Page 57 of A Smile Full of Lies
My brow furrowed.
Hold the fuck up. Somebody’s going to potentially be chasing people here? What?
The other girl’s warm brown eyes gleamed, her black curls bobbing as she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet.
“Did you see his last video?”
The blonde squealed.
“Of course I did. I’ve watched it like fifty times.”
My pulse quickened.
“Who?” I asked, louder than I’d meant to.
The blonde girl’s gaze sharpened as she turned toward me. Her eyes glittered with dark excitement.
“Nox Obscura,” she said breathlessly. “You’ve never heard of him?”
I bit my lip and shrugged.
“I’ve seen a few of his videos, but I didn’t realize he was going to be here when my friend bought the ticket for me as a birthday gift.”
The other girl gasped, her mouth falling open. She didn’t bother to hide her shock, or the hint of superiority in her tone when she spoke.
“Holy shit. Do you even use social media? The second Nox Obscura posted about attending this haunted house event, I bought tickets.”
“I—” My mouth tightened. “I guess I don’t use it the same way y’all do, apparently…”
The blonde girl grinned, her blue eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement.
“You’re in for a real treat.”
The blonde pulled up a video on her phone, holding it out so the three of us could see the screen.
Darkness. Then Nox Obscura’s familiar masked figure moved through the shadows — broad shoulders, long strides, precise control. I hadn’t seen this video yet. His black-gloved hand brushed the edge of a doorway as he stepped into the room.
He stalked toward the camera lens, his movements slow and deliberate, the purple neon face on his mask giving off a mocking, eerie glow as he reached out and gave a slow, predatory stroke of his fingers along the lens’s edge, which trembled slightly, like it was being held by someone whose hands were shaking.
Shit, if that big, masked motherfucker stalked toward me like that in a dark room, reached out that lethally muscled arm, and stroked my cheek like he just stroked the camera lens, I’d be a trembling mess, too.
His hand shot out — dark leather gripping the camera’s edge like he’d grip his prey’s chin, given the chance.
“You’re running,” a deep, distorted voice purred.
The camera jolted. A sharp turn, like maybe whoever was behind the camera was searching for an escape route. The sound of breathing sawed through the speakers, fast and ragged. The camera’s movement sharpened, as though the person behind it was backing away, trying to hide.
The sharp sound of boots against concrete filled the audio. A gloved hand reached forward — slammed against the camera. The lens tilted. The masked face filled the screen — purple neon lights forming a sharp grin and X’s over his eyes.
“You can’t outrun me,” he growled.
The video cut out.
My stomach tightened. A sharp pulse of heat shot low and deep beneath my ribs and my thighs clenched involuntarily.
I was breathing too fast.
“Holy shit,” I whispered.
