“So, you want a fairy tale, right?”
“Not so much, I just want something real.”
Date = 31 October
Place = San Francisco (Reaper venue)
POV – Damion
I think I fucked up again.
How is it that I could swirl on two wheels at over 220 miles an hour around a track, but I can’t scrape together enough courage to speak to the one person who means the most to me?
“We’re very proud of you, son,” Dad says. Mom just smiles.
“Thanks. I love you guys to bits.”
“Right back at you, champ.” My father winks at me and leads his wife to their table. They’re sitting with Uncle John, Dean, and some other high-and-mighties that in one way or another, form part of our team.
I throw back the cloak of my grim reaper suit, feeling the material scrape against my bruised back, and sit down at my assigned spot at our table, next to Ilkay, all dressed up in bloody scrubs as a mad doctor.
“Hey, dude,” Axel, a werewolf, opposite me says, “Nice body paint.” I look down at my exposed torso, professionally painted along with my face, to look like a skeleton, up to where it disappears into some black cargo pants, rounded off with high-top leather boots, black with silver buckles.
Another skeleton face walks up – Sean. Tall and lean and blond, with dark eyes grinning, looking like what I know is my almost mirror image tonight. The only difference between my and my teammate’s costumes are the color of our cloaks – black versus Monster green.
Next to him is a girl dressed as a green alien, which, I guess, is his plus-one for the night. I didn’t bring one – my plus-one was already invited. The couple find their seats, with his friends and family, at the table next to ours.
“Grimm,” he shouts, “Mark says he’s gonna start the announcements.” It’s still early, but our team manager is excited to brag about the great season the Monster Reapers are having. A comeback from last year’s disaster where we ended fifth on the roster, with Sean taking second place and me not even on the charts.
But we are back at the top.
I scan the room. Logan, an evil wizard, is talking to Cat-woman in a dark corner. One of the zombie twins, not sure which, is getting something from the bar. Moving along I find what I’m looking for walking down the stairs.
Melaena Blackburn – the one source of trouble I never manage to avoid.
My heart gives a double beat, kickstarting it into a rhythm that could circulate blood through all my organs and back in a millisecond flat. Too bad the blood is flooding into a single organ – down south – where it gets stuck. That would explain why my head is buzzing. It can clearly be attributed to a loss of control on my part.
With each step down her short drop-dead black dress, with white lace trimmings and little red roses around the hem, slides upwards, just enough to be enticing, making my mouth drool for more. Coincidentally, her sugar-skull girl theme fits in perfectly with my Grim Reaper.
At the bottom of the stairs, those wet-dream legs, cladded in net stockings and laced into knee-high black boots, makes their way to our table, bad attitude spilling from her with every swing of her lush hips and mouthwatering ass. I’m so fucking fucked.
As she comes near, our eyes lock and I can see the blush on her cheeks, even under the light white dusting of makeup covering her face. The black circles painted around her eyes make them pop with brilliant effectiveness that affects my brain cells, turning them to mooch, and like a greenhorn imbecile, I give her a goofy smile as she plops down onto the chair on my right. My doing. I made sure to put her name next to mine.
“I like your costume,” Kiara says as she settles on her chair. She’s dressed as a witch. Mel’s eyes do a quick scan over my bare chest before she bites down on her bottom black lip with a stitched-in smile that curves up to the middle of her cheeks.
“Has anyone seen Jackson?” a zombie with blood-red eyes asks while putting a bottle of Johnnie Blue on the table. Derived from the question, this walking-dead must be Enrique. The twins, for some or other fucked-up reason, decided to dress up as identical zombies, complete with contact lenses to cover the only definite distinction between them – their eyes.
“Last I saw him he was heading upstairs with a sexy she-devil,” Logan joins us, taking his chair.
“Guess he will be a while then,” Ilkay chucks.
“Or not,” Axel contradicts, “It’s Jackson.” The brothers laugh and nod at that. Cause it’s true. We all shoot with the fuck-and-run concept, but while the rest of us at least do it in a civilized caring manner, Jackson does not – he’s never civilized, and he sure as fuck doesn’t care.
A server saunters up, hips swinging, with a tray of peach champagne. She walks around the table and hands each one a glass. When she comes to me she pulls out a Sharpie from somewhere between her tits and holds it up.
“Can you sign my apron?” She bends over and flashes me with her babies right up my face. Like all the other waitresses tonight, she’s wearing a skimpy black-and-white maid outfit.
I indulgently take the pen. She points to the top of her white apron where it fits snugly over her cleavage. I open the Sharpie with my mouth, the lid between my lips.
“Gmf,” Mel snorts and almost downs her champagne, and I figure, just then, that I’m off to a bad start. But not everything that happens with the female species is my fault. It just happens.
I grab the bottom part of her very short apron and drape it over the table. This causes her to stand up straight. I squiggle my signature, put back the lid, and hand her back her pen. Chuffed she struts away and I let out the breath I was holding.
Not two minutes later two more servers sidle up to me, both with markers ready.
“Can you sign my boob?” One asks and Mel chokes in her champagne.
“I’m sorry, I’m not signing anything else tonight,” I say more harshly than intended.
Disappointed they leave.
“You’re supposed to use them, not scare them away,” Enrique says with a smirk. Though, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, because these days you’re as pink as Dean.” Naturally, the boys noticed my sudden lack of sexual encounters. But there’s no need to discuss it with them. How do I tell them I get off every night in the shower thinking about their little sister? Yeah, that’s not a conversation I’m planning to have … ever.
“Enrique,” I grunt.
“Yeah, bro?”
“Shut the fuck up.” And for once he listens and answers me by lifting his glass. I take a sip of champagne and peek a look to my right. She’s turned her back to me, quietly chatting with Kiara, too soft for me to hear. Her hair is hanging loose, soft curls down her back, with a crown of red roses on the top of her head.
“Oh, darling, you look so hot with all those painted muscles.” Chloe grabs me from the side around my neck, forcing my eyes away from the object of my hardon, and I’m immediately pissed off.
She’s melted into a nurse’s uniform, much too tight and much too short, with a red lace bra struggling to hold her oversized tits in place. I push her away.
Kiara rolls her eyes so hard that they come close to falling onto the table.
Ren stands behind Mel’s chair, dressed as a bloody murderous clown. Her eyes are big and filled with fear, locked onto me as if asking for help.
I wonder if the stupid freak knows that the girl is terrified of clowns. Or is this some kind of sick joke of his? I winch as she suddenly grabs my leg in a painful grip under the table, way too high to be appropriate for the company we’re in, but lower than I would have liked. I put my hand over hers and she immediately relaxes her grip.