One More Hour

It’s his ninth cigarette of the night, and Gabe Saporta is still yet to meet someone even sufficiently worthy of his attention. He perches on the edge of a brick wall outside the partying household, staring into the pavement and wondering why the hell he even thought it was a good idea to come in the first place. Suddenly Beckett’s seductive words of ‘there’ll be hot girls’ ain’t sounding so convincing.

Drawing in another lungful of smoke, he glances back at the open doorway. William’s there right now, thrusting his hips into girl and boy alike as they cross the threshold of his ‘Chronically Epic Halloween Hoedown: ’09 Edition’ as he’d so modestly put it in the circulating text message. “How-deee!” he hollers drunkenly as yet another collection of mildly famous actors and rock stars begin to tread their way up his footpath. He’s dressed in exceptionally low riding tight jeans, cowboy boots, chaps, with nothing but a leather waistcoat hanging off his bony shoulders, a badge proclaiming him ‘Sherriff’ pinned to the material. He tips his cowboy hat at the newcomers, then waltzes his way over to drop down next to Gabe. “What y’all doin’ round these here parts, stranger?” he drawls in a terrible southern accent, offering a bottle to Gabe, which he accepts.

“That freaky blonde from last party was hitting on me again,” Gabe grumbles, taking a swig then instantly spitting it out again. “Dude, what is this shit?” He squints at the bottle, but the label is unreadable in the dim light.

“No idea, actually,” Beckett shrugs, losing the cowboy act. “But it does the job.” He snatches the bottle back and takes a long swig, making Gabe wrinkle his nose with distaste.

“You’re worse off than a dumpster,” he mutters, taking another drag on his cigarette to try and eliminate the rank taste in his mouth. A trio of girls shows up then, and Gabe recognises them as groupies - sorry, street teamers - from All Time Low’s last tour. They look like all the other chicks that frequent parties like these: underdressed in a manner that they somehow deem is simultaneously refined and sexy. Whatever, it’s all the same to Gabe. He’s bored of it now.

Apparently though, Bill isn’t. “Hey there little ladies,” he slurs, and they send the two frontmen alluring smirks as they strut past. Gabe simply sucks his cigarette down to the filter, then pushes the butt into a brick by his thigh.

“I think I’m gonna go,” he says, finally settling on the decision that this party sucks enough to result in his departure. He grabs his skeleton mask and stands up, preparing to leave.

But then Bill’s long fingers are wrapping around his wrist and suddenly he’s being pulled back inside, the thudding music growing louder with each step. “One more hour,” the drunken cowboy insists. “I’ll distract the freaky Olsen twin, I promise.”

So it’s with that oath that Gabe sighs and agrees to stay just one more hour. It soon turns out to be enough to change his entire night.

~

Sights, sounds, and feelings all come hurtling at Tinsley at once. She’s surrounded by young, amazing, stunning people, all dressed up in their Halloween costumes and flaunting their egos like it’s going out of fashion.

“Harley, baby!” a guy she recognises to be Alex Gaskarth of that band All Time Low calls out, appearing from seemingly nowhere. She’s about to point out that her name is Tinsley, but then remembers her costume. She smooths her slightly sweaty palms against the black and red skin-tight material, grinning behind her Harley Quinn eye mask.

“And who are you supposed to be…?” she wonders aloud, tracing her eyes from the fez perched on the top of Alex’s messy hair, to his bare chest, to his Middle Eastern style trousers and pointed-toe slippers.

He sends her a mortified look, as if offended that she can’t even guess. “I am Aladdin Barakat!” he proclaims loudly, shimmying his hips and making a few people around them giggle. “I am a sexy Arab street boy with a penchant for tantalising princesses.”

“And I,” purrs the Jack Barakat, slinking up to his side wearing something comparable to a Princess Jasmine outfit, “am his forbidden lover!” Tinsley stifles a snort of laughter as they twirl around each other in a style that can only be accomplished when completely shit-faced.

“Cool,” she manages to say eventually, before the guys are pounced on by a trio of girls, all making googly admiring eyes at them. Sheesh, they dress up and act like complete idiots, but still manage to charm the pants off any female within reach. Now that’s something to write home about.

She sighs with amusement and leans back into the wall. Behind her mask, her eyes sweep across the people dancing and laughing. She wishes she were more into this scene, if only to strike up some kind of conversation. She came by invitation of her buddy Andy, or “The Butcher” as most people preferred to call him, but he’s off somewhere else, entertaining a bunch of people with his many tattoos and endless party tricks.

“Hey blondie!” She hears a yell from across the room and looks up in time to see William Beckett draping his skinny arm around a girl who looks suspiciously like Mary-Kate Olsen. “Come here for a sec.” They disappear, and the next second a tall man in a tight black skeleton costume walks into the room, right over, surprisingly, to Tinsley’s side. She feels a hand bracing on her hip, and then he’s dipping his fully masked face closer to her ear.

