SWNOVELS Carving for Cara: Chapter 3
“It’s over here!” Sloan shouts from across my bedroom. She plucks one of my monster erotica novels off my nightstand, allowing the pages to spread, revealing my lighter as they slip open. “You hid it inside one of your monster smut books,” she laughs, snatching it from between the pages, then waves it through the air.
I keep a few lighters stashed in my room to create the moody fall ambiance I so desperately crave during the spooky season, but I’ve used them so frequently that they’ve all run dry of lighter fluid. The exception is this one, which, apparently, I thought would make a good bookmark as I was falling asleep last night.
“There’s a double peen in that book,” I admit with a mischievous grin. “You can borrow it when I’m done.” Cocking my head to the side, I shrug, winking as a horrified look crosses Sloan’s face.
She fakes a gag. “I think I’ll pass.”
She’s not into dark romance or monster smut like I am, but I continue to taunt her with the filthy details written within the pages of my favorite books. Half of the time, she turns pale at the gory, unnerving details, and the other half, she simply rolls her eyes, silently praying I’m not as fucked up in the head as I sound.
I am, but I prefer to keep that to myself.
“Do you still have the red lipstick I wore to the Christmas party last year?” Sloan asks as she sits on the ground facing my full length mirror with a big black bag jammed full of makeup. She begins rustling around inside the bag, pulling out her favorite cosmetics one at a time. “I think that shade of red will match my top.”
I nod, crossing the room toward my bathroom to retrieve it for her. “I was thinking about wearing a shimmery pink gloss. It would match my ‘angel’ aesthetic,” I say as I gesture toward my slutty Halloween costume.
I’m dressed in a scandalous white top that covers the same amount of skin a bra would, but according to the description on the packaging, it’s an “angelic crop top.”
Lies.
It’s a cheaply made silky white bra equipped with double padding to make my tits look extra perky. A small set of silver feather wings are attached to my back, doing little to cover the excessive amount of skin I’m showing. My mini skirt matches the bra perfectly, covering my ass just enough to give horny party-goers a little show. Underneath my skirt, I’ve pulled on opaque thigh-high tights complete with diamond rhinestones. My tattoos are still visible through the sheer tights, and I like the way the diamonds shine against my own artwork. Tattooing myself is never easy, but I enjoy the challenge it creates, and at the end of the day, there’s no one within a hundred mile radius I would trust more than myself to inject permanent ink into my skin.
Sloan’s devil costume counters me immaculately. She has the same bra and skirt, but the fabric has been dyed a blood-red color, while her wings are an even deeper shade of red.
“Here,” I say, extending my arm toward Sloan as I hold the red lipstick out for her to take.
She turns and takes it quickly, tossing it into the pile of cosmetics she formed beside her crossed legs. I cringe slightly when I hear the tube clack against the hard mound of plastic. Sloan owns what I estimate to be thousands of dollars worth of makeup, and I own a few statement pieces, but tend to stick to the cheaper stuff. While my collection is small, I’m a lot kinder to mine than Sloan is. She tosses her high-dollar cosmetics around as though they’re easily replaced, and sometimes she forgets that what’s mine isn’t necessarily what’s hers.
I plop myself down onto my black comforter, leaning back on my hands as I patiently wait for Sloan to get ready. Watching her apply a full mask of makeup is like watching an experienced artist create a new masterpiece on a blank canvas. I joke about her shapeshifting abilities, but it’s not really all that far off when I take into account all the contour sticks and highlighter she uses. We sit in silence for a few minutes while I watch the master at work, blending various shades of grey against her eyelids after carving out her favorite facial features.
Breaking our silence when she’s almost done, I gently laugh, reminiscing on our childhood. “Do you remember that one Halloween when we dressed up as witches and glued warts to our faces? We thought we were so badass.”
Sloan bursts out into a loud belly laugh, spraying a line of spit directly onto my mirror. “Yeah, and we wore those horrendous lime green tights under oversized black muumuus. Who let us out of the house like that?”
Throwing my head back, I can’t help but smile as I picture our pre-pubescent era. Sloan and I have been through it all together. Losing our virginities, bad breakups, braces… everything. She’s my ride-or-die. “I’m pretty sure your mom has a picture of it in one of her photo albums.”
“She has a picture of every dumb thing we’ve ever done.” There’s an amused twinkle in Sloan’s eyes; I can see through her reflection in the mirror. “She’d die if she saw what we’re wearing right now.”
