Page 63 of Caution Tape

I slap his hand away, just for him to catch my fingers in his and reel me in, until my head is firmly underneath his chin and he’s running his hand down my back.

“You want to paint your face and kill someone, don’t you?” he murmurs.

I nod against his chest.

My heart is pounding but his pulse doesn’t change. His heartbeat is a solemn drum against my ear.

“My parents took me to a circus when I was little,” I begin, “and there were these clowns. They had their stupid faces painted and they bothered me so much. I remember everyone in the crowd laughing hysterically. I wanted to laugh, too, but I couldn’t. I didn’t understand what the point was. Their outfits and the overly exaggerated face paint felt like an inside joke that everyone was a part of except for me.”

Nolan stares at me silently.

“The only joke… is life. Life is one big fucking joke,” I explain. “So, I want to dress like a clown next time around. Give it a whirl.” My smile fades. “But this time, I wonder if they will be laughing when I’m standing over their bed with an axe.”

“Interesting,” he breathes, tracing the back of my hand with his thumb. “There’s a new movie playing at the theater.”

“Oh? What’s it about?”

“A man dressed as a clown, cutting apart all the filthy young people who dare to have sex.”

I arch a brow at him. “Is this your way of asking me out on a date?”

“Maybe.”

He’s quiet, thinking to himself for a long time, so long that I get ready to dismiss the thought all together.

“Cora,” he speaks up, twirling a lock of my hair around his finger while his eyes bore into mine. “Will you go out with me?”

Fighting a grin on my lips, I return my gaze to the sky. “Sure.”

Nolan

Cora might tell herself she’s a monster. Fangs and all, sure.

But really, she’s easier than Natalie.

Just another bright-eyed girl desperately needing someone to pet her head and tell her I accept her. Natalie might have self-esteem issues and the aching need to please someone, but you can palette swap them. Red lipstick for black. Cora needs someone to tell her that the murder and blood fantasies are fine.

Sweetheart, of course they are.

But she’s a Halloween store. Smoke and mirrors, rubber knives and face paint. She wants to play “killers” and wear the mask but really, would she be here without me?

I’m the vicarious thrill. Girls want bikers, rockstars, or vampires.

Some want serial killers.

Monsters that can take them on dates and echo civility. Monsters that’ll take them to the movies and hold their hand when the jump scare happens.

We’re too early for the movie. A litany of sneak previews flicker before us as we settle into the half-full theater. Cora clutches a bucket of popcorn that’s bigger than her head.

Our squashy reclining seats engulf us. More people file in.

Groups of people lose details to me almost immediately; they become faceless mimics of each other. This smudge.

Test her.

The thought swims into focus and I regard it with amusement. What would test her? I’m certain I can talk her into almost anything.

Give her a Nolan fantasy.

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