Page 92 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

Despite his goat mask, I can see Luke’s annoyed expression clear as day. The masks are fused to our skin to conceal our usual features, but somehow, it’s still us. Like physical social-media filters plastered to our faces. “Remember, they can smell us. They know we’re here.”

“So we’re screwed?”

“Not yet.” Luke takes my drink and plate of hors d’oeuvres, depositing both on the bar. “We need to get closer to the crowd so they confuse our scents. They won’t attack at random and make a scene unless they’re completely sure. How good are you at dancing?”

“My experience starts and ends with the cupid shuffle.”

He’s already grabbing my hand to lead me to the dance floor. “I don’t know what that is, so follow my lead.”

He loops an arm around my waist, tugging me close to him. Keeping our hands joined, we begin some kind of waltz that definitely isn’t normal. It’s faster and has me clinging to Luke to keep up, though I steer clear of his injured shoulder. I should have changed the bandages before we entered, or at the very least checked it, but he didn’t want to take the time.

“Is it working?” I whisper against his ear. My lips brush his lobe and I’m pleased at his sharp intake of breath.

“I think so.” He guides us across the floor. Despite how unusual the tune and the press of couples around us are, we don’t run into anyone. “All the masks aren’t helping them.”

“Good,” I say, just in time for Luke to release me. I twirl out, unable to contain my laughter. Even though I didn’t drink anything, the adrenaline thrumming within is just as intoxicating. I stumble into Luke as he tugs me back to him.

“Who put that chest there?” My fingers press against his stomach as I steady myself. His abs flex in response.

He rolls his eyes, the fond sheen unmistakable. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“I’ll add it to my résumé.”

Despite the lighthearted joke, his expression dims. “Brie, please promise me something.”

I don’t like where this is going.

His hand tightens around my waist, pulling me closer. “Whatever happens tonight, you will make it home. You know where the van is and where I stashed the keys. You know where Santa Monica Pier is. If everything goes to shit, promise me you’ll leave. Even if I can’t come with you.”

The music pounds around us in a dizzying spree that makes me feel like I’m on a merry-go-round. I want to get off, but I can’t.

“No,” I tell Luke simply. “I’m not going to ditch you here. You wouldn’t do that to me.”

“You’re different,” he says, equal parts frustration and exasperation.

I tilt my chin up so I can stare right into his eyes. “Am I?”

“Yes!” The word is dragged out of him by invisible hands. He lowers his voice. “I’m asking as someone who cares about you.”

I want to say something witty, but every clever word shrivels up on my tongue, replaced with a breathless “Why?”

“Why?” Disbelief crosses his face, visible even through the muted contortions of the mask. “Because you’re sly and stunning, and I can’t stomach the thought of you getting snuffed out. And, yes, maybe you use humor to cope a little too often, but that’s only because you are so strong you refuse to break. You’re fierce and fearless to a fault, and I want to explore every inch of you, inside and out. So don’t insult me and ask why I’m so intent on making sure you make it out alive. Not when you make me feel—”

He breaks off, gazing at me with an intensity so electric it feels like I stuck my finger into a 170-volt socket. The current between us is inescapable, a lightning bolt destined to strike.

“I make you feel what?” The question escapes me, desperate and daring.

Awe shines on his face as he tucks a curl behind my ear that escaped my half updo. “That’s it. You make me feel.”

His eyes flutter shut and he swallows, like he’s steeling himself. Between our proximity and the music and his confession, I can’t think straight enough to decipher why.

“I haven’t felt like this since—since before, or maybe ever.” He reopens his eyes and they’re pleading, like he needs me to understand something. “There’s a reason for that. I know I should have told you sooner, but—”

He’s cut off by the music crashing to an end and the lights going out. He presses me to his chest protectively as squeals and screams fill the air, though it’s impossible to tell if they’re born of mirth or murder. It only lasts a handful of moments before a single spotlight shoots through the lobby like a laser, illuminating an individual descending from the ceiling in a hoop.

More spotlights click on as a slower, sensual musical number starts. Each highlights a woman dangling in the air using black aerial silks. They wear scarlet skintight outfits and move in perfect synchronicity. Oohs and aahs rise around us, everyone watching the aerial artists swing languidly overhead.

I want to grab every single silk and yank them all down; to tell the musicians to shut it so I can make Luke finish what he was about to tell me. But like everyone else, his attention is captured by the aerial artists as they spin and flip and tumble through the air. They move as a perfect unit, their hair gliding with them.