Chapter Three
Denis
“I CAN EXPLAIN,” I say, but even I don’t believe it.
The quirk of Emmanuel’s mouth says he doesn’t believe it either.
The heat flooding my face burns hotter when I notice the curve of his lips.
The fire flashed to life when he grabbed me and threw me against the wall, and I’m trying really, really hard not to think about why that might be.
I’m just surprised is all. Except that doesn’t explain why the curl of Emmanuel’s full mouth and his dark eyes boring into me and that dark stubble shadowing his tan cheeks stokes the fire even higher.
“Emmanuel, please, I can explain.”
His eyebrow quirks up. “You know my name?”
“We had biology together in freshman year.”
“That was almost four years ago. You seriously remembered my name all this time?”
I press my lips together more tightly against the heat that wants to crawl up my neck.
He’s right. That is a long time for me to hold onto one random guy’s name, and I’ve never admitted even to myself why I remember him and no one else from that throwaway elective.
When he joined the fraternity across the street, my heart both soared and fell.
I shouldn’t have recognized him, I really shouldn’t have recognized him.
I had no reason to recognize him. I came to this school to work hard, get my degree and go on to grad school so I can get a respectable job.
I’m supposed to become a lawyer or a doctor, something normal, something to make my parents proud.
I’m supposed to have an ordinary life with a wife and kids and 401K.
I’m not supposed to remember a guy from freshman year bio and blush when he throws me against a wall.
No, I’m not blushing. I am definitely not blushing. I’m a Christian. That’s why I called campus police about that horrible, satanic party that was going on across the street. I’m not the sort of person who blushes when another man pins him to a wall.
“Denis,” Emmanuel says, “if you’re going to explain, I suggest you start.”
Something happens to me when he uses my name, something verging on demonic possession. It’s like my mind and body are no longer my own. Something else inhabits them, a spirit that is anything but holy.
God help me , I pray.
I’ve been able to push this down for my whole life, even when I lived across the street from Emmanuel and had to see him strutting around in crop tops like the one he’s wearing right now.
I thought I’d conquered this particular proclivity, ripped it out of myself like a weed in a garden, but now it sprouts, buds blooming all over my brain like I really am the infected zombie I was supposed to portray tonight.
Something slithers against my ankle. I look down to find fog trundling across the floor.
It’s probably from one of the fog machines in the haunted house rooms, but in this moment it feels like ghostly fingers searching for a way to crawl inside me.
The mist seeps up my pant leg, but before I can freak out, Emmanuel grabs my chin in his free hand and tilts my face up so I have to look at him.
“Why did you ruin our party?” he says. “And what are you doing here?”
The mirth in his dark eyes suggests he knows the answer to both of those questions, and I stubbornly refuse to give him the satisfaction of confirming it.
“How do you know my name?” I counter. It has taken me way too long to remember that it’s as strange for him to know me as for me to know him.
He scoffs. “Everyone knows the name of the local buzzkill. Answer me. Why is a good Catholic boy working a haunted house, huh?”
“You already know,” I say, “so either go on and gloat or leave me alone.”
He smirks, revealing which path he’s about to choose. Something burns inside me, but it isn’t indignation.
“Aw, is it hard facing your own hypocrisy?” Emmanuel says. “You’re fine intruding on other people’s business, but you don’t like it very much when the tables are turned, do you? Maybe you should have left our party alone if you wanted to be left alone in return.”
“Your party was heathen indulgence.”
Emmanuel barks a laugh. It isn’t as ugly as it should be. “But your haunted house isn’t? What would you call this then? Is dressing up as a zombie one of your commandments? I don’t remember hearing about that one in Sunday school.”
I scoff. “As though you went to Sunday school.”
“I did, in fact. I’m confirmed and baptized and everything. Do you think I chose Arpor Sacred Sacrament for no reason?”
“But you’re…”
I trail off. Heat lights Emmanuel’s eyes. He squeezes my jaw harder for a moment before releasing me, though he’s still gripping my wrist and holding it against the wall near my head.
“Gay,” he says. “I’m gay. You can say it. I’m not as scared of that word as you are.”
I swallow instead of responding. Uttering that word aloud would add fuel to the fire burning in my face.
It would give that weed I’ve been rooting out for all my life fertile soil in which to grow, especially since Emmanuel is still holding me, his hand warm against my wrist and his body too close to mine.
