“Want to leave that with me? In case she comes back for it?”
“No. No. I’ve got it.”
I take off, do a quick circuit of the room and finally rush out into the night, where I literally run smack into Bart, this middle-aged white guy who’s been coming to camp solo for years.
“Whoa, you okay, Zed?”
“You seen a woman wearing one of these?”
He looks at the sandal and up at me, grinning. “Is this a new game? ’Cause I’m in.”
“Have you seen her?” I sound frantic. I hear myself. I just can’t fucking control it. “Full mask, vinyl outfit. Little…” I motion to my waist. “Skirt.”
At his totally unapologeticSorry, I turn and scan my surroundings, the need to find her clawing at my guts. Locate her and make her leave. She can’t stay here. She can’t be here, or I’ll…
No. I can’t think about that. The way she felt, the way she smelled, the sounds she made. The things that I’d do to her if she stayed. I can’t. That’s not her. This place isn’t her, dammit. There’s no way I’ve read her that wrong all this time. No. No way is Twyla Hernandez like me. She’s not of this world. And she does not fucking belong here.
I’ve got to find her and make her leave.
Now.
Before something happens that we both regret.
With her shoe held tight in my hand and her scent all over my face, I set off for the dungeon at a jog, not once letting myself wonder what sweet, serious Twyla was even doing in The Hole.
11
Twyla
“Coast is clear.” Max pats my shoulder and puts out a hand for me to stand up from where I’ve been crouched behind the bar.
I grab it and stand, lopsided on my one shoe. “Thank you.”
“Yep,” she says, as if this kind of thing happens all the time. “He didn’t hurt you or—”
“No. No, it’s…complicated.”
“Is it related to the fact that you two are…” She looks right and left, then comes in close and whispers into my ear, “Married?”
With a jolt of shock, I open my mouth to deny it and then shut it, deflated. “So you did recognize me. At check-in?”
“Well, sure.” She grins. “I’ve got a friend who’s a huge fan. We just binge watched everything you’ve ever done, including a bootleg version of Threepenny from your college days.”
I groan. “Seriously?”
Her expression goes serious. “You okay?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“All right. Where are you staying? You in a tent? Someone can walk you to—”
“I’m not staying. I mean, I…I didn’t plan to.”
“Well, you can’t drive like this.”
“I don’t know what to do.” Panic makes my voice high.
Her narrowed eyes search my face and then, some decision apparently made, she sighs. “Have a seat. I need a few minutes.” When I don’t immediately move, she points at the lone empty bar stool and says, “Sit.”
