3. Dean
Three
Dean
I t’s so messed up for me to enjoy hunting Annie like this, but I can’t help it. Every animal instinct in me purrs with satisfaction, and I twist and weave through the haze-filled maze like I know the warehouse by heart. After one lap, I already do.
Yes. I was built for this.
The laser gun is light in my hands—so much lighter than any real firearm I’ve ever held. It’s made of cheap, scratched plastic, and it makes a dumb pew, pew, pew sound every time I squeeze the trigger. Thank god.
I’m grateful it’s so unrealistic. It’s nothing like my work; nothing like the memories that cloud my head at night and make it difficult to sleep.
“Annie,” I call, teasing her from the darkness. She spins around from where she’s ducked inside a doorway, scanning the shadows with narrowed eyes. Every time her gaze sweeps past me, my pulse spikes.
Fuck, I need her eyes on me. Need the warmth of her body pressed against mine; need to lick the base of her throat and taste her salty sweat. My inner caveman demands it, roars at me to claim the prize I’ve been hunting, but I hang back in the gloom and flex my grip on the laser gun.
I’ll shoot her eventually and give my position away.
For now, though, it’s way more satisfying to watch her, drinking in every detail.
Annie’s cheeks are flushed from excitement, and her clothes are rumpled. She hasn’t stopped grinning since we arrived. There are faint scuff marks on the knees of her dark pants from where she’s been crouching down and crawling, trying to hide from me.
She can never hide. I’ll always find her.
Find her, and taunt her, and jump out and make her shriek, then pull her laughing face to mine—
No.
Plastic creaks as I squeeze my laser gun, the sound swallowed up by thumping music. Can’t follow that thought to its natural end. Can’t torture myself with daydreams.
Girls like Annie Lowell aren’t meant for guys like me. Hell, this whole night is meant for someone else.
My perfect twin brother.
“Wyatt,” Annie starts to call, then a group of students charge past, whooping and laughing. A couple wear sports jerseys, the rest are in out of season Halloween costumes. They all look tipsy already, their shoulders slamming into the flimsy walls as they run, and Annie has to back up to get out of their path.
I growl, stepping out of the shadows.
With a few pumps of my trigger, all the chest packs on the students flash red to show they’ve been hit. Half of them don’t even notice, crashing through the maze like stampeding animals, while the others glance down, confused. When they spot me glaring at them, their eyes widen and they hustle away faster, shoving at their friends’ shoulders.
Yeah, they’d better run. Those assholes nearly squashed my girl.
A soft snort makes me look down. Annie’s standing right beside me, her gun pointed at my chest pack. The bullseye is right over my heart.
“If I miss this,” she declares, “I am the worst shot in laser tag history.”
I plant my feet and hold still for her. “Agreed.”
Annie pulls the trigger: pew, pew, pew.
My chest pack lights up red, flashing to show I’ve been hit. Annie whoops, dropping her gun to throw both arms around my neck, and then she’s clutched against my chest as we spin around, both laughing, faces close. The maze whips past us in a hazy whirl.
“Let’s get out of here,” Annie says when I finally set her down, her cheeks pink. As she bends down to scoop up her gun, suddenly she won’t meet my eye. “I wanna go out on a high note.”
“Sure.” It’s not like anything else can happen here that will beat Annie Lowell leaping into my arms. I’m on cloud fucking nine right now. “Where next?”
* * *
This car smells like one of those dangly pine freshener things, with the stale scent of fast food underneath. Worn leather creaks each time I move, which is every few minutes when we’re thrown around a bend without warning.
It’s warm in here, even with the windows open, the breeze ruffling the bag over my head. The radio is on, seeping classic rock.
“Oopsie.” Annie clutches my thigh as we go around another bend, my body swaying to the side. ‘Course, I could fight the motion easily, but why would I do that when she keeps touching me? Her little hand sears my leg through my jeans. “Sorry. We’re nearly there.”
I’ve never minded anything less.
Because sure, this car smells kinda off and it’s extra stifling in the bag, but Annie Lowell is pressed up against my side, and she keeps leaning close and whispering to me so the driver can’t hear. Telling me about funny things we’re passing and making little inside jokes that I don’t understand. Jokes meant for my twin brother.
