This year my costume consisted of a Crystal Lake Camp Counselor T-shirt, jeans, boots, and a hockey mask. I left the hockey mask in the car when I stopped by my parents’ house. My mother accused me of being a Halloween bah humbug—whatever that was—but my dad and Amy laughed when they saw me.
“You were so the one who got killed having sex,” Amy said between snorts.
“Probably. I’d like to think I’d have outsmarted the killer and lived.” Standing taller, I rolled my shoulders.
“TC, not likely. One hot female counselor in those short shorts and you’d be a goner. Remember, we’ve known you since puberty.”
I think my older sister called me a slut. “Nice, Sis. Remember, I know stuff too. Like the time you were on the band trip to Olympia.”
Amy’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare mention that in front of my kids. That was a long time ago, a lifetime ago.”
Apparently the slut genes ran in our family. “No worries. I’ll wait until they’re out of high school.”
She scowled at me.
“Cool uncle, remember?”
“Thomas Clifford!”
What was with these women and using my middle name?
“Why is your sister using your middle name?” Dad asked. He was dressed as the Grim Reaper with a smiley face mask. He said it made it less scary for the little kids, but in my opinion, it was creepier.
“Nothing. We were reminiscing about Halloweens past.”
“Ah, good stuff. Like the time you and John got caught TP-ing the Methodist church in Langley?”
Vandalizing a church with toilet paper hadn’t been the smartest decision. Worse was doing it on a busy intersection. Teen boys were not the smartest creatures in the kingdom.
“Well, on that note, I’m going to the Rod & Gun.”
“Have fun,” Mom said, patting my shoulder. “Lori said she and Nick were going, too. She doesn’t have many weeks left before the baby and wanted a night out.”
I wondered if they’d be dragging Idaho with them. I hadn’t seen her much around at work other than passing in the lunchroom and parking lot.
When I got to the club, a few cars were already parked on the gravel drive leading to the main road. Pulling around to the kitchen entrance, I found a spot next to the dumpster. The tune of Monster Mash carried out from the open kitchen door and I smiled. Some things never changed. I lowered my hockey mask and prepared for some fun. A couple of tipsy women tumbled out of the door and screamed when they saw me standing by the dumpster. I lifted my mask to apologize.
“Donnely!” the blonde dressed as a German beer garden girl hugged me with so much force we nearly fell over.
I knew her. I’d slept with her. I ran through a list of names.
“Debra, how you doing? I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She giggled and her friend held her hands to her chest like she was trying to control her heart rate. “Funny, Tom. Standing out here in the dark, waiting to scare innocent women.”
“Innocent?” I grinned at her.
Both drunk girls laughed. “Oh, you know us so well.” Hands curled around my biceps.
“Maybe we should ditch this party and go somewhere more private,” tipsy girl number two suggested.
“Sounds like a lot of fun, but I promised my friends I’d meet up with them inside.”
Pouting lips and exaggerated sighs responded.
“Boo,” Debra said.
“You know where to find us,” drunk friend chimed in.
I had no idea where to find them, but their offer flattered me. I lowered my mask and lurched at them, sending them into another wave of screeches and giggles. Sometimes falling into bed with a woman, or in this case, women, was too easy. And a little boring.
Inside, a stuffed walrus head hanging above the popcorn machine leered down at partiers with an expression of surprised contempt. If I were a walrus and ended up guarding a popcorn machine for eternity, I’d be pissed off, too.
I scanned the room while waiting in line for the bar. People in various costumes stood around or danced on the small dance floor under a single, sad disco ball. Upon first glance, I couldn’t tell if I knew any of them until my eyes rested on John’s bearded face above the crowd. Bastard wore a red and black plaid shirt and a knit cap. Was there an axe over his shoulder?
“Hey, lumberjack!” I shouted over the music. He turned his head and flipped me the bird before excusing himself from the conversation.
