Page 42 of Bend & Break
“That can’t be?—”
Well, that was bloody quick.
“Open it,” she says, already leaning in.
Her scent winds around me—citrus from her shampoo, clean laundry, the sweet smell of her skin. Her hair brushes my jaw; her breath warms my cheek. I want my mouth on her throat. I lock one hand on the table to will myself to behave, steady the other on the trackpad, and click.
New Message: Dead Channel Films Inquiry
From: [email protected]
yo. we’re actually shooting a pickup scene tonight. need warm bodies in the background. if you’re down to come hang, call time’s 9PM. location attached. dress in black. masks provided.
“Warm bodies,” Blake reads aloud. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”
I scroll down. The address is a few miles off campus. When I search it, what pops up is just a warehouse-style building that looks like it should be condemned.
She’s already reaching for her phone to type in the address.
“We’re going, aren’t we?” I ask.
She stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Obviously. I love the idea of dying for the plot.”
I shut the laptop and follow her out, equal parts thrilled and vaguely dreadful.
Because either we’re about to get the answers we need, or I’m going to die on some crusty horror set without ever getting laid by the girl who keeps climbing into my space like it’s not ruining my entire life.
Chapter 15
Blake
I’ve never walked into a place and immediately thoughtthis is where I die, but this semester has been full of firsts.
The warehouse is massive—concrete floors, exposed beams, one sad ceiling fan spinning slowly and uselessly overhead—and somehow colder than outside. It smells like industrial cleaner, syrupy-sweet fake blood, and the kind of fog machine fluid that probably causes long-term lung damage.
Someone screams in the distance, high-pitched and too realistic for comfort.
Mads slips his arm around my waist, nonchalant.Dizzying. “This feels less like a film set and more like a haunted meth lab.”
I hum in agreement.
There’s chaos everywhere. Extension cords snaking across the floor like tripwires. A pile of dismembered mannequins in one corner, half-dressed in thrift store prom wear. A guy in full corpse makeup stands at the craft services table eating a banana. Another dude—shirtless, bloody, and very committed to the bit—is trying to light a cigarette with hands that are definitely prosthetics.
A prop chainsaw shrieks to life two feet from my head—loud enough to rattle my teeth—then sputters out with a patheticcough. I flinch, but Mads’s arm is already locked around me. He just pulls me in tighter, laughing quietly against my temple, having the time of his life while I try not to throw a punch.
And the worst part? My body has never known the difference between fear and arousal. My skin prickles, my stomach flips, and some fucked up part of me likes the way my heart won’t slow down with Mads holding me like this as we walk through the shitshow surrounding us.
It’s infuriating.
It’s addictive.
I duck under a boom mic, sidestepping a blood-slick mannequin that’s missing an eye. “I feel like just being here voids my health insurance.”
Mads barely glances up. “Probably does.”
“You’re disturbingly calm about that.”
He grins. “You’re here. If we die, at least it’s together.”
