Page 2 of Reckless Hearts

Clever bastard.

Another vibration from my phone jolts me again just as Cara and a very cute-looking Daisy return with six plastic shot glasses balanced between them. The tiny blonde is dressed in a bear costume, and it takes me a minute to realise that they’ve come as a pair. I’d always had an inkling that there was more to these two, but it’s really none of my business. Their mutual happiness is all I care about.

When I finally have the chance to look at my screen without seeming rude, my excitement dampens. It’s just a notification from a dating app I’ve been using—and gotten nowhere with—for a while. I ignore it and slide it into my thigh-highs before taking a shot glass from each of them. If tonight doesn’t go my way, I’ll be cancelling my subscription.

“Dude, you’re a fucking genius,” I say, addressing Daisy. “You should be a wardrobe stylist, not this bitch’s assistant.”

“That’s what I keep saying,” Cara says, smiling. “I’m keeping her for my own selfish reasons.”

“And I’m staying for mine,” Daisy counters.

Fuck, the cuteness of these two is super sweet and nauseating in equal measure.

“Seriously, your costumes are amazing.” I hold up both shot glasses. “Cheers to another successful movie.”

The distinct taste of butterscotch and caramel glides over my tongue as I knock back one shot, then the next. The burn at the base of my throat is a little less intense with the second shot, accompanied by the satisfying aftertaste of sweetness and spice that instantly relaxes my body and calms my nerves.

My phone vibrates against my leg. I stack the plastic glasses and retrieve the device from my hold-up.

Unknown: I want to play a game.

A sheet of goosebumps scatters up my spine, my neck tingling with the sensation at being watched. Glancing around the room, I try and fail to pinpoint the perpetrator as the playlist switches to something a little less serious, the funky intro offsetting the dark subject matter of theTalking Heads’classic “Psycho Killer.” I’m grateful to be third-wheeling this conversation so I can subtly focus on finding this mystery person.

When I look up, fear grips my stomach.

Dressed in black jeans and a black hoodie, a white, ghost-like mask stares straight at me from the wooden balustrade. Eventhough I can’t see their face, I can feel the weight of their stare beneath those dark, stretched-out eye sockets, and it’s all on me.

Suddenly, the music cuts out, replaced in an instant by the iconic '80s banger fromThe Breakfast Club. The abrupt shift is jarring, a stark contrast to the macabre playlist. The cheerful intro is a welcome distraction, but it makes me wonder why the DJ has strayed from the spooky theme.

AsSimple Mindsplays out, the masked stranger raises a gloved finger to their mouth in a shushing motion. Before I have a chance to react, all eyes turn to me, accompanied by laughter and clapping. In reality, they’re gawking at what’s behind me. Reluctantly, I turn around to see a group dressed as The Brat Pack. The gang’s all there—the nerd, the jock, the princess, the basket case, and the criminal. The person dressed as Judd Nelson’s character has already done two fist pumps in five seconds, and I can tell that’s going to get old fast. I turn back toward my conversation, looking up, hoping the person I was watching is still there. But all I see is a group of strangers.

Right then, my phone vibrates again.

Unknown: Do you want to die tonight?

2

“I’ll be right back,” I say, excusing myself, butterflies erupting in my stomach as an invisible force draws me towards the stairs. As I ascend, each step feels heavier with anticipation. It’s risky business, this game I’m playing, but I chose it for myself.

How did I get here? Months of constant messaging with a stranger I met through ConsciousKink have led me to this moment. Wes knows my deepest desires—every thought, every fantasy, every depravity laid out for him to decode and accept.

Like the one where I play the helpless victim to a masked killer at a Halloween party.

Most men are all talk; I never thought we’d actually get to meet. Yet here we are.

The top floor is shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by a large bay window. I veto the option to explore, heading right, toward a softly lit room at the end of the corridor.

Horror movie 101 tells me to ignore it. Logic tells me to run the other way and never look back. But I thrive on fear. I love therush of adrenaline I get when I’m scared, so much that if Wes and I hadn’t already established a safeword and discussed limits, I’m still unsure if I’d run the other way.

Challenge accepted.

Tentatively, I walk through the hallway, my obnoxiously loud boots echoing on the hardwood floors. I need to be stealthy about this, even though something tells me it’s pointless, that I’m already falling right into his trap.

He wants this. But I want this, too. Ichosethis.

With each dark door I pass, I glance behind me, making sure there’s nobody following me. Finally, I reach the third and final room at the end of the corridor. It’s slightly ajar, and I’m almost certain that he’s in there. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for what’s on the other side, and push it open.

Citrus and herbs, earth, and wood.It smells like a forest. A four-poster bed stands in the centre, with its walnut wood headboard propped against inky-blue panelling that’s decorated with hanging plants dying of thirst and rustic paintings of gothic houses and eerie landscapes.

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