“Hey, Donnely.”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“I recognized the mask. You’ve had that stupid thing since middle school when you wore it to the Clyde and scared the shit out of Mrs. Erickson. Didn’t she punch you in the face?”
I lifted the mask. “Yeah. I still have the scar on my eyebrow.” I pointed to a narrow line of clear-cut at the end of my left brow.
John laughed and shook his head.
“Where’s Diane?”
He craned his neck and studied the room. “Over there, by the elk that Pops shot.”
A lot of taxidermy decorated the Rod & Gun. A polar bear of questionable lineage stood in the corner behind John, glaring at a spot up and to the left. Salmon and other fish swam frozen on various walls. This was where dead animals came to live on forever.
I followed his finger. Diane, dressed as a sexy girl lumberjack, or a lumber-jill, stood next to a tall, all-black ninja.
I laughed. “I’m not going to be able to resist all the wood euphemisms tonight. I’m warning you now.”
John frowned at me and grumbled.
“Dude, you wear matching costumes, you’re going to get shit.”
“I know, you don’t have to say it.”
I held my tongue. He and I both knew Diane owned him.
“Who’s the ninja?”
“One of Lori’s friends. Your sister and Nick are the baker and bun in the oven.”
I groaned. “That’s got to be the most ridiculous costume ever.”
“Yeah. Poor Nick. I’m pretty cool in comparison.”
“You’re mocking your own profession. Not sure how cool that is. Are you wearing ladies’ underwear to at least make it funny?”
John punched my arm. “No.”
I ordered a pitcher of IPA and we wove our way through the crowd to Diane and the gang. With a sympathetic smile, I handed Nick a glass.
“Don’t start, Tom.”
“Nah, it’s too pitiful, dude. Drink up.” I clinked my glass against his.
Lori and the ninja stood off to the side. I couldn’t see her face, but ninja girl looked familiar. By the way she waved her arms around, their conversation was heated.
“Hey, Tom Cat. No cat costume?” Diane teased.
“Har har. I’m a scary serial killer. Watch out.” I lowered my mask again and snuck behind ninja girl to scare Lori.
They continued their conversation and I caught pieces over the music about “don’t let him get away with that” and “you deserve better.” Girl stuff. No way did I want to get caught in girl and relationship drama.
I was halfway in a turn to sneak away when Lori squealed in surprise and ninja girl spun around. Her fist made contact with the side of my face. I didn’t see it coming because of the shitty vision in the mask.
“Oh, fuck.” I whipped the mask off my face and rubbed my cheekbone.
“Ouch!” Ninja shook out her hand and wiggled her fingers while Lori shot a dirty look at me.
“Tom?” they both asked at the same time.
“Who punches someone in a mask at a Halloween party? That hurt!” I held my glass to my cheek. At least the skin wasn’t broken, but there was going to be a mark.
“I’m so sorry.” Ninja pulled off her hood.
“Fucking Idaho? I should have known. You always hit like a boy. Your talents were wasted on volleyball. You should’ve been a boxer.”
Laughter from the rest of the group pissed me off. “What are you laughing at?” I attempted to cross my arms, but with
the beer I ended up dropping the mask. When I went to pick it up, I slammed my head into something hard. “Fuck.”
“Shit,” Idaho cursed when she stood up and rubbed her head. Something about her soft, raspy voice and the cursing combined to be extremely sexy, and aggravating.
Lori held the sides of her oven costume and laughed. “You two really need to avoid each other before someone breaks a tooth or loses an eye.”
“Shut it, Lori.” I didn’t know whether to rub my head or my cheekbone.
“Oh come on, I’m teasing.” She pouted and I swear her eyes teared up.
“Don’t cry, crazy, pregnant woman. No crying on Halloween.” I hugged her with one arm and spun us so she stood between me and the death ninja. “Idaho, try not to hit the pregnant woman.”
She stuck her tongue out at me and pulled her hood down again. “I apologized. You have a hard head, by the way.”