The spicy scent of aftershave wafts over me, and even as my head goes light I wonder how a guy who always has so much stubble shadowing his tan cheeks can smell like aftershave.
“Emmanuel, please, I—”
“Many,” he cuts in. “No one calls me Emmanuel.”
That comes as a relief for some reason. The name Emmanuel carries too many heavy connotations, connotations that belong in a chapel and not this secluded hallway in the back of a haunted house.
“Many,” I say, “I know you hate me, but your party was inappropriate, and we both know it. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You—”
He looks about to snap my head off, so I rush on.
“And I work here because I need the cash, okay?”
Embarrassment adds to my unfortunate flush, but I clench my teeth and meet Many’s eyes, refusing to back down.
He blinks with surprise, his handsome features softening.
It’s incredible how emotion flashes through his face the moment he feels it, nothing held back or restrained or dulled in order to appear more palatable.
He is who he is, he feels what he feels, and the world can deal with that.
I would be jealous if he weren’t a filthy heathen.
“I didn’t have any other choice,” I say. “A.S.S. Uni. is a huge school. All the on-campus jobs got scooped up. I needed something, anything. Otherwise, I…I won’t graduate on time.”
I grind the rest of the story between my teeth, but judging by Many’s expression, he guesses at it.
I don’t need to tell him that money is tight back home, that the savings that were supposed to be for my education had to go toward paying medical bills, that I found myself choosing between a lifetime of loans or dropping out entirely in the middle of my senior year and therefore grabbed any odd jobs I could find out of sheer desperation.
His grip on my wrist softens. He doesn’t apologize, but he does release me. I hug my wrist against my chest and rub it, but it doesn’t actually hurt. He knew exactly how hard to hold to keep me where he wanted me without actually hurting me.
“Are you going to tell everyone?” I say. It’d be no less than I deserve after calling the cops on his party, but it could cost me this job if him or one of his fraternity brothers decide to make a stink with my boss.
“No,” he says on a sigh, shoulders sagging.
“Why not?”
I really shouldn’t ask, but the words burst out. He has absolutely no reason to be nice to me. We’re opposites, mortal enemies on campus and in life.
“Because as much as you’re a twat,” he says, “whatever you’re going through probably sucks, and my bitterness over a Halloween party isn’t worth getting you canned.”
He moves as though to leave, and something seizes my whole body, as though a spirit truly is possessing me.
It’s like someone or something else moves my hand when it darts out to grab him.
Many startles, going still in my grasp, looking down at the place where I’m holding him before dragging his eyes back up to mine.
“Thank you,” I say, voice too quiet, too raspy, to raw around the edges. “I…”
My thoughts wander off. The place where I hold him burns.
This time it’s me making the move, me holding him, me grasping after him.
The heat wells up inside me again, but I do a better job of keeping it out of my face this time.
Something coils up my leg under my pants, the mist from the fog machines climbing higher, like the snake in the Garden of Eden crawling upward to tempt me.
I swallow when I realize my mouth is hanging open.
I must look absurd in my zombie makeup and torn clothes, but Many peers down at me without a hint of laughter in his dark eyes.
He reaches for my glasses and plucks them off, folding them with one hand and tucking them in his pocket.
When he steps forward, I press my back harder against the wall behind me, but there’s nowhere to go, and even if there was, I’m still holding onto him.
The mist climbs higher, a cool kiss caressing my thigh, and my head swirls.
I’m a puppet on a string when I raise my hand and brace it against Many’s warm, firm chest, unsure if I’m about to push against his stupid, stupid, lewd crop top or pull him closer.
Whatever is possessing me whispers to choose the latter, the voice cool as silk against my ear.
“You like this,” Many says, and his voice is also quiet, way too quiet.
I shake my head. “Halloween is demonic.”
My denial lacks any bite whatsoever, and Many simply smirks, that cocky, lopsided expression that lights up his eyes with glinting mirth.
He gets even closer, until his body heat is lapping against me, providing a sharp contrast to that cool, coiling mist dripping into my ear.
He dips his head so his stubble can almost scratch my cheek, and my hand twitches on its own, as though something wants to move it to cup his face.
“I wasn’t talking about Halloween,” he says.
Whatever has seized hold of me sings in triumph, and my mind goes strangely, blissfully blank.