Page 7 of A Very Gay Halloween
The words slap me across the face. Not because they're wrong, but because they're so fucking right that I can't breathe around them.
His thigh shifts again, rubbing against my hard cock, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from moaning. This is insane. This is beyond insane. We're crammed into a maintenance closet in the middle of a haunted house, surrounded by people who could find us at any second, and I'm harder than I've ever been in my life.
I close my eyes, trying to block out his words, his voice, the way his body feels pressed against mine. But it's no use. Everything he's saying is true, and my body is responding like it's been waiting two years for this conversation.
The sound of distant cheers and applause filters through the walls—the finale must be over. Which means people will be moving around soon, looking for exits, maybe even coming this way.
Cooper seems to register the same thing, because he steps back just enough to look me in the eye.
"We're finishing this conversation." The scythe moves away from my throat, but his hand stays on my hip, keeping me pinned.
"There's nothing to—"
"Thirty minutes," he says. "At the party. And August?" He leans in close one more time, his lips brushing against my ear. "Don't even think about running away from me again."
Then he's gone, pushing through the fake panel and leaving me alone in the alcove with my racing heart and my hard cock and the sudden, terrifying realization that everything is about to change.
Chapter 3
THE INDUSTRIAL WAREHOUSE has transformed into something that looks like Halloween threw up all over a rave. Jack-o'-lanterns line what used to be our makeshift horror corridors, their flickering candles casting dancing shadows that climb the concrete walls like living things. Orange and black streamers hang from the metal rafters, twisted and drooping like party decorations designed by someone having a very bad trip.
Fake spider webs stretch between the beams overhead, and I keep catching glimpses of plastic spiders dangling at eye level, their beady little eyes reflecting the candlelight in ways that make my skin crawl. The ambient sound system has switched from horror movie soundtrack to something with deep bass and eerie synthesizers—music that sounds like it belongs in a vampire club.
I've ditched the bloody butcher apron and washed the fake gore off my face, and now I feel exposed. Like I've lost some kind of armor. My regular clothes—just jeans and a black t-shirt—feel too normal, too much like the real me instead of the character I was hiding behind.
My hands won't stop fidgeting with my water bottle. Twist the cap. Untwist it. Twist it again. The plastic makes littleclicking sounds that get swallowed up by the bass line pounding from the speakers.
People are everywhere—dozens of actors from both fraternities, plus their friends, plus random plus-ones who showed up for the party part of the evening. Everyone's in high spirits, congratulating each other on pulling off what was apparently a successful night of scaring the shit out of people.
I catch fragments of conversations floating past me:
"Did you see how that one girl screamed when you jumped out?"
"The blood effects looked so real I thought someone actually got hurt."
"Justin absolutely nailed the psycho killer bit. I think that one guy actually pissed himself."
Everyone's acting like this was the social event of the semester. Meanwhile, I'm standing here trying not to think about how Cooper's thigh felt pressed between my legs.
Fuck.
I take a long pull from my water bottle and scan the room, telling myself I'm not looking for anyone in particular. Just getting a feel for the crowd, seeing who's here, making sure I know where the exits are in case I need to make a strategic retreat.
But my eyes find him anyway.
Cooper's standing across the room talking to Jason, who's still on crutches but looking a lot more mobile than he did a few days ago. Cooper's changed out of his grim reaper costume and into a dark gray henley that fits him way too well and jeans that should be illegal. His hair is still messed up from the hood,sticking up in places that make him look like he just rolled out of someone's bed.
He looks relaxed. Normal. Like he didn't just spend the last thirty minutes completely fucking with my head.
But then his eyes meet mine across the crowded space, and there's nothing normal about the way he's looking at me. His expression is predatory, like he's a wolf who's spotted something he wants to chase through the woods.
He says something to Jason—I can't hear what over the music and conversations—then deliberately catches my eye and jerks his head toward a dimly lit corner where a few small tables sit empty. The gesture is casual enough that anyone watching would think he's just suggesting we grab a seat.
But I know better. This isn't a request.
I could run.
That's what every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to do. Walk right out the front door, get on my bike, and pretend this whole night never happened. Go back to hating him from a safe distance where my dick doesn't have opinions about our conversations.
