, remembering the two years in a row that I didn’t join my friends for the holiday. I close my eyes at my own stupidity.
I can feel Declan’s eyes on me and when I stare around the table, I know my friends are remembering how different I was when Tucker was my boyfriend. The tension is thick and made thicker when Tucker passes our table, his over the shoulder glance, a drunken glare at Declan. But the Irishman doesn’t bother to return the expression. He offers me a small grin and then talks to us about training. Several minutes pass by, then a full hour, and our table is cluttered with empty glasses and bottles.
Clearly buzzed, and slumped fully on the table, Layla catches my eye, then stares at Declan, whose arm rests on the back of my chair. “So, Declan, why don’t you have any friends?”
“I…what?” he says, sitting up straight.
“Layla, stop being a bitch,” Sayo says.
“I’m not. I just don’t ever see him with any guys.”
I don’t like the expression on his face or how he’s pulled his arm away from me. “He and Donovan are friends,” I say.
Declan’s cheeks curve up, the movement making his eyes squint. “How’d you know that?”
“He’s the one who covered for you the night your groped me.” Declan winces and I expect my girls to mention it, but they hold back.
“He was going to come, until I told him Autumn would be here,” he tells Layla.
“What?” Why would Donovan not like me? Aside from his nodding off in class the last two times I taught it, I haven’t had any opportunity to be a bitch to him.
Declan lifts his pint to his lips. “You gave him a 75 on his last paper. I think he may well be scared of you.”
My friends laugh at me, but I can only manage to stare at Declan, at his obvious humor. “She has that effect on some people,” Mollie says.
“Nah, she’s not scary.” Declan offers, rubbing his hand against my leg under the table. “Intimidating, but not scary.”
“You think I’m intimidating?” Everyone laughs. “What?”
“Autumn, do I need to remind you of last Halloween?” Sayo says and immediately, I give my friends a death stare. I really don’t want Declan knowing what an insane woman I was last year.
“What happened last Halloween?” he asks.
When Layla stretches forward, likely a full confession on her buzzed lips, I throw a balled up napkin in her face. “Nothing happened. We didn’t dress up.”
Declan smiles, scanning my face for a few seconds, but doesn’t pry. Instead, he picks up his pint, finishes it off and returns his free hand to my leg. I hear my friends chatting around me, but my attention is focused on Declan, on his large hand running up my thigh, skimming along my knee. He pulls back my skirt and when he feels for my garter, his eyes darken and I get an immense amount of pleasure in the shady expression he gives me, as though he had no idea what secrets lay hidden under all that silk. I like that look, though I know I shouldn’t and don’t immediately stop him when his fingers run under the garter. But the moment is lost as Heather stands next to him, moves against his shoulder. Declan’s hand disappears from my leg.
“Hi Declan,” Heather says. Her voice is slurred, her eyes red-rimmed.
“Heather. Alright then?” he asks, his tone light.
“Yeah. I’m good.” She slips her hand on his shoulder and Declan straightens up as he tries to dislodge Heather from him. “You on your own tonight?” I blink, look around the table, see how we all clearly are a team and laugh.
“No,” he says, giving her a gentle push back. “I’m here with Autumn and her friends.”
Ignoring us, Heather crosses her arms, her eyes rolling up as though she’s too drunk to keep them still. Her eyes flick to his hat, the small glasses and squints her eyes at his pocket watch. “So what are you supposed to be?”
Declan smiles wide, clearly excited to explain our costumes to someone.
“Agents and villains of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. A department of her Majesty, Queen Victoria’s guard. We handle the cases that baffle and amaze, stump and confuse; the peculiar, the unexplainable, the surreal.”
Heather blinks, as though she’s sorting something out in her tiny little mind. “Wow, Declan.” She laughs at him, loud enough to draw attention. “I had no idea you were such a geek.”