Does she sit this close to him?
Does she touch him this often?
Christ, I know Wyatt’s gay, but the acidic jealousy eating through my insides doesn’t give a rat’s ass about logic. It’s not my claim to stake, but still: I don’t want Annie Lowell’s hands on any man except me.
And I’m not a good guy, so when another bend sends me pressing against her perfect body, you’d better believe I make the most of it. My eyes squeeze shut inside the bag, and my jaw clenches tight, and I savor every tiny detail of Annie’s body pressed against mine. The softness and heat of her. The green apple scent of her shampoo. The way her hair tickles my neck.
Then the car straightens out and I need to sit up again. It’s like peeling myself away from heaven.
“Just up here on the left,” Annie says, and she sounds weirdly breathless too. She raises her voice for the driver. “You can pull in anywhere along here. Thanks so much.”
We climb out of the car, Annie first with me following behind. My legs are wobbly, like we’ve been at sea for months rather than in a car for twelve minutes, and she snags a belt loop on my jeans to steady me.
A hard punch of arousal shudders through my gut. It’s like a physical blow, and my body curves protectively in on itself.
Christ.
All I want is her touch.
There’s the rumble of an engine and the crunch of tires, then our ride pulls away into the street. A breeze picks up, toying with the feather boa draped around my neck, but I’m still blind inside this cloth bag. Completely vulnerable to whatever Annie wants to do with me.
My shoulders ache from trying to bunch up around my ears, but I gust out a breath and force them to stay relaxed. Listen: it’s Annie Lowell. And while there’s no other person in the world I’d give this power to, she can have me at her mercy all night long. She can bag me, tag me, march me to any location in the world and I’ll go without complaint. I’m a lion being bossed around by a sweet little mouse.
I have one night with this girl. One stolen night with Annie.
You’d better believe I’m going along with every single part of it. Hell, I can’t believe I’m not busted yet.
“Tadaa!” After a short walk up the sidewalk, Annie whips the bag off my head for the second time. The sky’s fully dark now, speckled with stars, and the city street is lit with neon signs. We’re standing between a club and a shisha bar, looking up a rickety flight of metal stairs to an entrance up on a fire escape. Different kinds of music throb out of the nearby doorways, mingling together in a hectic soup.
Get Out Alive , the sign says up there. Well, if that ain’t my daily plan.
“It’s an escape room.” Annie explains quickly, folding the bag neatly to slip into her fancy little leather backpack. “You know, where you get locked in a series of rooms and there are puzzles and stuff to break out—”
“Sure.” I nod slowly, gazing up at that sign. The words drip with cartoon blood. Get Out Alive. It would be unhinged for me to take that as a threat. Unreasonable. “I’ve heard of escape rooms.”
And I’m supposed to be Wyatt, damn it. Wyatt wouldn’t be paranoid about danger right now. He wouldn’t be thinking grim thoughts about other locations he’s seen, places where people get trapped like animals. He’d be more worried about wrinkling his shirt and getting to bed at a reasonable hour.
When we were kids, my brother got so lost in reading his books that he’d sometimes wander into traffic, his nose wedged between the pages. There were more times than I could count that I yanked him back onto the sidewalk by the scruff, and every single time he’d complain that I messed up his collar. Made me want to shove his ungrateful ass back into the road.
“We’re a team for this.” Annie leads the way up the creaky metal stairs, and I follow. It’s an Olympic effort to keep my eyes off her ass.
Okay, so I lose that fight with myself a couple times before we reach the fire escape. But in my defense, Annie’s ass is peachy perfection, cupped by those soft dark pants, and I’ve lived like a monk for too long.
“So you don’t need to stalk me through the rooms like the Terminator this time. We’re working together.” Annie slides a wry smile at me over her shoulder, but she can’t hide the faint blush on her cheeks, the color deepening at the memory.
Wait a second. Did she like it too?
“No promises,” I say, crowding Annie against the front door just to hear her breath catch as she presses the buzzer. Goosebumps break out on her bare shoulders, and it’s not even cold out. I stare down at them, heart drumming in my chest.
You know what? Maybe that Get Out Alive sign isn’t a threat.
Maybe it’s a warning: Annie Lowell will be the death of me.