“Well, I don’t usually do that on a first da—”
I tense up when the realization hits me.Like a sharp, discordant scrape of a violin when the audience can see the threat before the characters.We’re still in the middle of a horror movie.The only thing I know about Wes is that he’s a cop who’s good with his hands.It was easy to ignore the rules, to reason they don’t apply to us in here, whenwe’d washed the blood away and locked the door, but now they’re coming back in full force and reminding me: “I don’t know your last name—” The hand around my throat is back.“I don’t even kn—”
“Jamie.”His palm moves from my cheek to prop against the wall behind me.The shift brings him just a fraction closer and everything behind him blurs like a vignette.I can’t see the safety posters, the shelves, the maintenance supplies.All I can see is him.
“Wes Carpenter,” he says.That soft, loaded gaze traces across my face and the pressure in my throat loosens, softens like a caress.“Homicide detective.Badge number 21397.Taurus… apparently.I have two younger sisters—they’re the ones who told me my star sign is important—and if you made me choose betweenThe Fast and the FuriousandMiss Congeniality… Bullock would win.”
My shoulders melt back down into place, and I can’t help but grin.It’s personal, ordinary information unrelated to the life-or-death situation outside.He has a life beyond this.Wehave lives beyond this.We could still get back to them.
I take over wiping away the rest of the tears from my face before planting my palms on his chest, one right over his heart.His heartbeat speeds up just a little beneath my hand when I smile up at him and say, “Jamie Prescott, PhD candidate.”
He mirrors the curve of my lips and tilts his head down when I lift mine up to kiss him.I lean away but he follows, our mouths lingering against each other as I disclose, “My student number is the one thing I’ve never been able to memorize.I’m a proud Scorpio.I have an older sister.You might think Laurie is like my sister, but she’s more like my wife.”When I open my eyes, I catch the corners of his crinkling in amusement.
“That’s not going to change no matter who I date,” I warn, because he should know all the fine print before deciding if that’s how he’d like this to play out.
“And… Bullock always comes out on top.”
He kisses me once.“We would’ve covered at least that on our first date.”
Twice.“I don’t think we can count this as a first date,” I say before he sweeps his lips across mine a third time and then begins to untangle himself from our embrace.“More like a shared traumatic experience.”
One we need to escape if we ever want to go on a date with more traditional elements like dinner, a movie, small talk, rather than cardio, first aid, and bloodshed.The janitor’s closet gave us a reprieve, but as soon as we leave it’ll be like pressing play on a paused scene.
Wes’s gaze shifts to the side and I follow it, spotting the bottle of hand sanitizer with the red Flammable Liquid sticker that’s caught his attention.He looks back at me, determination etched across his face, and if we were in a movie, his shirt would be—at the very least—artfully ripped to reveal the muscles of his torso.It’s a real shame it isn’t, but my disappointment is short-lived.Especially when he grabs the bottle from the shelf and gets back to searching the room, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s get through this night so I can take you on a real date then.”
CHAPTER 31
“I can’t believe you’re gonna let a few little murders keep us apart.It is a detail!”
—NotOnly You
When starting a fire to escape a masked killer you need three things: a source of heat, some kind of fuel, and a way to contain it so you don’t accidentally go fullCarrieand burn down the building and yourselves in the process.Dying of smoke inhalation or immolation after all we’ve been through tonight would be a true form of cruel irony.
Once we straighten out our clothing and wipe away the smudged lipstick, we find a lighter, along with a pretty impressive stash of weed, in an unlocked metal box slid to the back of one of the top shelves.It was half hidden behind an empty mop bucket, and after Wes pulls it down, he pockets the lighter and leaves the pot.It’s a sound choice.We’ve broken enough rules tonight, some more willingly than others, but I think trying to escape while being high as shit is where I must draw the line.The effect of the espresso martinis from earlier in the evening has fully worn off and sobriety increases our chances of survival (thank you, rule nine).
I pass Wes a sleeve of paper towels to act as kindling and he shoves them into the bucket before getting to work on fastening the knife back to his wrist.
“Do you see anything that could be used as a weapon?”
“Your hands are getting pretty full,” I say as I toss the bottle of hand sanitizer into the bucket.
“For you, Jamie.Just in case…”
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence, and I don’t want him to.It was nice not having to think about living up to the expectations of the Final Girl for a while.It was nice living in a rom-com instead of a slasher, but we need to go back to the real world even though our real world is unbelievable.Once we walk out that door our roles change again, and I’ve been without a weapon for too long.My luck is bound to run out.
“Right.”I spot the broom the same time he does, and before I ask he’s slipping the knife off again.“Do you think you can make me another shaft?”
That draws a chuckle from Wes as he picks up the broom and studies it.The mottled veneer of the wood hints to water damage and he tries breaking it with just his hands.There’s a promising crack but no clean break, so he moves across to the sink again, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Jamie, now more than ever is not a time to be using that word.”
There’s a short, satisfying snap and he turns back holding a rod with an intimidatingly sharp point.I know it’s not going to be enough to go up against Heart Eyes, but it’s enough to keep him at bay for a while if—whenwe come face-to-face.
“Sorry,” I say as I reach for the new weapon.“But you were the one who stopped me from—”
His free arm slips around my waist and pulls me into his chest before I can get too detailed about what I would’ve done had he let me undo his belt buckle.
“From what?”Wes murmurs, and I make sure I hold his stare, takea second to appreciate the bittersweet-chocolate shade and the way it threatens to make me melt.Not for the first time in these cramped quarters do I forget why we’re even in here at all.The rom-com effect is hard to resist.Or maybe it’s the post-orgasm effect.
