Chapter Thirty-Six
THIRTY-SIX
Phoebe
“Please! Don’t kill me. You don’t want to do this.
I promise, you don’t.” The final girl on the giant movie screen sobs and pleads for her life while the masked murderer looms over her.
He cranes his head in a creepy, sadistic tilt.
Then he raises an axe and—bam! She pulls out a gun and shoots him square in the head.
Blood drips down his temple before he collapses at her feet.
Rocky coughs on a popcorn kernel, and I swiftly hand him a fountain soda. He takes a gulp, then leans into my side to whisper-hiss, “What the fuck? When did she get a gun?”
“Ten minutes ago. You didn’t see her pick it up off the floor?”
“No, I was too busy paying attention to the psycho with the axe.” He speaks a little too loudly, because a lady three rows ahead angrily shushes us.
It doesn’t matter, because the credits start to scroll a minute later. Lights brighten the dark crowded theater and the many occupied velvet seats. This wasn’t some obscure horror flick. It was a sold-out showing of a summer blockbuster.
The abrupt ending has Rocky glowering at the movie screen. “That’s it?”
“She survived,” I tell him and brush off crumbs from my lap. Ugh, why does popcorn have to be so messy? I peer back at the credits. “What more is there?”
“How about, what is she going to do now that all her friends are dead, her house was set on fire, and she’s wanted for three different murders that she didn’t even commit?” He pushes at his black hair, some strands hanging disobediently in his face.
“Valid points, but normally horror movies end when the main characters survive. They don’t unpack the trauma of surviving.” That endnote hangs heavy in the air, and I watch Rocky work his jaw into a tighter scowl.
Okay, so this movie might’ve been a bad idea, but I didn’t know Rocky would draw comparisons to himself. But maybe I should have known. I am the horror movie buff. And technically, Rocky is the “final boy” of his own childhood.
The true sole survivor of his entire familial line.
It doesn’t help that the president of the Historical Society organized a Float on the River event for this weekend.
Where the lovely citizens of Victoria, us included, can tie off colorful inner tubes and sunbathe over the bodies of Rocky’s deceased family.
Unknowingly since the Wolfe family deaths are largely buried and forgotten, but still.
It also doesn’t help that Varrick got the event canceled earlier today. Rocky’s skepticism is at an all-time high with that act of kindness, considering Varrick is the fucking reason his family is dead in the first place. So if this was his attempt at currying favor with Rocky, it didn’t work.
He’s never been more on edge.
Which puts me more on edge.
Eerie music floods the movie theater, and Rocky and I aren’t rushing to exit. We stay seated in the very back row while people rise with their candy wrappers and emptied popcorn buckets to leave.
I don’t invoke Varrick’s name in this hallowed space. It’s like calling upon a hell demon. All it does is draw more and more rage out of Rocky’s eye sockets, and right now his irritation hasn’t even simmered down.
He squeezes the fountain soda, his gaze cemented on the scrolling credits like every single name has personally affronted him.
“This movie is bullshit,” he tells me. “How is this a happy ending at all?”
“She’s alive. That was the goal.”
He cocks his head in thought, then nods once. “Alive but fucked-up.”
“She was already a little fucked-up before the murder. And the fire.”
He stuffs the soda in the cupholder. “But at least give me a fucking ending. That was the middle.” He swings his head toward me. “And I know you love this genre, Phebs, but it’s depressing as shit.”
“It’s hopeful,” I counter. “Someone always survives…” I pause. Wait, that’s wrong. “Unless you’re Cabin in the Woods, Cloverfield, Final Destination 5…” I scrunch my face. “Okay, maybe it’s not a hard-and-fast rule.”
He raises his brows at me. “And here I was about to say I’d watch all the depressing-as-shit movies with you as long as you don’t spoil them.”
I suck in a breath. I did spoil those, didn’t I? “Oops?”
“Don’t act so sad about it.”
I am grinning. “You still watched The Ring with me after I spoiled that one when I was fifteen, and in my defense, who hasn’t seen The Ring?”
“Someone who wants peaceful dreams.”
I throw a kernel at his face. He catches it in his mouth, and his accompanying satisfied smile is to both my delight and my misery.
I make an annoyed humph sound because I was not trying to feed him.
Rocky relaxes back in his seat, and we overhear some older ladies gabbing mindlessly as they exit. “They’re already saying it’s going to a Thornhall. Either the boy or the girl.”
They must not notice the boy Thornhall is in the movie theater beside me. “There’s still so much summer left,” her friend says. “Varrick couldn’t have already chosen.”
