Undecided(40)

“Cool.”

“Thelma!” someone bellows.

I jump back as a bright blue blur cuts between Max and I, zipping around in a circle before coming back to stand beside us, hands on hips, chest proudly thrust out to reveal the iconic S on his skin-tight suit. It’s Crosbie, clad head to toe in spandex, a red cape hanging down his back. Even in the darkness I can see his clearly defined muscles, and just as quickly as I notice, I chastise myself for noticing.

“Hey, Cros,” Max says dryly.

Crosbie spares him a formal nod. “Maxwell.”

Max rolls his eyes.

Then Crosbie takes my arm. “Let me borrow Thelma for a minute, would you? I need her help with something.”

“I didn’t think Superman had a sidekick,” I say as he drags me through the crowd to the staircase. I grab the banister before he can pull me up. “What’s going on?”

“Kellan told me your friend bailed,” Crosbie explains. He stopped when I stopped, so now he’s one step up, looking down at me. “And he said you wanted to meet somebody. Well, I’m here to help.”

“I’m pretty sure Superman’s skills can be put to better use. Plus, if you didn’t notice, I was talking to someone.”

“You do not want to hook up with Max Folsom,” he says seriously. “Trust me. Now come on.” He reaches around my shoulder to draw me up the stairs.

“How am I going to meet somebody upstairs when the party’s downstairs?” I ask, trailing him down the hall toward his room.

He pulls a single key from a nearly invisible pocket and unlocks his door. “Vantage point.”

I’m not sure what he means until I follow him inside, watching as he goes to the window and shoves it open. Frosty air rolls in, and when Crosbie gestures for me to crawl through, I peer out cautiously. The window opens onto a small eave that overlooks the front lawn. We’re high enough up that someone would have to crane their neck to see us, but from here we can easily spy on everyone who comes and goes.

“See?” he says, tapping my back to indicate I should start moving, which I carefully do, shivering while I put my coat back on. Crosbie follows, and when I hear glass clink I look over to see two bottles of beer have materialized in his hand.

I accept one after he twists off the cap. “Where’d you get this?”

“Personal stash.” It’s the same local craft brew Kellan drinks. I’d never heard of it until I found it in the fridge one day, and while I don’t drink it often, I’d mentioned once that I liked it.

“This is good,” I say. “Kellan buys it.”

“I know.” Crosbie sips his beer and studies the mass of people below us. Like me, his knees are drawn up to his chest for warmth. There’s about a foot of space between us and the cold shingles chill my ass through my jeans.

“Do you come out here a lot?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.

He shakes his head. “No. What for?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.” I scan the crowd. I don’t see Kellan or Max or anyone else I recognize. Not that I’m likely to recognize many people given my determined homebody status. “What was wrong with Max?”

“The Walking Douche?” Crosbie asks, angling an unimpressed look my way. “We call him that even without the zombie getup.”

“He seemed nice.”

“You can do better.” He tips his bottle at a guy dressed as a lumberjack. He’s even carrying a fire log. “How about him?”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. He’s probably getting a degree in forestry. Smart and environmentally friendly—doesn’t get much better than that.”

The guy drops the log and promptly pukes behind one of the tombstones.

“Not him,” I say at the same moment Crosbie says, “Moving right along.” He scans the crowd and points at someone dressed in chef whites. Even from here we can hear him cursing viciously at people in a British accent.

“Seriously?”

“What? It’s Gordon Ramsay. He can cook you breakfast in the morning.”

“After calling me names all night.”

“Some girls are into that.”

I drink my beer. “I’m not.”

Crosbie smirks. “I didn’t think so. Okay—what about him?” I swat his hand when he points to a guy dressed in a long blond wig and red bathing suit, Lifeguard stenciled across the chest, pubes poking out at his crotch.

“Pamela Anderson?”

“Bet he’s good at mouth to mouth.”

“You’re terrible,” I accuse. “I think you brought me out here because you need assistance finding somebody.”

He grins. “I don’t need your help, Nora.”

I think of his abruptly-ending list. “Really? I think you might.” I tap my chin and study the selection. “Let’s see. How about…her?” I point to a pretty brunette in a predictable cat costume. It’s mean, but Crosbie probably prefers things simple.

“Been there,” he replies. “Done that.”

I mock gag. “Fine. What about her?” I point to a cute ballerina, her blond hair twisted into a high bun, pink satin toe shoes laced up her calves.

“Ugh,” he says. “Too much work getting under that tutu.”