Chapter Text
Michael wrestled out of his faded, muddy-brown canvas jacket and threw it on the floor. He kicked off his dirty white sneakers so hard, they smacked into the opposite wall. Stomping over to his bed, he face-planted on the mattress and groaned.
That bastard.
First, he looked Michael over, as if to say, "Well, hello there."
Then, he smiled. Not just once, but twice.
At Michael, yes, then privately, to himself.
It was that second smile that really boiled Michael's blood.
Michael felt like the butt of a joke shared between that creep and the girl who'd climbed onto the back of his dirtbike (even his bike looked better than Michael's). Was she his girl? She must be.
Really, who could blame her?
He had the coolest bleach-blond haircut Michael had ever seen. Spiked out wild and free on the top, trailing down to his shoulders, in the back. A killer five o'clock shadow that further emphasized eyes almost as pale as his hair, only blue. A hooked earring dangling from his left ear.
Decked out all in black. Layered coats in both leather and wool because he was simply too freaking awesome to settle for just one. A muscle tee beneath hinting at a lean, muscular body. Black leather pants tailored so tight, he looked like a panther on the prowl. And matching black leather boots, complete with spurs.
Yeah, they were both way out of Michael's league.
But Michael had a plan.
He could get a leather jacket, and an earring.
He already had the bike.
Michael crawled toward his pillow, ready to punch it a few times, really break it in, maybe pretend it was a certain someone's offensively-perfect face. Pass out without so much as taking off his jeans. That was the plan.
Then, he saw it, lying on top of his pillow.
A flattish, rectangular box, wrapped in newspaper.
The tag on the top read, "Michael Emerson. For your eyes only." Messy handwriting, somewhere between printing and cursive, in red ink.
What the hell?
He tore through the paper, and lifted off the white cardboard lid.
Whatever lay at the bottom of the box, it was wrapped up in a sheet of red paper. Michael unfolded the paper and slipped it free.
A flyer.
The typeset words were arranged around a border of hand-drawn skulls. Their font imitated collage or maybe a ransom note. "Summerween in Santa Carla. Masquerade ball, by invitation only. Show this flyer at the door."
An address he thought was somewhere near the boardwalk. But there was a helpful map on the back. The event's date was that very evening. Michael set the flyer aside, and removed the object it had concealed.
A masquerade mask. Glossy black, with a matte, crackled paint job in shades of indigo, molten gold, and rippling blues, like the ocean. It would conceal all but the wearer's chin and mouth.
Bemused, he slipped it on, stretching the black elastic cord on the back, over his tumbled curls. Michael padded very softly into the bathroom he shared with Sam. The door on Sam's side was already closed. Ambient light from the lamp in Michael's room illuminated just enough that he could somewhat see his own reflection.
The metallic hues circling the mask's eye holes made Michael's stormy eyes pop, while the mask, itself, lent him an air of mystery and intrigue.
Not out of their league anymore.
He had no idea how the box had gotten there, or who had left it for him. But none of that mattered. Here was an opportunity to prove his cool. Maybe the timing was entirely coincidental. It's not like that biker and his babe knew where he lived. Or his name, for that matter.
And why would they invite him anywhere? It seemed like their kind of scene, possibly. But even if they weren't there, he could make some kind of impression on whoever was. Snag someone else, just as attractive (if that were possible). And if he ever did run into them again, he'd have a wicked story to tell about the end of the night.