“You don’t even know,” Lori said.
Conversation resumed and I nursed my injuries with another beer. A guy dressed as a football player sidled up to Idaho and put his arm around her shoulders. She shrugged him off, but let him hold her hand. The fiancé?
He faced me and I realized he was dressed as a zombie football player from Beetlejuice. Then it hit me. Growing up with three sisters and one TV between the four of us, I had been forced to watch a lot of chick movies and TV shows.
“I love my dead gay son,” I quoted Heathers. I mean, come on. Dead football player? That had to be his costume.
“What?” he asked.
“I love my dead gay son,” I repeated.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He stepped closer and tried to appear taller than me, but I had at least a couple of inches on him.
“Hey, man, just quoting the movie Heathers. You know. From the ’90s? It’s a famous line.” I didn’t back down, but my tone told him he was an asshole for making this a thing.
“Oh, right. Okay, I get it.” He slapped my shoulder like we were buds. Who was this guy?
“Everything okay over here?” Idaho asked, a worried expression on her face as she glanced between the two of us. She didn’t know me well enough to be worried about me starting shit. Okay, maybe that wasn’t true given she had been friends with my sister forever, but whatever she heard had been greatly exaggerated. Lover, not a fighter. Runner, not a confronter.
“Nothing.” I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “Simple misunderstanding about costumes.”
“Don’t worry, baby. We’re cool.”
Baby? Babe was one thing, but baby? For a grown woman? Who was taller than he was barefoot? Again, who was this guy? I mean, the baby answered the question, but my brain had a hard time wrapping my head around them as a thing.
Huge bank account or huge dick.
I guess my poker face had left the building because Lori poked me in the side. “Kurt, this is my brother, Tom.”
I choked on my beer. “Kurt?” He had to be fucking pulling my leg he didn’t know Heathers. He had dressed as the very character at the center of the line I quoted. That was hysterical. I laughed, or started to, but when he didn’t say anything or break his blank, boring expression, I realized he had no idea. None. Oh, irony, thy name is Kurt. I stuck out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
After an overly firm handshake from him, I wiped the sweat from his palm on my jeans.
“Always nice to meet another Donnely.”
What was I missing? Before I busted a few brain cells over Kurt dressed as dead Kurt, a pair of freckled arms encircled my waist and squeezed. Red hair bounced around the side of my arm.
Ashley.
I didn’t know she’d be here, but things were looking up.
She had dressed herself as a cat and wore a smug smirk on her pretty face. “You like?” She twirled around and showed me her tail.
Ashley came dressed as a ginger cat. Or a piece of tail. Either had my cheeks hurting from grinning. Unlike No Clue Kurt, Ashley owned who she was. I poked the painted nose on her face and pretended to scratch her stomach. She in turn purred and nuzzled against me. I was half a second away from licking her face when I realized we had an audience.
“Wow, Tom, who knew you were into the furry scene,” Diane commented, attempting to hold in her laughter.
“Furry? What the hell is a furry?”
“You know, people who get off on pretending they’re animals and dressing up in giant fuzzy costumes.”
John snorted next to her.
I reflexively stepped away from Ashley. “No way, man.”
“Weirdos,” Kurt muttered under his breath.
Now he was pissing me off. Who was he to judge me or Ashley for having some fun? Fuck him.
I rubbed my nose against hers and kissed her, long and deep; deep enough I bent her back to go deeper. The kissing lasted long enough to prove my point. Her eyes were wide as saucers and her expression was not unlike the deer head mounted by the dance floor: surprised and delighted.
I ignored Kurt, but instead faced Diane and John.
Idaho whispered, “Don’t forget to spay and neuter your animals, folks.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Those two needed to let go and loosen up, or get laid.
Ignoring her snark, I declared, “It’s Halloween, people! Let’s do shots!”
Normally, I believed shots were for girls to get drunk enough to do the things they really wanted to do sober but were too “good” to do. Sometimes an occasional shot of whiskey and a beer were exactly what the night called for.
