And way freaking awesome.
Even Mario had gotten into the spirit of things and was dressed like a jailbird who’d been dead and decomposing for a few decades. Already imposing in his natural state, there were more than a few faint-of-heart party-goers who had taken one look at him and slipped to the back of the line. They were probably hoping that another stint in the falling snow would get them pumped up for when he scared the shit out of them the second time. It was really quite amusing.
To top it all off, every once in a while the lights would flicker and stall out and there would be a thundering boom—with just enough time lapsing to get a nice roll of murmurs going. Then they flashed back on again like nothing had happened and it was business as usual, confusing them further. It made her smile every single time.
The on-air radio deejays set up near the stage were having a really good time. In front of them and to the left was the Rush’s unofficial table. She’d dubbed it that since they always gravitated there.
The club looked awesome, if she did say so herself.
Speaking of other stuff that was pretty killer, Leslie thought as she brushed her palms down the front of her costume, she was doing all right herself. Oh, okay. She looked frigging fantastic.
Tonight she was a princess; an exposed-shouldered, bosom-enhanced, deep amethyst, embroidered-velvet medieval princess who was ready to take back her crown. And she would, too, in about two hours.
A shrill scream came from the entrance, drawing Leslie’s attention. A group of college-aged girls dressed like characters from Twilight were huddled together, clinging because Mario had scared the daylights out of them. The looks on their faces had her giggling.
That giggle turned into a howl of laughter when Drake Paulson stepped through the door. He was in full costume, from the top of his newly green afro head to his grass green feet. Even his lips were green.
It was the Jolly Green Giant.
Leslie laughed so hard it brought tears to her eyes. That had to be one of the best costumes she’d ever seen. It put all the Storm Troopers and naughty nurses out on the floor to shame.
She was dabbing at the corner of her eye with a section of her huge bell sleeve when Peter stepped inside and she nearly jammed her finger into her eye socket. Damn the man. Why did just seeing him have her mouth turning to sawdust?
He wasn’t even dressed up. Oh no, Peter Kowalskin was too cool for a costume. He dressed like his normal self in a white Pearl Jam T-shirt, faded jeans, leather jacket, and Vans. Just like any other day.
But it wasn’t just any other day and they both knew it when he stopped in front of her, his incredible blue eyes glinting with a whole lot of naughty. “Happy Halloween, princess. Nice costume.”
Leslie slid him a look through her lashes, enjoying the banked heat she could see simmering in his. “Sonny and I found it at a consignment store in Boulder. You like it?” She knew he did. It was written all over his rugged face.
His gaze flicked over her, from the golden crown woven into her hair to her purple suede Michael Kors heels on her feet. Those weren’t so historically accurate, but they were her magic-makers. Every time she wore them something fabulous happened. And, well, they just so happened to match her dress. How about that?
And if he didn’t stop staring at her she was going to start squirming. Not the fun kind, either. “Congratulations on your win today,” she said, hoping to diffuse the tension between them.
Peter hooked his thumbs in the front pocket of his jeans and tipped his chin, smiling when Carl Brexler hollered to him before he turned his attention back to her and answered, “Thanks. It felt good. Still feels good,” he finished with a laugh and a satisfied smile.
“How’s the shoulder?” she inquired as they made their way toward the table with the rest of the Rush players. There was a thick crowd when they neared the table, and Peter slid his hand to rest on her lower back, guiding her through the crush. The heat of his large palm bore into her and had a different kind of heat flaring in her belly. He had no idea how capable and strong his hands were, how completely they possessed when they touched.
It was intoxicating.
They reached the long table just as one of the waitresses, Megan, set down a tray full of shot glasses and a bottle of their finest whiskey. “Congrats on your win, guys,” she said with a wide smile and melted back into the crowd. It looked like the boys were having a good time toasting their success. That was the second bottle already.
Leslie opened her mouth to say something when Peter’s hand slipped from her lower back down to her ass and between her legs. Through the sumptuous fabric his fingers caressed her intimately, his body blocking anyone from seeing.
Her panties were damp in a heartbeat.
Lust slammed into her hard, scrambling her brain and blurring her vision. Suddenly she was feeling nervous, a lot less certain. And suddenly she had a very real concern about making it until midnight.
She threw a slightly panicked look at the wall clock. Ten forty-five. After all, it was still so very far, far away.
Applause erupted suddenly in the large nightclub and echoed off the brick walls, putting a halt to their little intrigue. She felt Peter melt away with relief. A reprieve, thank God. It gave her a few minutes to get her hormones in order.
The radio deejays were holding court near the stage, perfectly distracting her as they announced the night’s costume contest winner. It was Lorelei, the rodeo queen.
Mark burst out laughing and pushed her toward the deejay table. “Way to go, Fonda Peters!” He was laughing so hard Leslie was afraid he might strain something.
His wife tried to scowl but couldn’t hold it together. She started laughing, too, as she sashayed like a model to retrieve her Blues Traveler tickets. Once she took them she spun around and gave a playful curtsy.
“Thank you!” Then she scrambled back over to the Rush’s table, giggling, and shared a secret smile with Mark. Which made it official—Leslie really didn’t want to know what that was all about.
When the brunette stopped next to her, Leslie suggested, “You know, Mark’s not much of a John Popper fan, but I know someone who is. You should think about taking her instead because she’d properly appreciate the event.”
Lorelei arched a brow, green eyes dancing. “Really now? And just who might that be?”
“Hey! Nuh-uh, Leslie. Don’t you go trying to muscle your way in on my date.” Mark draped a muscular arm over his wife’s shoulder and pulled her into his side. “Go get your own.”
Leslie shot him a look, brow raised, and attempted to distract herself by teasing him. “That’s what I was trying to do before you butted your big crooked nose into things, Scooter.” She used his childhood nickname, amused when his nostrils flared.
Lorelei’s head whipped around to her husband. “Scooter?”
Mark leveled a warning glare at Leslie over Lorelei’s head. “It’s nothing.”
He didn’t scare her. It was the opposite, actually. Mark was bigger, but she fought mean. “He earned that prestigious nickname when he was fourteen and we were on a family camping trip. He used some plants to wipe with—”
“Shut it, Leslie,” Mark interjected, voice ripe with embarrassment.
And she just continued, ignoring his threats, “—and found out the hard way what poison ivy looked like. I caught him scooting across the tent trying to scratch his itchy butt at one in the morning like a dog. It was super funny.” She gestured dramatically. “Hence, Scooter.”
The way her brother cringed was priceless. Lorelei started laughing, and he shook his head, muttering, “Calamine lotion is a joke.”