Pulling my gaze from his mouth, I look up, into his eyes, and all I see is pupil.Blown out to the edges of his iris.Endless pools come to mind again, and it does nothing to calm my heartbeat.It’s pounding like we’re running away from Heart Eyes again.
“I’m glad you’re with me, too.”
Something changes in his expression as soon as I say it and I get to see that look.The one from the hallway downstairs.The “as you wish,” “give you my coat when you are cold,” “want the rest of yourlife to start now” look that makes heat flare up under my skin and my pulse race.Up close it’s even better.If he wants to kiss me, I can’t remember if there’s a reason I should stop him.
One thick eyebrow performs the smallest of twitches.
“Guess we have matching kinds of crazy then, huh?”
It doesn’t matter if I’m nodding because I agree with him or to let him know he can close the distance, because the space is already disappearing between us.Our noses bump, heads tilt, the weight of his breath is on my mouth, heat hits my lips, and then the scuff of a shoe sounds from the hallway outside.
CHAPTER 26
“Do you think—after we’ve dried off, after we’ve spent lots more time together—you might agree ‘not’ to murder me?And do you think not murdering me might maybe be something you could consider doing for the rest of your life?”
—NotFour Weddings and a Funeral
Eyes snap open, pupils constrict, chins jerk apart as both of our backs press against the partition.He doesn’t need to, but Wes brings a finger to his lips after he untangles his hand from mine.The same lips I had planned on preoccupying myself with for at least a few minutes.
Of course.
Masked killer.
Dead bodies.
Worst speed date ever.
That should have been at the forefront of my mind instead of debating whether it would be more comfortable to straddle Wes on the floor or if he’d prefer we move over to one of the chaises.Thosekinds of musings should’ve been the furthest thing from my mind.They aren’t, but they should’ve been.
Wes pushes himself up the partition, making sure to stay crouched below the top of it as he brings the knife up to his chest and looks around the room for a better vantage point.I push my back against the same surface and manage to slide up to a similar bent-over position, brutally pulled back to the present.Back to the fact we’re still being hunted and the only weapon I have, aside from my brain—which wasn’t concerned about anything other than where I was going to place my bloody hands while I made out with Wes—is Wes’s body.
He’s been an advantage when it comes to making it this far, but his knife hasn’t suddenly grown fifteen inches in the time it took for Heart Eyes to make his way back up to the mezzanine.
Who’s to say he isn’t still waving that machete around?
Or what if he’s just gearing up?What if he takes it to the next level and goes allTexas Chainsaw Massacreon us as soon as we step into view?
The footsteps sound closer and I’m too panicked to try to distinguish if there’s one or many, if it’s friend or foe.The only thing I can decipher is that there is no rolling purr of a chainsaw idling along with them.
Wes steps away from the partition, pulling me with him, drawing me behind him, his back firm against my chest as he retreats to the side of the room until we’re shrouded in darkness.I’m caught between a wall and his well-toned traps.It’s clear he’s making himself a human shield, and that’s not going to do us—me—much good if it is Heart Eyes.I’d end up alone, pinned to a wall by a dead body with nothing but a knife I’d struggle to wrangle off said dead body’s wrist.
A shadow spreads across the wall, stretching in from the front of the partition, distorted by the flickering lamps.The exit strategy I thought of when we first entered the room comes to mind: I’m readyto run.I’m ready to drag Wes with me around the other side of the partition, slip out the door as the killer rounds it, and start our cat-and-mouse game all over again.
Wes tenses in front of me as a body finally comes into view.I spy a familiar material over his shoulder, and the relief it isn’t pink wool is short-lived when I distinguish the pattern against the shadow-drenched crimson of the walls.Red plaid.
“The fuck?”Stu mutters.
Wes’s shoulders drop back down, and when he takes a step forward, I move to his side and stare at the new addition to the room.I can’t bring myself to be overjoyed at the sight of the manicured beard or the stunned, gaping mouth in the middle of it, especially when I glance down to see a boning knife gripped in his palm.He drops it down to his side as he stares incredulously between us.
“You’re okay?”
That second statement seems a little more appropriate for the situation, but the way he says it, the inflection at the end—he looks at us as if we just performed a flash mob of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” and itdidn’twork to bring a function back to life.He thought we were dead.
A rustle of fabric from the hallway makes us all flinch, but the subsequent whispering voices bring my heart back down from my throat.If there’s one thing Heart Eyes has been consistent about, it’s maintaining the silent antagonist aspect of the classic slashers.Therefore, voices equal friend.
Or someone who’s going to get themselves killed before you.
Wes darts across to the partition as the voices draw closer.Going toward any kind of sound, even if it’s obviously some other daters, is a fatality waiting to happen (I know this from personal experience now), but his back is pressed against the wall, and he silently slips around it into the entrance before I can reach for him and pull him back.