Tonight needed a round for everyone.
Lori spoke up, “Well, none for me, obviously, but I’ll help you carry them.” Her expression told me she wanted to do more than carry a tray of shots.
“What’s up with no sense of humor guy? Is he Idaho’s man? And if so, are you kidding me?” I asked when we were out of ear shot of the group.
“Nice PDA, brother. I thought you might start humping like the Tom Cat you are.”
“Nah, PDA isn’t my thing. But no limp-handed man is going to call me or my friend a weirdo.”
“I think you proved your point.”
“Good.”
“To answer your question, Kurt is Hailey’s,” she emphasized the name, “fiancé.”
“I don’t like him.”
“I’m sure she’ll be very concerned about your opinion.”
“He’s bad news.”
“He’s fine. Big real estate developer, self-made, super smart, and has lots of money. In fact, he’s building a beach house here on Whidbey for her.”
“Maybe he can use some of his money to buy a sense of humor. Or a Netflix subscription. If he has money, what’s she doing working down at the yard?”
“It’s the 21st century, women work.” We moved up a few steps as the line for drinks shifted. “Seriously, why do you care?”
“She’s your best friend. And he’s a douche-nozzle.”
“You don’t know him. He’s ambitious and driven. Unlike some guys.”
I ignored her barb. “I can tell when a guy’s an asshole.”
“Takes one to know one?”
“Exactly.” We reached the bar and I ordered shots. “Have they set the date?”
“No.” She stared down at her round belly.
I lifted my eyebrow in question.
“Hailey’s been stalling.”
No woman ever stalled to have a wedding. Once a ring was on her finger, it was a speedy downhill on the matrimonial roller-coaster.
“It’s all moved really quickly and I think she’s adjusting.” Lori glanced away again.
“You don’t like him either.”
She met my eyes and shrugged. “He’s okay.”
We returned with the shots and passed them out. Raising mine, I made a toast. “To bad choices.”
Lori gave me a side-long glance, but lifted her glass of soda.
“To bad choices,” everyone said and downed their shots. Everyone except Clueless Kurt.
“Scotch is whiskey,” I muttered under my breath.
Idaho shook her head and picked up his shot. “More for me.” She swallowed and a shiver ran through her. “Let’s dance.”
Kurt sat down.
I knew then she’d never marry that loser, even if he was Mr. Successful.
A COUPLE OF weeks later, John and I were three-quarters of the way through our pitcher and a few games of pool into the evening. Once again the Dog House was packed: the two of us, three random guys at the bar, and Olaf. Another wild Thursday night during the dark months on the island.
“Last call. You don’t have to go to your own house, but you can’t stay here,” Olaf announced. The clock said we still had a half-hour until eleven, his typical weeknight closing time.
“What’s up with closing early?” I asked as the three guys put on their jackets.
“My back’s bugging me and y’all are boring. Go home or call one of your booties,” he grumbled and turned off the old neon sign outside.
“I’m heading out,” John said. “Gotta drive up to Anacortes tomorrow morning.”
“We’re not finished with our game.”
He studied the table. “You’ll win.”
The double doors hadn’t stopped swinging when the front door opened again and a cold wind blew into the bar.
“What’d you forget?” I asked, expecting him to be standing there. Instead of John, a windswept Idaho greeted me with a stare. She swept her hair away from her face and growled.
When she walked toward me, I was ninety-percent certain she wanted to slap me. I spread my stance and tensed for the impact. Sadly, she wouldn’t be the first woman to smack me or attempt to. Good thing I was pretty fast at dodging and weaving.
I held her gaze as she got closer. Part of me wanted to close my eyes and turn the other cheek . . . literally. Or back down the hall and hide in the men’s room. Ah, the men’s bathroom. A place no woman dared to go unless absolutely necessary. Urinals freaked them out.
Confessions of a Reformed Tom Cat Page 4
