Had I not overheard her and Archer bickering earlier, her Bride of Chucky costume would’ve been a surprise. I nearly spat out my water when Archer appeared in the living room in his Chucky costume—complete with the spiky orange wig, striped shirt, and overalls that were a good three inches above his ankles. He put his foot down when it came to makeup, only allowing Georgia to make one face scar.

“It had to have been planned,” Grace says. “It’s adorable.”

“We didn’t plan it,” I argue.

“Um, we so planned it,” Cassidy corrects, bumping her hip into mine. “In fact, Georgia, it was all your future brother-in-law’s idea.”

Georgia’s face lights up at Cassidy’s comment. Archer hasn’t popped the question yet, but everyone knows it’s coming. The other day, when I caught a ride with him, a jeweler’s card was in the cupholder. No doubt, he’ll have something custom-made and hit it out of the ballpark. He loves spoiling Georgia.

“Batman and Robin! Hell yes!” Finn calls out. “Or should I say, Batwoman and Robin?” He stomps our way in his Mad Hatter costume—one that matches Grace’s Alice costume.

The couple of costumes are a trend, I see.

One Cassidy and I also followed with our Batwoman and Robin getups. Last night, Cassidy instructed me to pick her up for the party and informed me she had my costume. I scoffed and stated I wasn’t wearing a costume, let alone allowing her to dress me up as some Ken doll.

When I arrived at her house tonight, she greeted me, wearing a black faux leather dress that landed inches above her knees and showcased her tanned legs. My mouth nearly dropped to the floor, and my dick hardened as I took in her thigh-high black boots that brought her closer to my height.

While I urged my dick to calm itself at the view of her, she shoved the Robin costume into my chest and directed me to the bathroom. Compared to her, I don’t look nearly as hot in my costume … in my goddamn tights.

Yep. She dressed me in fucking tights.

A green-and-red jumpsuit, complete with a foam utility belt and cape. The polyester is scratchy, and my nuts screamed at me when I shoved them into the jumpsuit. To top it off, my black mask won’t stop falling off the side of my face.

I look like a damn joke.

But Cassidy told me to do it, so I did.

Call it friendship-whipped.

“Hey!” Noah, Cohen’s son, shouts when we walk into the living room. He’s on the couch with a caramel apple on a plate sitting on his lap.

Next to him is a very pregnant, looking close to bursting, Jamie, dressed as Jessie the Yodeling Cowgirl—I know who this is because my cellie’s daughter was obsessed with Toy Story—and Cohen, dressed as Woody.