“How opposed are you to doing favours for complete strangers?” She doesn’t doubt that she’s heard that voice somewhere before. Like hello, she’s in a house full of rather famous people. The only problem is actually placing him. He smells like cigarettes and the fading residue of expensive cologne, so obviously the man’s got style. And she does like classy men…

Eventually she remembers that he’s made a request of her, and her painted red lips curl upwards in a smirk she hopes is seductive. “What do such favours entail?” she replies, tilting her chin up as she tries to see the eyes hidden behind the mask. She can faintly trace out a strong jaw line and a thick scruff of curls atop his head, but everything else remains a mystery.

“I was going to say shamelessly flirt with me,” he mutters, amusement laced into his tone, “but it seems you’re already two steps ahead.” The hand at her hip drops slightly lower, and she shivers as his thumb begins to move in lazy circles across the material of her costume.

“What can I say? I like to get into my character.” She signals to her Harley Quinn attire and the mystery skeleton man nods, a faint chuckle escaping his mask. “And why, may I ask, would a man such as yourself need me to flirt with him?”

He shoots a glance back over his shoulder, leaving Tinsley with a second’s glimpse of his tanned neck before he’s facing her again. He moves inches closer, keeping his hand on her hip as he corners her against the wall. “At first I was aiming for a distraction,” he admits, and she can’t help but feel a bit wounded. “But now… I don’t know whether it’s alcohol or fate talking, but I think we have a connection, you and me.”

Tinsley rolls her eyes. “You bringing fate into this definitely means the alcohol’s talking,” she sighs, but the hand’s still there on her hip, still turning her skin to flames.

“We have a non-believer!” the male proclaims quietly, and even though she can’t see his face, she knows he’s grinning smugly underneath that mask. “Perhaps I can sway your opinion.” And before she has a chance to ask how, he’s already showing her. His mask slides up to reveal a mouth positively designed for smirking, and then those lips are connecting with hers, hungry and daring. She instinctively presses her body into his, reaching up to tug at his thick hair. It’s instantly addictive, and they stay this way for some time before pulling away, chests tight and lips slightly swollen. “What do you say now?” he breathes, still with his face half-masked, but she grins at the sight of her red lipstick smeared across his mouth.

“I say…” she mutters, “that I may need some more convincing.” She makes a point to roll her hips into his, satisfied at his sharp intake of breath as a result.

“That can be arranged,” he gasps, then she’s being pulled into an empty room, the door locking with a soft click behind them. There’s no time to think about how fast this is happening before he’s pressing her back up against the wall, reattaching their lips with even more vigour this time. It’s dark in the room, with only a faint light supplied by the barely visible moon tracing the outlines of the furniture. Tinsley’s surprised they even make it to the bed, but this guy seems to know what he’s doing as they fall back on the comforter, her body pinned beneath his.

“I have no idea who you are,” she hears herself saying as he finds the zipper running down the length of her costume and pulls on it.

“And I don’t know you,” he whispers, before landing a kiss on her now exposed collarbone. “But doesn’t that make this more exciting?” She desperately sucks in air as her entire body becomes exposed, and for a few moments she focuses on this feeling. So vulnerable, but he’s right; it is exciting. Her skeleton man’s clothes rustle in the darkness, and then he’s back on top of her, pressing their nakedness into one form.

“I thought my night was ruined before I met you,” he mutters, ever so lightly stroking his fingertips along her form, raising goosebumps in their wake.

“I never expected a Halloween party to turn out so well,” she replies, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his hair and finding that he’s removed his mask. She smooths her hands across his face, feeling his faint stubble, his slightly pointed nose, and his smile. Then his hands are tracing the outlines of her face, slipping beneath the black mask around her eyes and removing it. Their lips attach again, and this time as they deepen the kiss she wraps her legs around his waist, making her message clear. She wants him, preferably now.

Grinning against her mouth, he wastes no time in making that fulfilling connection between their bodies, resulting in an electrified gasp from the both of them. They freeze for a few seconds, simply appreciating the moment, then he begins to move, working up tension, pace, desire. Tinsley draws his bottom lip into her mouth and arches back, pressing their bodies flush together as they move, making him moan and press his dampened brow into the crook of her neck. “Hot… damn…” he moans as she rolls them over, straddling his waist as they continue to rock together. “I love you, stranger.”

She lets out a breathless laugh and leans back down to kiss him again. It’s not long before she begins to see the signs that he’s coming close; his kisses are becoming more desperate, his breathing ragged, and there’s a throbbing feeling between her legs. She lets him roll back on top of her for the final sprint, and then it’s happening - a rush of adrenaline pumping through them, stars bursting into her vision. He collapses against her as they both fall back down to earth again, panting heavily.

Minutes later, Tinsley lifts her hand to play with the thick hair behind his ear. “I don’t believe in fate,” she smiles, and he grunts into her shoulder before rolling onto his side. She can just see his outline, propped up lazily beside her.

“I didn’t convince you, then?” he grumbles disappointedly.

She grins in the darkness. “Doesn’t mean we don’t have a connection.” She moves her head, pressing a kiss to the closest part of him within reach - the inside of his wrist. He relaxes again and cuddles back into her body, creating a warm, comfortable proximity.

Later on, just as Tinsley feels as though she’s just about to disappear to the sleeping world, his soft voice breathes in her ear. “I’m Gabe, by the way.”

She smiles. “Nice to meet you, Gabe. I’m Tinsley.”