We don’t echo her laughter and by the curl of his fist and the slight twitch working in the muscles of his face, I get the feeling Declan isn’t amused either. A quick glance at my friends and I know we are all thinking the same thing. Ours has always been a relationship that included near obsession and adoration for the things we love. All of us have been teased at some point in the past for having geekish type hobbies, for reading too much, obsessing too much, but I doubt Declan can appreciate why Heather’s killed our good humor.
Geeks might be in at the moment, taking over the Net and pop culture, but it still stings a little to be called that by someone who isn’t in the Tribe. I begin to say something, to tell Heather to go back to letting Tucker grope her, but Declan’s face hardens further when he notices our down cast eyes and his gaze narrows at the scrawny blonde.
“Why’s that funny?” he asks her. “Me having a laugh? Me showing up here dressed like this? You think that makes me addled somehow?” When she opens her mouth to speak, he shakes his head. “I really don’t give a shite what you think. I like what I like and I won’t apologize for it.” He stands, his voice stern, his huge form towering over Heather.
“I have a Green Lantern #76 I bought when I was fourteen. It’s in mint condition and should I wanna sell it, which I don’t, I could get some nice bank.” He puts his hands in his pockets and with each word he speaks, his tone becomes clearer, his voice louder. “I like science and space and think it’s a fecking shame that dragons aren’t real and should Martin so much as think of killing Arya, we should collectively riot.” Heather steps back, her eyes wide and a small group has collected around our table. Declan seems unaffected by the attention. “I threw my book across the room when Snape killed Dumbledore and I watched “Doctor Who” with my mum when she was sick and dying and couldn’t do more than lay around, and I haven’t stopped yet, and I won’t, because life is such a shite bowl why wouldn’t I want to disappear into the Tardis or read about folk kicking arse or tamping down the shite doers with just bits of their brain and their own cleverness? That’s what? Bad to you, is it? Then I feel sorry for you, Heather. I do. Because having your nose down over a phone or behind a screen is fine sometimes, but it’s nothing to running away to worlds you can’t even fathom with your small little mind.”
He takes a breath to look at each of us. The noise around us has quieted as people listen and we offer Declan smiles of encouragement. “Everyone talks about the zombie apocalypse, but we’re in it. People spend hours a day hovering over their fecking phones and screens like God himself is breathing all His secrets to them through those damn things and then they forget to say ‘hullo,’ or ‘cheers’ to their mates sitting with them at the same table.” Behind Heather, I see several people nodding their heads, but Declan is on a roll, determined, it seems, to put the girl in her place. “So here’s me, big rugby lad whose put down players twice my size on the pitch, having a laugh, dressed like I am because I think steampunk is fecking cool and my mates here do as well and them dressed in corsets and leather and buckles and brass is a sight more hot to me than you in your bit of nothing costume with your nipples hanging out for every amadan in this place to see.
“Call me what you want, but I’m not fussed at you saying I’m odd, calling me,” Declan looks at me, “a geek, is it?” I nod. “It doesn’t bother me, because what I like, I like and when I like something—” again his attention returns to me. He isn’t smiling. His expression, in fact, is quite serious and I instantly feel the knots returning to my stomach. The harder he stares at me, gazes over me, the more my skin feels electrified, like each glance he gives me sets my flesh on fire. “—I like it with everything in me and I have bollocks enough to admit it.” After a breath and a small smile I believe he reserves solely for me, he returns his attention back to Heather. “And why can’t I be a geek, be odd and also be a right bastard when I’m on the pitch? Which I am, in case you’re wondering. Besides, it’s not about what I like, it’s how I like it that counts.”
The small congregation of club goers clap as though Declan had recited a slightly buzzed, seemingly less monumental version of the St. Crispin’s Day speech. I can only stare at him as guys slap him on the back, as girls give him wide, wanting grins. Heather, it seems, is affected as well. She doesn’t smile, but her eyes are lowered over his body, at Declan’s commanding presence. She looks like she wants to eat him alive.
Layla distracts me from my observation, reaches across the table to grab my hand. “Oh my God, Autumn. If you don’t marry him, I will.”