“The de la Vegas wouldn’t print it in the Weekly if it weren’t true. It didn’t even say allegedly. The Wolfe inheritance is going to a Thornhall.”
“Most likely going to a Thornhall,” her friend clarifies. “I still think it’ll end up with a Koning.”
That’s promising. Another win for us after planting rumors in the local paper. We turn back to each other, but in our peripheral, we both spot the teenage girls who work at Seaside Griddle side-eyeing us. They cover their mouths to whisper-giggle too loudly, “Oh my God, it’s Grey and Phoebe.”
A girl squeals. “Do you see the way he’s looking at her?”
Rocky has another smug smile on me, and I launch a second kernel at him. Right in his mouth. Ugh, enough. Now I really am feeding him.
I should probably thank Sidney for her heroic recap of Grey Thornhall defending my honor at Trent’s party. I never thought people here would swoon over the idea of me and Rocky getting back together.
The toxic ex-husband is no more. How easy perceptions change.
Slowly but surely, I’ve been seen out more with Rocky all summer. But we haven’t set a date for when we’ll be official in public. We haven’t planned out some big reveal.
Should we have?
Ignoring the spectators, Rocky leans into me and roots a hand on the back of my chair.
“You know what I think?” His intense gray eyes are heavy on me.
I smell his intoxicating musk and the expensive leathery cedar cologne he spritzed tonight.
He’s rolled the sleeves of his black button-down to his strong forearms. Veins spindle toward his wrists.
My lungs inflate as he’s inches from me, my skin tingling.
“What?” I whisper.
“That you’re attracted to the morbid, fucked-up shit.”
I grind away an abrupt smile. “Or it’s attracted to me,” I counter. “I’m a magnet for the macabre. Perfect example.” I wave a hand at his face. “Gruesome. Terrifying.”
His hot breath hits my ear. “You should be terrified of what I’m going to do to you tonight.”
I almost snort, but the danger pulsing in his dark gaze is a tether drawing me in. I’m letting him as his eyes travel over me in the least platonic way conceivable. My imagination runs rampant with flashes of Rocky pounding inside of me.
My breath becomes shallow.
Especially as his fingers graze the fallen spaghetti strap of my red sundress. His knuckles brush my skin. A shiver ripples along my entire body at the sensitivity.
Caging more breath, I go very still.
He lifts the cotton fabric back to my shoulder and pushes strands of my dark blue hair off my neck, exposing more sensitive flesh. What is he doing?
His closeness is a heady, inviting rush. I want to crawl toward the feeling with everything in me, but a weird panic screams, Run away!
Self-preservation. This is what I’ve been taught.
Protect our identities.
Do not give in to my desires. To the longing for Rocky.
We’ve never had a real kiss with a real audience.
I tilt my head slightly to meet him head-on. It causes our lips to nearly skim. People are watching. I hear the two teenagers whispering at an audible octave as they take their sweet time to reach the exit.
“I told you they’re really together, Grace. Look.”
Yes, yes, we are together! I want to shriek it like a banshee. But my lips are padlocked on instinct.
Is it too early?
Is there a right time? Should we actually map this out? Strategies, logistics, things…my mind melts into molten lava.
Because Rocky hasn’t ripped his gaze off me. He suddenly tears the popcorn bucket from my hands, setting it on the ground.
“Rocky,” I warn. “I’m not a movie theater litterer.”
“I had no idea.” He skates another coarse hand through his hair. “It’s not like I haven’t been to the movies with you a hundred fucking times.” His dry tone is just drowning me in confusion. I can’t tell if he’s ready to leave or not.
“I always went with your sister,” I correct him. “You just tagged along.”
He lifts his brows. “Could that be because you both were trying to sneak in flasks of vodka, and I didn’t want you to get caught underage-drinking in a fucking Cineplex?”
Out of all the lawless things we’ve ever done, that has to be bottom tier. “That was one time,” I whisper, my gaze dropping to his lips. Heat roasts my cheeks as he notices. “And don’t act like a moral authority. You literally stole our flask and drank half of it.”
“It was good liquor. And I’ve never been a moral anything.” He cocks his head at me, like I’ve forgotten who he is.
I direct my scorching face away from him, and I freeze. Is it my paranoia or is the theater still half full? I know my relationship has been B-level entertainment for this town, but that B doesn’t stand for Blockbuster.
Rocky rises to his feet, but before I can follow, he suddenly seizes my hips and lifts me. He places my ass on the top of the theater chair, and I clutch his biceps like he’s thrown me halfway across the room. What the hell? What the hell?