Eye Candy

Amie looks down at herself, as if she doesn’t understand his concern. She does. Fully. We talked about how he wouldn’t approve of this costume at all before they arrived. Which is the exact reason I suggested she continue to wear it.

I’m not actively trying to interfere in my best friend’s relationship, but I’m not fully convinced he’s the perfect fit for her, either. He’s far too trust - fund - pickle - up - ass. I’m worried she’s settling for the wrong reasons. The last boyfriend she had was a little too far on the wrong side of the law, so I’m concerned she’s swung a bit too much in the other direction to compensate for the near prison record she incurred over it. My hope is that pushing his buttons will help improve what I’m beginning to suspect, based on recent conversations, might be a fairly lackluster sex life. Or, if I’m really lucky, it might make her see that he’s not the best penis to spend the rest of her life riding.

“Doesn’t she look amazing?” I ask with extra enthusiasm.

Armstrong ignores me. “You can’t ever leave the house like that.”

I glance from Armstrong to Amie and then to Bancroft. Seriously? Who says something like that? This isn’t the dark ages.

“We were just playing around. Having some fun.” Amie smoothes her hand self-consciously over her stomach. Her flat stomach. Amie could be a model and until she started dating this goon, she seemed relatively happy with the way she looks, but ever since the ring went on her finger, I’ve noticed she’s far more cautious about what she eats, making flippant comments about staying in shape for the wedding.

“You need to cover up. You can’t wear those shorts in front of Bane.” Armstrong gestures behind him, at my boyfriend, who’s giving me the eye. It’s not the I - want - to - fuck - you eye anymore, now it’s the can - I - murder - him eye.

I’d say yes, but then my best friend would be unhappy and dinner would be ruined.

“My bikini covers less than this,” Amie retorts.

Three heads snap in her direction, mine included. This right here, this is the Amie I know. This is my best friend. The one who won’t put up with other people’s crap. The one who does what she wants, when she wants, regardless of what people think. Even her fiancé. Especially her fiancé. She might feel some regret later, but that’s what I’ve always been here for—to help her manage that. To assist in making her feel less like she needs to atone for having fun. Armstrong is the biggest wet blanket ever. How he and Bane share DNA is a wonder.

When we were in high school I was the one people tended to look at when there was trouble brewing, but Amie was most often the instigator. I just followed along. She’s sweetly beautiful, and it makes her look incredibly innocent, which she is not. She’s always been a bit of a wild one. It’s the reason I nicknamed her Anarchy Amie. To everyone else she’s always been Amalie, prim and proper, sweet and sunny. I know all too well what she’s really like—feisty, fun, and with a love for getting into trouble and a penchant for dating bad boys—at least she was, until she started dating Armstrong and settled right down. The stunts she used to pull in high school were epic, though. Once she spiked the football player’s Gatorade with vodka to get back at the quarterback, who started rumors about her when she refused to go out with him.

“We should have some wine and order dinner!” I suggest brightly, hoping to cut some of the tension. I hold on to Amie’s hips as I slip off the vanity. Armstrong looks scandalized as my boobs brush below hers. Bancroft looks like he wants to spank my ass. Among other things.

“But you’re going to change first, right?” Armstrong asks.

“We need to take some pictures first. The lighting is better in the living room.” I grab my phone and Amie’s hand and flounce past the men, towing her behind me.

“I should really get changed,” Amie mumbles in my ear once we’re past them.

“You went to all this trouble to make us look awesome and you look hot as fuck. We need evidence.” I haven’t even had a chance to look at my own reflection. I pause in the hallway, where a decorative mirror, rimmed in spiders and fake skeleton bones, reflects my terrifying yet starkly pretty face back at me.

I’m not being intentionally egotistical. On a good day, with enough stage makeup, I’m decent to look at. Bancroft seems to think I’m gorgeous with zero makeup. I’m not going to fight him on that assessment since he’s the one looking at me all the time, but I think some of it has to do with my incredible skill set in the bedroom and my ability to hoover his cock.

“Wow. This is amazing. Are you sure you don’t want to switch to a career in stage makeup?” I get up close to my reflection, then take a step or two back. She’s done an unreal job. I hover in the gray area between eerie and beautiful.

Armstrong and Bancroft follow us down the hall to the living room where the bulk of my Halloween decorating has taken place. I’ve made a tape outline of a dead body in the center of the living room floor. A life-sized zombie girl stands disconcertingly in the corner, cobwebs span the windows and over the shelving, where fake potions and containers full of gum eyeballs and candy worms and gummy brains are strategically placed. Bane and Amie are used to it by now, but based on Armstrong’s wide-eyed, distasteful expression, he’s not a huge fan. Whatever.

I make us pose in front of the windows, and then against a wall with two skeletons who look like they have their arms around us. I make a point of draping myself over Amie every chance I get, mostly because it makes Armstrong look like he’s going to have an aneurysm. I can tell Bancroft knows what I’m doing, because he offers to take pictures for us and then suggests poses that are far from PG.

By the time we’re done with our impromptu photo shoot, Armstrong is already done with his first scotch and onto his second, fidgeting anxiously with his tie.

I cross over to the wine fridge and search for a nice bottle of red. There are actually two fridges, one for white so it’s cold and one for red so it’s room temperature, or whatever is ideal. Bancroft knows this better than me. Amie prefers red over white. I don’t really care either way. Actually, I prefer prosecco over anything else, but it’s not her favorite, and based on Armstrong’s pinched, sour face, she needs the booze more than I do. “You know what we should do?”

“Change into real clothes?” Armstrong mutters into his scotch.

“We should throw a Halloween party. Wouldn’t that be fun?” I look first to Amie and then to Bancroft, ignoring the party pooper in the corner.

Bane’s not paying much attention to anything apart from my ass. The skirt I’m wearing is gauzy, and my black shorts are very visible through the transparent fabric.

“That’s a great idea! Where should we host it?” Amie’s enthusiasm matches mine.

“I was thinking here. There’s lots of space.”

That snaps Bancroft out of his ass-induced trance. “What about Francesca?”