“Why?”sobs the woman with the Meg Ryan haircut.I squint across the room at her clean name tag and spy “Dani”—right.It’s clear she doesn’t expect anyone to answer.Even when she follows up with, “Whyare they doing this?”
It’s not the right question to be asking.Motive never matters, andsometimes it doesn’t even exist.For everyI Know What You Did Last Summerthere’s aSlumber Party Massacre.We could be dealing with a Ben Willis, out for revenge, as much as a mindless killing machine after some cheap thrills like Russ Thorn.
Colette wraps her least bloody arm around Dani, and again I look to the bar for something to mop at Dani’s tears.The same napkins are still sitting there, seeped in blood.
Wes finally drops his arm down from the defensive position, his knuckles still white around the chair leg, and takes a step away from the table.
“Jamie’s right.We need to get upstairs, get outside, and call for help.”
He seems to function very well under pressure.It’s an admirable quality.One I would’ve liked to discover under different circumstances.If only I hadn’t mentioned Jeffrey Dahmer on our date.
“If we work together,” he says, “look out for each other… it’ll be eight against one.”
He reaches up with his other hand and peels off his name tag.Unlike Colette, who did it out of necessity, his action feels more like a symbolic end to our time down here, and I watch as the others follow his lead and rip the sticky paper off their clothes.I look down at my own sticker and there are flecks of blood on the blank spaces between the letters of my name.I grasp the name tag and pull it off as Laurie says, “What about the others?”
Right, because there were twenty of us daters.
“They probably got out.We just have to get to the front door,” John says, and his words seem to make her breathe a little easier.I’ll admit, they do the same for me, too, but then I remember those footsteps I heard above our heads.They didn’t sound like they were running toward the front door—they sounded like they were running away from it, and if this were a horror movie, then—
“I’ll go first,” Wes says, and it pulls me away from jumping to a conclusion that is not a good one.He waves the chair leg in his hand like it’s a tour guide flag and we’re about to walk through Manhattan to see all the hot spots ofSex and the City.
“We’ll go up single file.Watch each other’s backs… Anyone want to take up the rear?”
“I’ll do it,” John says weakly.
He shuffles on the spot and then heads to the bar.Scanning the bottles like he’s picking out an appropriate aperitif for the occasion, he grabs an almost-empty bottle of Midori.After passing it awkwardly between his palms, he looks at me as if I’m the expert on bottle smashing.
I mime hitting my bottle against the table, and when he slams the frosted bottle down on the corner of the bar top, green liqueur mixes with the bright, oxidizing pools of red.His actions start off a chain reaction, and after a few more daters smash bottles on the blood-covered bar, I feel somewhat relieved.The fact that everyone looks uncomfortable holding something sharp in their hands supports my “the killer is upstairs” theory, and the panic that pushed my espresso martinis up into my chest starts to abate.
Because I know the way out of the basement, I go second after Wes.Laurie steps up behind me and I reach back to clasp one hand around her limp wrist, tightening the other on the brown neck of my bottle.After Laurie is Stu, and I get the feeling their date was much more successful than ours from the way he reaches out and touches her elbow.She manages to pull her lips into the smallest of smiles in reply, hinting at just how much Stu’s combination of beard, mountain wear, and strong-looking thighs appeals to her.That makes me grimace.Laurie may be a Capricorn, but you can tell she’s a Taurus moon from the way she runs headfirst toward walking red flags.
Colette and Dani line up behind Stu, then it’s the guy who wassupposed to be my last date.It’s only from a quick glimpse of the sticker on his shirt, before he peeled it off, that I learn his name is Campbell.He hasn’t spoken a word—he’s just followed the paths and actions of the people closest to him.And I know four people just died in front of us, but that, paired with his unthreatening, boyish good looks makes me immediately associate him with Norman Bates.I can’t help it.Maybe it’s the way he goes from being fidgety one minute to distant and unblinking the next, but I’m kind of glad we’re on opposite ends of the line.If he does decide to speak and his first words are about his mother, I’m pointing the finger at him.
Once John is at the back of the group, we move toward the other side of the room.There’s fewer crude barricades blocking the way, less blood covering the walls, and I catch sight of the hallway when I look around Wes’s shoulder.It’s dark, lit only by overhead lights that make Serendipity’s signature red walls a deeper red.Residual light from the upper level shines down on the staircase in a cool, white block, and the symbolism isn’t lost on me.Where’s the chorus of angels when you need them?This is our saving grace—if the killer doesn’t decide to retrace their steps and finish us off before we can reach it, that is.
I let go of Laurie’s hand and point around Wes to the bottom of the stairs.He rolled his sleeves up when we were figuring out the order of our elephant parade, and my bare forearm brushes against his as I gesture out to the hall.His skin is… warm.The muscles underneath look… taut.
Goddamn it, Jamie, there’s a killer on the loose.
“The corridor goes around the entire bar down here,” I say, then clear the huskiness out of my throat.Drawing my finger in a straight line across from the bottom of the stairs to what mistakenly looks like a wall in the darkness, I add, “So there’s going to be a long hall running back that way.”
He doesn’t turn around when he asks, “You come here a lot?”
“I did.Enough to know it’s literally a maze.There’sa lotof places to hide, so just make sure you cover all your angles, you know?”
That makes him let out a darkly amused breath.“Yeah, I know.”
Shit.I hope that didn’t sound condescending.It’s taking everything not to retreat into myself and avoid him after I showed him too much of an unfiltered version of myself.I bet he suspects I’m living out my wildest fantasies.I could live with the idea of him thinking I’m a bitch.I’m starting to accept that he thinks I’m a nutcase.But I draw the line at him believing I’m both.
“Wes, I just mean be… careful?”
It seems like a meaningless word and an obvious request, and I’m ready to try a more direct apology when he looks back at me and… he’s smiling.The same smile he had when we first locked eyes and I told him what made me happy.It’s almost like he’s forgiven and forgotten the whole word-vomit thing.Which is a possibility considering verbal diarrhea pales in comparison to—I glance behind us—this.
“I’ll do my best.”
His voice is low, quiet, as warm as the arm that’s still pressed against mine even though either one of us could have—should have—moved away by now.He leans forward, popping his head out of the entryway to survey both ends of the hall, and the cold air that slides in between us makes me shiver.I retract my arm from the doorway and rub at the goose bumps, watching Wes’s hair turn a deep pinot noir under the lights before he leans back.
He glances over his shoulder to see some of the others are still psyching themselves up to leave the room before dropping his gaze down to mine.His head dips until we’re closer than during any part of our date.“Are you okay?”he asks.“I mean…”
