Billy Cooper (Cocker Brothers Book 20)

year.
Four years ago I was an executive witch wearing a sleek black suit with my hair green, nails alternating red and purple, and makeup vamped the fuck out.
Then I strutted a down-and-dirty witch with rockstar style, torn everything, hair to the ceiling, no colors except jet black and blood red.
Two years ago, a pilgrim-era witch, everything innocent with little makeup. All that betrayed me was the tear up my skirt that exposed sexy fishnets and a stuffed cat clinging to my amused shin. You’ve gotta hide your magic from those Salem bitches. Their jealousy is ugly.
Last year I was an alien witch—not my best. Barely worth mentioning. I cringe a little whenever I think of it.
So this year I decided to go all out and really invest some cash in the costume I’ve always dreamed of: a witch circa late 1700’s, powdered wig and all. My gown is deep red and gorgeous, rented from Costumes Etc. which supplies all the best theaters in Atlanta and has for many decades. Because of that, their costumes are extremely detailed and accurately recreated. I could travel back in time and nobody would think me out of place.
Except for the fake cat on my shoulder, the red contacts itching my eyes, and the ancient broom in my right hand. Those might be questioned.
Under a full moon in the stubborn warmth of a southern night, a stranger shouts, “I love Halloween!” and I look back to see who yelled it, raking my glance across the thick line of costumed ticket-holders outside Billy Cooper’s warehouse entrance. My eyes slide up a gargoyle skulking atop stilts above everybody’s head.
A witch is not allowed a childishly happy giggle, but she can sure smile.
Making my way to the front, I pause behind two faeries hoping their sexy getups will get them in faster than the people who’ve been wrapped around the block for probably over an hour.
“Sorry ladies, you’ve gotta wait with everyone else,” a meaty bouncer tells them, face immovable. Body, same.
“But!”
“No buts.”
They sigh while a small, bespectacled girl dressed as Velma from Scooby Doo walks past them, the rope raised for her without question. It’s a funny sight to see high heels and legs for miles turned away as tiny-dowdy-chick gets access without a fuss.
The blue faerie cries out, “Hey, how come she gets to go in but we don’t!”
Like a statue is his stare. “Do I have to explain myself to you? No. I didn’t think so. Now go home, you’re not getting in.”
“What!??”
“Complainers ain’t allowed. Now git.”
The girlfriends simultaneously lose their shit while attempting to hold onto it. They see phones pointed at them, but despite the fact that they are southern where manners are ingrained, they are too pissed to be dignified. The veneer of control quickly vanishes and they begin shouting obscenities at the hulking man who couldn’t care less. It even makes him smile.
I step out of the way as they barrel past me for the street, videoed their entire exit. Their mommas will give them hell about this.
The bouncer graces my gorgeous gown and powdered wig with an approving once over. “Yes?”
Showing him my credentials I introduce myself, “Haven Horten, reporter for the Life section at AJC.”
He unhooks the rope and allows my passage. “Committed to your job, I see.”
“Committed to Halloween, and happen to be paid for working tonight. Win Squared.”
I walk inside with his deep chuckle as my wake, a nice addition to an entrance made to impress.
Holy undead!
“Wow,” I whisper through a cave-like hallway of life-size, wax zombies who are reaching for me. Packed so tight, there’s no space between them, their starving groans coming through obscured speakers everywhere. My skin is crawling as I slowly walk through. The only monster I’m afraid of is a zombie. Billy Cooper has set out to make us feel the value of our high-priced tickets from the word go, hasn’t he?
I shudder my way deeper into the moaning mass of decay.
So freaky.
So realistic.
Men and women in varying stages of decomposition.
Get me out of here!
You’re a grown woman, Haven.
Do not run.
Do not run.
Do not run.
Why didn’t I wait and come here with Harlow and Bryn? They wanted to hit another party first. Stubborn me declined because the scoop for my story could happen at any moment.
I wasn’t going to miss out this time.
I heard, after the fact, about his Labor Day party’s oceanic orgy-for-the-eyes and kicked myself for not accepting the invitation for press to cover the event.
I didn’t realize until after I skipped it, then heard from everyone who did go how amazing it was, that I’d turned down the invite out of pure blah-ness.
That’s a real thing.
One I believe is infecting the nation.
Life has been filling me with malaise as of late. What’s there to be excited about, I’ve wondered. Had no idea these thoughts were going through my head (depression is a sneaky bastard) until Billy’s Dare To Scare announcement came to my inbox at the paper.
And I almost deleted it.
Again!
I had to look myself in the mirror and ask, what is up with you? Why don’t you care about anything anymore? Why are you so entrenched in your routine that minutes, hours, days, weeks, are passing by unnoticed.
A voice inside me answered, don’t go to his lame party. What are you going to dress as, a dumb witch again? Can’t you come up with something original? And who cares about dancing, drinking, dressing up and not coming home at your usual bedtime? Where’s the fun in all of that?
That voice was so loud I almost couldn’t see the bull from the shit.
I love being a witch! Who cares if anyone thinks it’s dumb—I love it. In fact, I’m not just going to be a witch—I’ll be the one I’ve always dreamt of being and didn’t want to invest the cash in.
Voila. Powdered Wig Witch, I am!
But right now I believe that was a huge mistake because I am freaking scared.
A non-waxed corpse walks out from the waxed fakes,