2. Brendon

2

brENDON

I stare down lazily at the highlight reel of the Argentina vs. Colombia game playing on my phone. Something is up with Saxon, and I have no idea what it is. It started earlier this week when suddenly she didn't want to do our annual Halloween Scream marathon— a tradition we've kept up every year since the adults in the neighborhood decided we were too old to still be trick or treating.

Seriously, even the year I had the stomach flu, Saxon rubbed my back as I gagged over a bucket while Ghostface terrorized Sydney all over Woodsboro. When she told me it was because she wanted to check out a haunted house but didn't want to invite me because I'm ‘not a fan of real-life jump scares', I was offended. I mean really, a man pees his pants on a haunted hayride one time in the fifth grade and he has to live with that shame forever? So, I did what I do best. I wormed my way into her plans anyway. Saxon isn't getting rid of me that easily.

"Weren't you just yelling at me to hurry up? I've been standing here for twenty-seven minutes, and you haven't even blinked," Saxon's dry, Daria like voice cracks me out of the Messi-induced trance I had been in just a moment ago. She's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed against her chest and one ankle tucked behind the other.

Even with the heel of her Docs, she's like a tiny little witch. I know if I went and stood next to her, I could easily rest my arm on the top of her head. I let my eyes peruse her, taking my sweet time from her patent black boots, up her legs that encased in a pair of tempting black fishnets. Some dudes lose it for a girl in a sundress. Not me. Give me an emo girl— no, give me this emo girl, Saxon— in fishnets, and I'm ready to risk it all.

The low riding hem of her white and black dress with the v-cut top shows off a perfectly enticing peek of cleavage. Her lips are painted a blood red color, the same color as the red accent on her eyeliner. It stands out stark against her pale skin, accentuating the delicate slope of her face. Her onyx hair is pin straight, with bejeweled accessories holding it away from her face.

In short, she's a total fucking smoke show.

Saxon is so my type, it's not even funny. Even in her teaching clothes, when she's less ‘goth girl with a 401k' and more ‘Wednesday Addams cosplaying Miss Frizzle', she's everything my dreams are made of. Since the first time I saw her in a bikini back in high school (black, of course, a perfect contrast to her soft skin), Saxon James has been the object of my every dirty desire.

But she is my best friend first and foremost, and I am so not the kind of guy who is friends with a woman only to get in her pants. Saxon is the most important person in my life, right up there with my family, so as much as I've fantasized about wrapping that silky black hair around my fist and watching her throat work as she smears that red lipstick all over my dick, I could never go there .

Not unless I knew for a fact that she wanted me the same way, and I'm certain she wouldn't. It's not like we've spent a lot of time discussing sexual preferences, but I see the kinds of people she dates. Gothy, pale looking men and women, the skinny type that look like they like to be bossed around, told what to do. Not big guys who like to throw their partners around, rough them up, hold them down and fuck them until they scream.

She doesn't even realize that the haunted house she's taking me tonight doubles as an adults-only kink club. Behind the walls of zombies and creepy circuses, there's an underground scene of people looking to explore their deepest fantasies under the cover of darkness.

That's the real reason I insisted on going with her tonight. God forbid the bouncer slip her the wrong admission bracelet and she finds herself in the throes of anything she's not expecting.

As much as I've stroked myself off to the thought of it, I don't know that Saxon would submit to me the way I'd want her to, and I'm not willing to risk a lifelong friendship with my favorite person over a fantasy and sexual incompatibility.

"Damn, bunny rabbit," I wolf whistle as I stand. I spin my finger in a circle, and Saxon does a reluctant little twirl.

Jesus. Fuck. Those fishnets have those sexy ass lines up the backs of her legs. I inwardly groan, attempting to stifle down inappropriate lust that starts to course through me.

"You are so…wait for it… saxxy ," I smile, breaking my own tension with a dumb joke. There's nothing wrong with a little flirting, and I am nothing if not a flirt with my girl. Predictably, she rolls her dark brown eyes at me.

"You're a freaking dweeb, Brendon," she says as she yanks her black quilted bag off the hanger by the door.

"Yes, but I am your freaking dweeb, Sax," I say as I pull up the cotton mask I have around my neck over my mouth. It's a lame attempt at a costume, but the creepy, scarecrow-like mouth on the front gives me a demon farmer look, which is good enough for a guy in his late twenties on Halloween.

She looks back at me, giving me a once over before turning towards the door and checking her bag for her keys.

"It's Halloween, bunny. What good would I be next to my little emo bestie without a creepy mask?" I say as I crowd in behind her, leaning across to turn the knob of the front door. My chest gently collides with her upper back, and I could swear I hear a hitch in her breath. A tiny gasp at the contact, though I'm sure I'm making it up. I've gotten myself all worked up over the holiday and the kink and the goddamn seam on the back of her stockings. My head is fuzzy. Thank all the gods that we're walking tonight. The crisp air will do me and my overactive imagination some good.

Outside, we stroll slowly down the dimly lit street, dodging kids dressed up as superheroes and goblins swinging pillowcases full of sugar. On the corner, we pass a group of teenagers slyly passing what could be a cigarette but is likely a joint between four of them before tucking into a path through the woods that will lead us right out to the edge of the McMann's farm— a neighboring property to my family's— where the pop-up haunted house is located.

"I hate to think that my perfect little seven year olds will one day grow up to be bratty teenagers smoking weed and smashing pumpkins instead of begging for candy on Halloween," Saxon says as she shivers. She's been teaching for six years, so even her oldest former students are only around twelve years old. She hasn't had to see her any of her little kidlets turn into fully defiant teenagers just yet.

Saxon shivers again, and this time I realize it's from the cold and not just the thought of her students growing up to be delinquents like we once were. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and tuck her into my side in attempt to keep her warm, but she goes a little stiff. It's nearly imperceptible, I only notice because I know her so well.

"You okay, Sax?" I ask as I squeeze a little tighter around her shoulders.

"Yep," she says in a clipped tone. "Just ready to get this night going."

"Alright, then." I say, not quite convinced. Like I said, I have no idea what is going on with my best friend, but as we pass into the clearing and the sight of fog and strobe lights mixes with the sounds of low, creepy music and deep screams, I'm determined to make her forget her troubles and enjoy her favorite night of the year.