The Incubus

“Oh. My. God.”

The towering black vehicle squeals and hisses to a stop in front of the bar. Lizzy hopped out just for a moment to see if the thing had arrived yet, and was immediately greeted by its ridiculous enormity.

The driver is a horrible texter — responding solely in skulls and thumb’s up emoji’s — and calls himself @mrboner on instagram. If it wasn’t for Kayleigh, it would not be worth it. If this wasn’t her best friend’s bachelorette party, and if her best friend wouldn’t have been a dark romance geek, they would probably be getting into a pink limousine on their way to a pile of male strippers.

Instead, a rusty old schoolbus, covered in grotesque paintings of muscled vampires, beefy werewolves and — you guessed it — tentacle monsters opens its maw-like door to her.

“Took you long enough,” Lizzy shouts at the driver, “I’ll go get the rest.”

The driver, face hidden underneath a stereotypical cap, shrugs.

Lizzy sighs and pushes back into the bar. Rock music, stale beer and metal-head sweat slaps her in the face as she scans the smoke-filled dumpster for her drunk friends. She finds them by hearing rather than sight as they cheer on the bride while she downs a pornstar martini.

Lizzy rolls her eyes, but smiles despite herself at their antics. They’re loud and obnoxious little sluts, but they’re her little sluts. Georgia: redhead with jealousy inducing hips, in fishnet stockings and choker; Kelly: tiny loose cannon with a drinking problem and crippling dyslexia; Victoria: Latina man-stealer and twerking expert, witch with a magic ass, and of course Lizzy: Bride to be and professional maid of mystery, face like an angel but she-devil in disguise.

“Down it, bitches,” Lizzy — childhood friend of the bride, maid of honour, perpetually single, and the one who’s always prepared — drums on the table with her fists. “Next appointment’s waiting.”

A few woops and stumbles later, the shouting ball of condensed ditz rolls out of the bar and onto the sidewalk.

“Holy shit,” Kayleigh stammers. “Is that—

“Yup, The Incubus,” Lizzy grins.

“How did you—“

“It was nothing,” Lizzy lies. “Get in, we’re blocking traffic.”

The girls hop in, one by one, thoroughly ignored by the driver. The bus has had the weirdest makeover Lizzy’s ever seen. Windows have been blacked out, chairs mounted backwards, roof covered in cobwebs (gross), floor in candles (dangerous) and walls lined with plastic skeletons (tacky). All of that shit is tastefully tied together by a bunch of red and black balloons, and banner proclaiming this to be “The last ride before she’s a bride.” (Again, tacky as hell.)

Not that the girls mind, having lost theirs two tequilas ago, and fitting right in with their black makeup and utterly trashy Halloween outfits.

As the Incubus roars to life and starts moving, it takes Kelly twenty seconds to find the minifridge and start pouring whatever dark liquor she’s pouring into skull shaped glasses.

“This place is amazing. It looks just as I imagined,” Kayleigh says. “ I could kiss you, seriously.”

Wouldn’t be the first time. “You can save that for your future husband. Now, get ready for the biggest surprise.”

As if on cue, a voice booms through the bus, eliciting a couple of screams from the girls.

“Good evening… ladies. Welcome to Kayleigh’s last ride before she’s a bride.”

“Wait—“ Kayleigh starts, “I know that voice.”

Lizzy can’t suppress her smile. This was the thing that took so much calling in favors, pestering agents and even bribing some journalists.

At the back of the bus, somehow unnoticed up until now, one of the most handsome men Lizzy’s ever seen is sitting nonchalantly on wat seems to be a full-on bdsm **** device. He’s covered in tattoos, hairy as fuck, and wears his dark clothes and wicked smile like a pro.

“The name’s P. Madeson, and tonight, you’re my guests. So have a drink, sit down, and let me take you on a ride.”

“Who?” Kelly whispers.

“He wrote half of Kayleigh’s dirty stories,” Victoria whispers back.

“I should start reading.”

“Have a seat, girls,” he growls, “we haven’t got all evening.”

“How does a guy that hot write romance stuff?” Kelly continues as the group shuffles towards the back of the bus.

“Simple,” he answers, apparently having incredible hearing, “I just imagine what I’d like to do to fine young ladies like you, and I write it down.”

“Fuck,” Georgia groans.

Seriously, guy writes a bit of smut on the internet and everyone loses their shit. He’s a fucking liar by the way. Lizzy’s done her research. Almost all of the stories he wrote on that website are based on other stuff. The ones Kayleigh’s a fan of are just a collection of childhood-ruining adaptations of a Dutch series of children’s horror books.

“But,” Madeson rumbles. “You’re here for my stories, and that’s what you’re going to get.”

“Just stories?” Victoria teases.

“Depends if you listen, like a good girl.”

Madeson stands up, and gestures at a table covered in the weirdest shit. A piece of broken wood, a metal boot and a fucking birthday cake are some of the most ordinary. “Now, here you see some of the stuff that’s inspired me over the years. Let’s play a little game, you pick an object, I tell its story. I have ten of them.”

“Wait, there’s only nine objects,” Kelly interrupts in a rare moment of clarity as she points at the **** device, “if you count that thing.”

“True,” Madeson says. “The last one is about me.”

“Ooh,” Victoria purrs, “can I pick him?”

Madeson ignores her. “Let’s start with the bride. Kayleigh, have your pick.”