by Colin Sims
“Alright look,” I said, holding up my hands in surrender. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just for a couple months.”
“Lemieux is what with Meagan’s dad?” Brian shouted. He was still having a hard time hearing.
Buckner leaned forward and yelled, “He’s working for him!”
Brian wheeled on me with a look of shock. “Dude! Why don’t you jump into a vat of acid while you’re at it?! What’s wrong with you?”
“It’s a great opportunity,” I explained. “There’s a lot of job security in accounts.”
All three paused before recoiling in disgust. Brian spoke first. “I don’t even know what that means!”
“Bro,” Vick shouted in my ear. “You gotta get on top of that situation. Tell Meagan thanks but no thanks.”
I was about to explain it was actually really nice of her to set everything up when my phone vibrated. I took it out and saw that she was calling. Crap, I thought. I can’t answer it here. I’m supposed to be in bed right now.
“Wait, that’s Meagan calling him!” Brian shouted.
“Ask her what she’s wearing!” Vick jumped up and down.
I scowled at both of them and then pushed my way to the balcony. By the time I got there, Meagan had sent a couple texts.
MEAGAN: Why rn’t u answering me??
MEAGAN: 2moro is important!
My thumb automatically went to type a response, but I caught myself. If I responded now then she’d call again and I’d have to answer. Then she’d hear the party and I’d be screwed. My only option was to pretend I was already fast asleep and blissfully unaware of my phone buzzing. Then tomorrow I’d say something like, “You called? Oh, wow. I slept right through it! Yeah, the interview went great!”
Minutes rolled by as I stared blankly at my phone. I felt guilty. Meagan was just being a good girlfriend. She wanted the best for me, she really did. Was there anything I could do? Should I go home? Should I text her when I got there? Yes. That was it. I’d come up with some sort of explanation on the drive back.
I was about to go inside and make my excuses when a voice suddenly chirped, “Hi!” and I looked up.
A cute, tipsy brunette in a short cocktail dress beamed at me and held out a drink. “Your friends said I should give you this,” she giggled, thrusting the glass into my hand. Her eyebrows then curved in sympathy. “I’m so sorry about your girlfriend! You poor thing!”
“What?”
“They told me what happened,” she said with a frown. “It sucks to get cheated on.”
“Cheated on?”
She nodded. “I know the feeling.” Her eyes then glanced over me and she smiled brightly. “It’s her loss, anyway. What you need is to dance with me!”
And just like that I found myself getting dragged back inside.
Now, on a side note, most people believe that astrologers who claim to predict the future are full of it. However, in certain situations, predicting the future is actually quite real and very easy to do. For example, I could predict with total certainty that in five seconds when this girl spun around to start dancing with me, I was going to look like an idiot.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
She whirled around, smiled up at me and I … well, remember that dance ‘The Macarena?’ That’s what I started doing. I don’t know why. It was an old dance. It didn’t fit with the music. It looked ridiculous. And yet there I was: hands on my head, hands on my hips …
I got about halfway through it before she stopped me. “I think you need more to drink!” she shouted.
I looked up and saw Buckner in the kitchen slowly shaking his head. The next thing I knew, the girl was pulling me to a crowded bar at the other end of the room. Before I could object, she shoved a new drink in my hand. It was a shot glass with a strange green liquid in it. I stared a moment, perplexed.
Absinth?
Oh dear.
A few minutes later she was gone, dancing somewhere with her friends, but I didn’t care. I was on top of the bar, standing on my head with a beer tap in my mouth as the crowd counted to fifty. (They only made it to sixteen.) ((I think.))
Then I was bartending. I’m not sure how it started. Someone must have asked me to grab them a drink and the idea caught on. It was only natural. I was the best bartender on the planet. And oddly enough, the more I drank, the better and better and better I got. Before long, I was spinning bottles and tossing them in the air like Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Girls loved it.
