I don’t even know if I can say it.
“What?”His thumb starts drawing circles on my knuckle, the same kind that caught my attention during our date, and it has the power to pull the question out of my mouth before I can second-guess it.
“Try and stop him?Fight him?The killer.”
“…Yeah,” he finally says after an extended pause.I watch the muscle in his jaw tighten when he adds, “I still might… If it means that you—”
“Please, don’t.”I grip my fingers tighter into the back of his hand and his thumb stops moving.I don’t want to hear the rest of that sentence, and I don’t want to know what part I play in Wes’s version of how this night ends.It’s getting harder and harder to convince myself what is happening isn’t my fault when so many people keep dying and I’m still alive.
“Jamie—”
“It’s not going to end that way, Wes.Not with a single kitchenknife and a can-do spirit.”
He doesn’t try to argue, but his thumb starts back up on my skin.I interpret that as him accepting he can’t bring a knife to a machete fight and expect to win.
“Then I’ll figure something else out,” he says after a few more heavy seconds of just breathing and holding hands.“We’ll figure something out, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure as many of us get out of here as possible.”
Right.
Because there’s still god knows how many people spread out across the club who are either dead or hiding.
It’s never just been self-preservation for Wes.From the start it’s been about escaping this hellhole with as many people as possible.It’s noble, another thing that messes with maintaining the balance between afraid and horny, but it also puts a target on his back.
Wes is the confident, capable, attractive male lead.He might make it to the third act, he might be in the foreground of the poster, but if he tries to take down the killer he won’t make it to the credits.I know he won’t survive it, and the thought of him going up against Heart Eyes and not making it terrifies me.
I glance over at him.His eyes are trained on the ceiling, his eyebrows are furrowed in thought, and again I’m struck by the same realization I had when he first slid into view down in the basement bar.How he is not the type I usually go for.How he is imposing and inviting and all these other descriptors that shouldn’t go together, but they do, and somehow, I really,reallylike how the way they’re put together results in Wes.
I liked John, too, but there was only one scenario that would’ve played out: a nice, safe, mutual affection.One I’ve had before with other Johns.We’d excel in small talk and compliment exchanges, but eventually come to the conclusion our connection was pretty mildand more attuned to friendship.
With Wes, it’s not mild.It’s not safe.It’s risk and reward, desire and depth, foreign and familiar.When I think of Wes I can’t settle on one scenario.The possibilities are endless.
But I can’t tell Wes that.I can’t let on that’s how I feel, because even if I haven’t seen a clock in this godforsaken death maze, I know it’s only been a few hours since we met.And it would be crazy to be having those kinds of feelings about someone you’ve known for only one night.
Spelling-someone’s-name-out-with-intestines kind of crazy.
Wes turns his head and his eyes meet mine, the corner of his mouth tilting up, and it’s then I realize I’m staring.The running brought out a sheen on his skin that makes his jaw look sharp enough to go up against that machete, and his lips are parted in a way that I could just lean in, slip my bottom lip right into the space between them, then close my top—
“What are you thinking?”he asks.
I’m thinking that even after everything, the afraid/horny balance is still leaning heavily toward horny.I don’t say that, though.Instead I say, “I think we still have a chance of finding a way out of here.”
He nods.We both know this is just a pit stop to get our bearings before we go outside again, but that doesn’t stop his eyes from narrowing, or his head from ducking closer to mine as he asks, “Is that a Leading Lady or Final Girl way of thinking?”Maybe I shouldn’t have told him my theory, not when our lives depend on it being correct, but I can’t deny that the thrill of hearing him speak my language hasn’t worn off.I still don’t know if I have what it takes to be the Final Girl, and while I’m dressed the part, Leading Lady seems a little out of reach now, too.Still, if I had to choose one, “Blind optimism?Definitely Leading Lady.”
“Right.”He grins.
He’s close, and it doesn’t seem as if he’s in a hurry to move his head away.If my confidence was at its peak state right now, I’d think he’d want to kiss me.But there’s a part of me that refuses to forget how our date ended earlier tonight.How he couldn’t get away from my table fast enough.He hasn’t explained why he left so abruptly, and no matter what form it takes or whether it’s retracted, rejection stings.
But it would sting a lot less if he kissed me and made it better.
As if he can read my mind, his eyes drop to my lips and the amusement leaves his face.
“I don’t know how to word this without it sounding crazy, but…”
His voice is a low murmur, the same one he used when he was trying to get me to leave him in the hallway.We have all the right elements for a situation that warrants that kind of voice: we’re alone, the room is dark, his mouth is a few inches from mine, his fingers are threaded through my own.This should have been the first time I heard it.
“I’m glad that it’s you and me.Here.Together.I hate that this is happening, obviously, but since it is… I’m glad you’re here.That you’re with me.”He says the last sentence so softly my heart starts to thump rapidly beneath my ribs.
“That does sound crazy,” I say.He’s still looking down at my mouth, and when his teeth graze his bottom lip, I swallow thickly.“But no crazier than…”
