Sloan
My costume was an easy one. I’d seen Moonstruck hundreds of times since my mother claimed it brought my father and her together. They had a mutual love for Nicolas Cage. Maybe I was more homesick than I realized having picked this costume for the night. The theme was to come dressed as someone famous, dead or alive, and he was the first one that popped into my head. I missed my family fiercely. Especially my brothers. Fuck being stuck on this cursed island with these motherfucking sins while they leeched us of our life. I take a punishing swig of beer, letting it coat my bitter insides.
I’d lost my fake hand prop sometime after my second drink, the alcohol hitting me hard and fast. My hair swings loose around my head as I sway to the thumping music as my classmates surround me in their equally ridiculous costumes.
I’m pretty sure the two Lady Gaga’s had gotten into a fight earlier, sending a blonde wig flying into the crowd, the same one that Graham was now wearing as he eats a sandwich off in the kitchen. I have no idea how that man stays as fit as he does. My gaze lands on Skye tucked away in the corner daintily leaning herself against the wall.
Fuck, she looks gorgeous. She always does, but there was something especially tempting in seeing her look so disheveled. I take a swig of my room temperature beer to steady my nerves.
It was a crying shame that she was looking so sad and alone, especially given how delectable she looks in her Marilyn Monroe costume, her purple tipped hair pinned up in a tangled mess that gives her a freshly fucked looked that has my cock stirring to life behind my too tight jeans. Damn that 80’s fashion trend. How did dudes deal with this shit back then? Thankfully, the skinny jean era had missed my generation, because this shit was uncomfortable.
I catch Skye looking at me and I raise my red cup at her with a smirk, my chest feeling tight.
Was she inviting me to follow her?
I watch as Skye slinks around the room, holding onto the wall for support. My swaying motion is less enthusiastic now that I’m tracking Skye as she heads off into the billiard room. I feel a surge of adrenaline overtake me, spurring me on to go after her. My foot trips over someone’s sprawled out legs as I check to make sure they’re okay, I see Skye close the door behind her. I see Graham sans wig, dancing with a brunette between him and Garrison. Damn, he moved fast. I blink hard and focus on the pair of legs that had slowed me down.
The girl I tripped over shrugs me off flinging her pointy middle finger at me and nearly gouging my eyeball. I let out an exasperated sigh, shrugging off the interaction. The lights switch from disco to a steady white blinking that slightly blinds me.
I move slowly through the crowd, following Skye’s direction while dodging errant elbows that swing in the air, the strobe lights making them seem almost robotic.
I spot Garrison grinding up against the Lady Gaga that still has her wig on noting the new partner change with a chuckle. My fingers grasp the handle to the billiard room clumsily. I go to open the door, but hear a moan that sounds like Skye, piercing my ears through the song change.Bad Romanceby Halestorm, pulses around me as my heart hammers against my chest.
I peek through the pulled curtains and see Lukas pulling off her halter and exposing Skye’s luscious breasts. I let out a strangled sound at the sight of them, knowing I should look away.
Once again, I’m too slow to get what I want. Even though going after anyone in the state I’m in is a bad idea, I can’t help but feel drawn to Skye’s bubbly energy.
When we played all those games together the night of the Alumni Ball, I couldn’t stop staring at the way she scrunched up her nose every time she hit the buttons, accentuating the cutest little bump that sat in the middle of her bridge.
I wasn’t blind. I saw the way the other guys in the house looked at her. But knowing Lukas, he’d be done with her faster than it takes to sneeze. I feel a frown pulling down at my eyebrows. She deserved better than that. Better than all of us really, considering we were fucking possessed, but I couldn’t find it in me to push away the thought of her being with me.
I rub at my chest, wrenching myself away from looking in at the two of them going at it. I feel the cold sting of jealousy settling in my stomach as I walk towards a group of women who are crooking their fingers at me to join them.
Fuck it. I was going to enjoy myself tonight. Who knows what tomorrow would bring and I certainly wasn’t going to waste a perfectly good buzz.
Graham
This might be the best sandwich I’ve ever made. I bite into the oversized Italian sub, letting the flavors coat my tongue careful not to get this stupid blonde wig in my food.
I’d placed these layers of salami perfectly between thick slices of provolone. It sits surrounded by some oils, seasonings, and the amount of lettuce I used doesn’t overpower the rest of the flavors that envelop my mouth. I’d even added some banana peppers because I needed to use them up before they went bad. For some reason the guys didn’t care for them as much as I did. Their loss.
I take another delicious bite, proud of how I’d finally taught Jan, the deli worker, the exact measurements I wanted for my lunch meats. She’d fought me over the past two years, never wanting to change her slice thickness, but I managed to wear the stubborn woman down.
My phone goes off in my pocket and I swipe it out, fingers dripping with sauce. Whoops.
I press the incoming message from Emmet and see my screen fill with some sort of cooking monstrosity. I watch in horror, my eyeballs glued to my phone as a video of a woman baking places sliced pickles on top of a cheesecake.
“Che Cazzo?” I mumble, mouth full of sandwich. Pickles on a fucking cheesecake?
Fucking Emmet.
I type out a reply threatening to withhold my coveted hot sauce should he continue sending such offensive content. I see the read receipt and smirk with satisfaction. Asshole.
I swallow the last bite down with disgust clawing at me. Pickles on a motherfucking cake! Some people.
I let out a sigh of frustration and clock the snack bowls, noting a few were low. I make a mental note to fill them up later.
My second dinner of the evening did nothing to quell this insatiable need inside of me, leaving me feeling just as empty as before I ate anything. My fingers drip with grease while juices drip down my chin, staining my Elvis costume leaving evidence of my Gluttony. Shame threatens to settle around my heart where it usually resides, but I shove it away. Not tonight. I was tired of being controlled by this thing inside of me. Tonight, was for me.