I was in the middle of pouring a whiskey behind my back—absolutely none of it missed the glass—when I first saw them. They came in as a trio, and the crowd parted all around them. This was probably an illusion of some sort, but either way, these girls stood out. All three were dressed in a distinctly gothic fashion, with spiked collars, knee-high stomping boots and an assortment of corsets and torn up t-shirts that displayed dangerous amounts of cleavage.
I won’t lie—they were actually kind of scary. Still, I’d never been more attracted to three women in my entire life. They were stunning—easily the hottest girls at this entire party, and that was saying something. And Meagan? Who’s Meagan?
All three were heading toward the bar, and unless I was seeing things, they were looking right at me. I handed off the whiskey, and in a blink, the goth girls were there. Under ordinary circumstances, I would’ve gotten weak in the knees with these three pale beauties staring at me, but like Popeye with spinach, I’d already consumed copious amounts of a certain green wünder drink.
“What can I get you ladies?” I asked, twirling a bottle for effect.
The tallest one, who had several inches on me in those spiked heels, smiled. “Surprise us,” she said.
I made them three Blue Hawaiians.
Honestly, I’m as surprised as you. I still don’t know why I did that, but the ingredients were there and it just sort of happened. Still, if they were disappointed, they didn’t show it. The tall one gave me a smoldering look over her cocktail umbrella as she took a long, slow sip through the straw.
“Hmm.” She licked her lips. “I think you’re in my film class.”
There was no way she was in my film class. If she were, I would’ve noticed. There were only a dozen girls in that lecture hall every week, and she wasn’t one of them. But that hardly mattered. She could’ve told me she was an astronaut and I would’ve gone along with it.
“Yeah, I thought you looked familiar,” I said.
“Your name is François, right? François Lemieux?”
“The one and only.”
She smirked and looked to her two friends. They both smiled at me in a somewhat … weird way. There was a better word to describe it than “weird,” of course, but it wasn’t coming to me. Besides, I didn’t have much time to think. The shortest of the trio, whose steampunk corset made it very difficult to look above her neckline, traced her finger along the bar as she slunk around the side. Her chest pressed against my arm while she ran a hand through my hair. “You look delicious,” she said. Her tone was breathless and awestruck, like she was in a trance. I found it oddly erotic.
“Uh, thanks,” I said. “You, you’re … very pretty.”
Her hand slowly fell to the back of my neck. “I know,” she said, and looked up at me with big, soot-stained eyes. “Have you ever slept with three girls at once before?”
I cleared my throat. There were certain questions in life I never expected to answer, such as, “Would you like to have magical powers?” or “Have you ever slept with three girls at once before?” I wasn’t sure what to say. Obviously the answer—to the second one—was no. Heck, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to. I mean, I wanted to, but … oh wait.
I knew what was going on here.
Buckner, I thought. I scanned the party but didn’t see him. He must have charmed these girls into coming over here to mess with me. He, Brian and Vick were probably hiding behind a pillar somewhere watching and
having a good laugh.
Thus, I figured: Well, my friends, two can play at that game …
“No, but there’s a first time for everything,” I said and raised an eyebrow in what I hoped was a mean impersonation of James Bond.
Corset Girl smiled broadly, while Tall Girl finished her Blue Hawaiian. I noticed that their friend—the one with cherry red pigtails and a nose ring—hadn’t touched her drink. She looked—I don’t know—angry? It was hard to tell.
Tall Girl reached forward and grabbed my collar like she was about to punch me. “You’re coming with us,” she stated.
Once again, I wondered what old 007 would say in such a situation. What I eventually settled on was, “What I do now, I do for Queen and country,” and then let her yank me around the bar. Corset Girl remained glued to my side while Pigtails followed.
A few twists and turns later, we were in a dark bedroom on the top floor. The sounds of the party still thumped through the walls, but it was quiet. I honestly couldn’t believe these girls were taking the act so far. I kept thinking that at any moment, they’d laugh and tell me it was all a joke. I mean, heck, I didn’t even know their names.
