“But I bet you’re used to men doing and saying just about anything because of your looks, and that?—”
“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Hayes interrupts, his voice firm and commanding. “We came here to get some information about the escape room, not to be subjected to your—whatever this is.”
Lyle’s smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it widens, as if he’s enjoying the unease he’s creating. “Just making conversation,” he says lightly, but there’s a dark edge to his tone, a warning that sets my nerves more on edge. “It’s like I was telling you, you know, in the coffee line,” Lyle continues, his eyes gleaming unnaturally in the dim light. “This whole place has ghosts. If you’re interested, I could show you some of the best spots where you can really... feel their presence. We’ve got a group in there right now, so maybe you could give me your number, and we can set something up.”
I stare at him blankly. I let this man inside me. The realization twists my stomach into a knot of regret and disgust.
“We’re only staying at the Everwood for the weekend, but I didn’t get to make a reservation; no one answered when I called,” Tessa explains, her voice trembling slightly.
“Oh, you’re staying here?” Lyle’s smile widens further, in a way that’s more unsettling than friendly. “Why don’t you and your friends come back tomorrow night? We’ll see if you get out alive.” His gaze locks onto mine, and I feel a wave of nausea. A cold sweat beads on my forehead.
“Not many people do,” he says darkly.
Right.
There’s a serious debate flashing through my mind on the merits of sobriety right now, because this is absolutely not how I remember Lyle looking last night. His nose is a bit crooked on his face, slapping all his other features out of whack, like a cubist painting. Even in the low light, I can see the dirt caked under his fingernails and a smudge of something darker streaked across his chin. Crumbs from his last meal—God knows what—dust thefront of his uniform, which hangs open with the first two buttons undone, revealing a puff of thick, dark curly chest hair. My skin prickles with goosebumps. I must have been more intoxicated than I thought last night.
He rubs the back of his hand harshly over his lips, waiting for my answer. He’s breathing loud, out of his mouth, huffing bologna-mustard breath right into my face, and I struggle to keep my composure as Tessa fiddles with her phone, trying to pull up her calendar app.
As I start to edge away, he suddenly jerks forward, blurting out in a harsh tone that sounds less like a question and more like a demand, “I didn’t get your names, right? What are your names?” His eyes dart over everyone’s and bounce back on me. “For your, uh…reservation for tomorrow.”
“I’m Tessa. This is Tori, Marissa, Jonathan, Hayes, and Griffin,” Tessa rattles off.
“Tori,” Lyle whispers, as if tasting the name on his lips, his voice almost reverent.
“Creeeeeeepy,” Griffin blurts out, unable to contain his discomfort.
Tessa pushes Griffin aside, her expression firm, no-nonsense. “Here,” she says, shoving her phone at Lyle. “Give me your number so we can make a proper reservation.”
Lyle takes the phone, his fingers brushing hers for a moment too long, his eyes still fixed on me. “Yeah, sure,” he mutters, punching in the numbers. “I’ll give you my number.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow night—” I say, backing away.
“Lyle,” he stammers, his eyes darting anxiously. “My name is Lyle.”
“Right. Can’t wait. Lyle,” I say hurriedly, spinning on my heel and rushing back into the darkness of the trees, as far from the entrance of the park as I can get.
My friends follow close behind, their footsteps echoing through the night.
“Someone’s got a crush on Tori,” Griffin laughs in a sing-song voice.
“Shut up, Griff,” Tessa snaps, as she catches up with me. “Hey, what was that about?”
“Nothing, why?” I glance over my shoulder at her, my voice shaking. “I just talked to him while I was waiting for coffee. Before I got here this morning.”
“Then why are you running right now?”
“Oh, I have to use the bathroom,” I lie quickly. I’m good at lying. My friends always believe me. I bolt ahead to the estate, making it look like an emergency.
Once inside the chateau, I slam the heavy doors shut behind me, the echo reverberating through the grand foyer. I inhale deeply, the scent of fresh-cut roses spilling from tall, narrow vases that crowd the entrance. The roses are black, adding a morbid charm to the ambiance of the place. Creepy-cute. I listen for the sound of boots on gravel outside, then dash to the bathroom before anyone can see me catching my breath. Locking the door behind me, I stare into the mirror.
I don’t like the person who looks back at me. I try to tame my wild hair, pulling it back into a tight bun, but that only elongates my neck, drawing attention to my collarbones, my breasts—features that always catch a man’s eye but never seems enough to hold his interest. Not for long, anyway.
I turn on the faucet and plunge my hands under the icy stream of water, the shock of the cold tingling up my arms. I lather them three times with the cinnamon-and-clove-scented soap, its rich, spicy fragrance filling the air as it foams from the jack-o'-lantern-shaped dispenser hanging beside the sink. Its plump orange expression full of judgment.
Fuck off, Jack.
When I step out of the bathroom, Jonathan is leaning against the wall next to the door, his sleeves rolled up, exposing those perfect forearms and strong hands. Hands that once explored every inch of my body.
