Eventually, we reach the front of the line, the music’s bass leaking through the closed doors. The bouncer, a tall, frightening man with arms like tree trunks, glances into our purses, his practiced eyes scanning for anything out of place. He checks our IDs, then stamps the backs of our hands quickly. We push inside, immediately swallowed by the club’s energy, only to be pushed into another line for drinks.

It doesn’t take long to get our cocktails, as the club seems to have its most skilled bartenders for the occasion, their hands flying over the mixers with ease as they craft multiple cocktails at once. Soon, we finally find ourselves on the dance floor, drinks in hand and surrounded by a sea of glistening, sweating bodies. The air is thick with perfume and sweat, while a fake fog curls around us like dancing spirits.

The music thunders with a heavy bass, reverberating in my chest as I sip my drink, the cold liquid offering some relief before it floods my veins and warms my insides. My head becomes light and airy, and I almost forget everything wrong in my life.

The dance floor is a chaotic swarm of bodies, and our warmth makes my skin feel tacky as sweat glistens along my body. I sway my hips, a smile creeping across my lips as I let my head fall back, surrendering to the flickering lights that dance behind my closed eyelids.

Suddenly, I sense a presence behind me. I pay no mind, assuming it’s just another dancer until a smooth yet playful voice whispers in my ear. “Are you my Harley Quinn?”

I whip around on my heels, my eyes momentarily struggling to focus on the man above me. He’s dressed as the Joker, his hair spray-painted green, his face painted white, and red paint curls at the corners of his lips in a sinister grin.

“Oh, no,” I respond over the pulsating beats, shaking my head as I lift my bat over my shoulder. “I’m a killer clown. Last-minute costume, I guess.”

That’s a lie. I spent several weeks on my costume, searching for the perfect pieces, but I guess no one understands the picture.

His gaze roams down my body, the club’s flashing lights casting shadows across his chiseled jawline. He’s not a bad-looking guy—not at all, at least from what I can gather beneath the thick layers of his makeup.

“The bat screams ‘Harley,’” he says as he leans in closer, his breath warm against my ear as his hand finds its way to my hip, sending shivers through me.

“I guess I should have gone with a bone saw,” I admit with a breathy laugh, my heart fluttering unexpectedly.

“Want another drink?” He asks, gesturing toward my now-empty glass. I glance over at Rebecca, who’s grinding against a man dressed up as Jason Voorhees, mask and all. I can’t say I blame her.

“Sure,” I nod, and the man gently places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the bar, which surprisingly has a thin crowd. We snag our drinks quickly and linger at the edge of the dance floor, my pulse quickening as I steal glances at the swaying bodies, avoiding the man standing beside me, who’s watching me with a burning intensity.

“What’s your name?” He asks.

“Andie,” I say, smiling at him.

“Andie? Like...Toy Story, Andie?”

I nod. “Short for Andrea.”

He smiles, his teeth a gleaming blue in the blacklight. “Cute.”

“What about you? What’s yours?”

“Jake.” He sits out his hand, so I shake it. “Is that your friend dressed as Little Bo Peep? I saw you two in the crowd. It may sound creepy, but I made it a mission to find you in here,” he admits sheepishly. My stomach swarms with butterflies, and I’m thankful for my makeup hiding the blush on my cheeks.

“Yeah, we’ve been good friends for a few years now.”

“I think she has a mask kink.” he laughs. I chuckle as I notice Jason Voorhees has lifted his mask, and they’re wrestling tongues on the dance floor as if no one even exists.