Once the door was locked behind us, all three drifted into the darkness. I could barely see with only the moonlight trickling in through the large window to my right. Then there was a spark—and then another and another. They were lighting candles. Which wasn’t that weird, except they were lighting them on the floor, which … yeah was kinda weird. Once they were done, I recognized the shape. They’d drawn a large pentagram in the center of the room. I scratched my head. Weren’t pentagrams some sort of devil worship thing? I mean, I guess these girls were into the goth thing and all, so …
Corset Girl materialized in front of me and I flinched. “Come with me,” she coxed, tugging lightly on my sleeve. She led me to the bed and stopped. “How about we take this off?” Her hands found their way under my shirt and slid up my stomach.
Any second now, I thought. The lights are gonna come on, a camera crew will burst from the closet, and Ashton Kutcher himself will tell me I’m punk’d.
“Let me help you with that,” I said, and lifted the shirt over my head.
Next she was at my belt buckle while I kicked off my shoes. She popped open the clasp with practiced hands and yanked the leather from the loops. Then Tall Girl was at my side. With a single finger, she turned my face to hers and lightly put her lips to mine.
That was surprising. I didn’t expect her to go that far. Clearly, she was very committed to the role.
Her kiss grew in intensity as I felt my jeans sliding down. They were around my ankles when I pulled away. “Wait,” I said. “I, uh, actually do have a girlfrie—”
“Shut. Up.”
Those were the first words Pigtails had said so far. She now stood directly in front of me, looking as cross as ever. I was about to protest when she shoved my chest. I landed on the bed with a pomf, and she pounced on me. Her nose was inches from mine as she declared, “You’re ours,” and then kissed me ravenously. I felt the bed dip slightly as Tall Girl and Corset Girl crawled on either side. Were they pinning my arms? That’s sure what it felt like …
Pigtails slithered down my body, moving from my neck, to my chest, to my stomach. Then she tugged my boxers down and her lips brushed against my … whoa.
It was at this juncture that I realized this might not be a prank.
“Um,” I said. “I think we’ve all got the wrong idea here.”
Her eyes flicked up to mine with a flash of annoyance.
“Just relax,” Corset Girl cooed beside me.
She and Tall Girl then sat up to their full heights and removed their tops. Their knees still pinned my arms, but for a brief second, my immobility was the last thing on my mind. Flickering candlelight revealed that neither wore anything underneath. They both smirked before descending on me with their lips. Tall Girl went to my neck while Corset Girl bit at my chest.
So, when I was ten years old, my dad accidentally ran the family minivan off the road and it tumbled down a ravine. I was in the backseat, and I remember the car flipping end over end for what seemed an eternity. It kept going and I had this odd sensation during the middle of it—like a moment of supreme clarity. I realized, “This is really happening. This is what it’s like to go rolling down a cliff in a car. I wonder how it will turn out?”
I only mention this because I had a very similar sensation when I looked up and noticed the ceiling had a mirror. (Whoever the owner of this house was, he/she knew how to live.) I saw the aerial view of all four of us—three gothic beauties writhing on top of a thoroughly confused college guy. And to be honest, I barely recognized myself. How in the world was I—François Lemieux, a.k.a. The-Guy-Who’s-Never-Done-Anything-Remarkable—actually having a foursome in a Hollywood Hills mansion? It didn’t make any sense. And unlike the car crash when I was ten, things like this DID NOT happen in real life. At least not to someone like me. And if that alone wasn’t enough to raise an alarm bell, then this certainly was: a thin trickle of something black was running down my torso and pooling on the bed. I had to blink to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. Once I did, however, my heart nearly bounced out of my chest.
Was that …?
All three girls seemed to read my mind, and tightened their grip on my limbs. The message was clear: “You’re not going anywhere.” I felt a sudden pinprick on my upper thigh as Pigtails diverted her attention elsewhere. Then I heard it—a faint, wet gulping sound. I saw Tall Girl’s throat working rhythmically. She was drinking.