Sloan’s mother is one of the most religiously devout Christians of Hallow Grove, spending the majority of her time on her knees praying to a god I’m not sure I follow, but I can’t openly admit that. Not here, at least. I wouldn’t put it past this little town to try to stone me to death for questioning the idea of God. “She’s probably too busy cleansing her house of demons.”
“Mmm, p-probably,” Sloan pops the “p” as she applies my lipstick over her thin lips, taking extra time to crispen the over-lined edges. Changing the subject, she asks, “Do you think we should bring jackets?”
Shaking my head, I say, “And cover up these gloriously slutty costumes? I don’t think so. It’s not supposed to be that cold, and there’s always a big bonfire anyway. We could always stay near it if we need to.” As a final thought, I add, “We just need to make sure we don’t get so drunk we fall in.”
Sloan uses her hands to shove herself off the ground, leaving the pile of cosmetics at her feet as she rises. “Devils like to play with fire,” she jokes, pointing toward her costume.
There’s a smidge of sternness in my voice as I respond, “Drunk Sloan needs to forget about that. You always do stupid shit when you’re drunk, and I really don’t want to pull your burnt corpse out of a bonfire tonight while half the people we went to high school with watch.”
“You’re probably right,” she admits, lowering her eyes to the ground as she goes deep in thought. “But, you do some stupid shit when you’re drunk, too, you know. Last year it was you who jumped into the lake wearing nothing but an oversized white t-shirt and a lime-green thong.”
I open my bedroom door, allowing her to stroll through the doorway ahead of me in the usual overly dramatic Sloan fashion. “If we’re not careful, I’ll do it again,” I chuckle under my breath, following her out the door.
We walk through the house laughing and teasing each other about the poor judgment calls our drunk personas continuously make. Passing by the kitchen on our way out, I decide I need a bit of liquid courage. I veer to the right, turning into the large open space.
“I need a shot,” I announce as Sloan doubles back, entering the kitchen behind me.
“We need a shot,” she promptly corrects me while she begins searching through my liquor stash.
Pulling two small glasses from my cabinet, I place them on the counter in front of me and patiently wait for Sloan to join me with her selection of alcohol.
She turns away from the liquor cart abruptly, holding up a half-empty bottle of tequila.
“No,” I say, shaking my head in disgust while raising my hands. “I can’t do tequila. You know I can’t do tequila.”
Unscrewing the lid at record speed, she flicks it off the top of the bottle with her acrylic fingernail. It hits the black granite counter, spinning in place for a moment before coming to a stop.
“You can,” Sloan raises her eyebrow at me as she begins pouring the clear liquid into our shot glasses. “And you will,” she says as she slides the full glass toward me.
I grasp the glass between my fingers, lifting it to my nose. The pungent scent stings my nostrils, forcing my entire face to scrunch.
Sloan raises the glass to her lips, stopping to make brief eye contact with me before throwing both her head and the shot back, swallowing it all in one gulp. She doesn’t even cringe, giving me false hope for what’s about to slide down my throat.
I can’t pussy out. I’m the hardcore, tattooed friend, and she’s the bougie queen. It would damage my bad-bitch ego to let her show me up with a tequila shot. Slowly bringing the glass to my painted lips, I squeeze my eyes shut as I catapult the liquid to the back of my throat as quickly as I can. It stings as it slides off my tongue, rolling down the back of my throat in sloshy waves. It feels like I’ve swallowed a blender blade, and now it’s ripping through the flesh, coating my throat. Sloan beams at me from across the counter, visibly proud of me for taking her challenge.
“Ahh,” I cringe as I internally crumple into the tiniest wad of paper. “Next time, I’ll pick the liquor.”
“That’s fair,” she laughs as we leave the kitchen, heading toward my newly painted black front door.
As soon as Sloan opens the door, there’s a blast of cold air that fills the house, running between the holes in our mesh tights. Goosebumps rise along nearly every inch of my skin while the hair on the back of my neck seems to rise. Rattling chills slither down my spine, and I catch myself reaching for my coat next to the door.
Sloan’s hand comes down on mine, slapping me away from the warm fabric. “You’re the one that said no jackets,” she reminds me, turning back toward the direction of her car parked outside. “And it’s not that cold.”
Rolling my eyes, I scoff as I step through the doorway and into the chilly breeze. I’m sure to lock the door behind me, gripping and twisting it to double-check it’s secure. There’s a tingle that remains on the back of my neck, and I feel a faint sense of danger.