At that, I closed my eyes, counted to three, and then proceeded to flip the fuck out.
And let me just tell you this: There are two types of flip outs. The first happens when you lose your wallet or discover your car got stolen. The second type occurs when you realize someone is trying to kill you. It’s a whole different ballgame. The adrenaline pumps into your veins, long-forgotten instincts resurface and you discover firsthand where Stan Lee got the idea for The Incredible Hulk.
I wrenched my arms free and kicked my legs savagely, knocking Pigtails to the floor with a grunt. Corset Girl and Tall Girl turned on me with blood dripping down their chins. They both smiled gleefully, revealing long, reddened fangs.
At that moment—one I’m not particularly proud of—I gave an alarmingly high-pitched yelp and twisted to scramble away. Both girls leapt forward, grasping for my arms. I elbowed back at them, but they were strong.
My next move came from pure instinct. I saw a fancy, metallic lamp on the bedside table and grabbed it. When Tall Girl flipped me over to dive back into my neck, I cracked her across the face. It was a good blow, too. Solid. With a nice follow-through. So when she slowly turned back to me, revealing her skin to be little more than a thin mask concealing a gnarled goblin face underneath, I wasn’t nearly as surprised as you might expect.
She quickly tore the rest of her face off, taking some of her left shoulder with it. By this time, Pigtails had jumped back on the bed and let out a monstrous shriek. She too decided her skin was no longer necessary and ripped it off. Gooey, saliva-soaked wings sprouted from her back. Corset Girl stood to do the same.
Clearly, it was time to get crazy. I still had the lamp, so I swung it around like a madman while yanking my pants back up. I managed to scramble backward and put some distance between me and the three … girls? Monsters? I’d figure that out later.
All three were between me and the door, so my only escape was the window. It was closed, but I could fix that. Without thinking, I grabbed a Scandinavian-looking desk chair and hurled it through the glass, shattering it into a million pebbles like that breakaway stuff does in the movies.
The girls lunged for me, but I spun around and kept swinging the lamp. They backed off a few feet, hissing like cats. I then seized my chance.
You see, sometimes in life, you have to take a leap of faith. You don’t know what’s on the other side, you don’t know if you’re going to fall to your d
oom—but you jump anyway.
That being said, a smart person would at least jump feet first and be ready for a tough landing. I, on the other hand, dove out the window like an Olympic swimmer.
The most I can say is that I didn’t fall to my doom. I fell about ten feet into a bush and somersaulted onto a patch of dirt. The impact and accompanying scratch-fest on my bare skin probably hurt, yet I was in no condition to notice. I did, however, thank the gods for the illusionistic design of Hollywood Hills mansions. The “top floor”—where I’d just jumped from—was even with the driveway, putting my car only a short, barefooted sprint away.
Once back on the road, some stray party girls giggled when they saw me. I’m sure they thought I was doing a walk of shame, or perhaps I’d been caught in bed with the wrong woman. There was no time to set the record straight. I simply screamed for them to, “Run! Run! Run!” but that only made them laugh.
A moment later, I was fumbling for my keys outside the Toasted Walnut. Now as you might imagine, it usually takes about 0.5 seconds to get one’s keys out of one’s jeans pocket. Yet in circumstances like these, with three bloodthirsty gargoyles coming after you, it takes roughly six to seven times longer.
“François!” one of them called with a much deeper voice than before. “Get back here!”
I finally unlocked the door and got behind the wheel. (Don’t judge me for still being wasted; these were desperate times.) I pressed the annoyingly unsatisfying “start” button on the dash, and the Prius came to life with a whisper.
Something banged against the windshield and I looked up. A long-clawed and gangly-limbed monster crouched on the hood. It was hard to tell which one was which anymore. My guess was this was Pigtails—but I could’ve been wrong. Either way, she informed me with a newly demonic voice that running was “futile” and that I was a “fool.”