Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
Caine
“Hey, party girl.” I keep my voice soft as I enter the hotel room, breakfast in hand, Gremlin trotting along behind me.
I set the paper bag containing carby, cheesy, eggy goodness on the dresser.
Easing the curtains barely open, I let in just enough light for Margot to see by when she emerges from her blanket nest. On the nightstand, the bottle of water I left is empty.
That’s a good sign. I made her drink one before bed and take two ibuprofens, so hopefully she won’t feel too horrific this morning.
Last night was my first experience with tipsy Margot, and I’m a fan.
While she was fairly mild-mannered for the remainder of our time in the club—with the exception of telling two women who wanted a photo with me that they “better not get handsy”—the drive back to the hotel was a different, delightful story.
For eighteen glorious miles she alternated between complimenting me and falling asleep against the window, at one point waking up to mumble, “You have fantastic hands, I hope you appreciate them,” before dozing back off.
When we reached the hotel, she gave me a detailed demonstration of how she removes her makeup and her skin-care routine, and then she was down for the count. All in all, a great time.
A groan, muffled by the covers, makes Gremlin tilt her head curiously. The Yorkie trots toward the bed; I pick her up but don’t place her on it. She squirms, making a disgruntled sound that has to be Unhand me, motherfucker in dog-speak.
“Hey now, if your mom blows chunks, you do not want to be in the splash zone.”
Another groan comes from the bedding. I head for the paper bag containing coffees and breakfast sandwiches.
The Germ’s mood improves once she catches a whiff.
Suddenly, I’m no longer the evil claw snatching her out of one of those machines full of stuffed animals, but her best friend, her favorite person in the entire universe.
Shoe button eyes watch me pull out the coffees, then a biscuit.
Unwrapping it, I break off a pinhead-sized piece of egg.
Watching the Margot lump, I say, “That’s right, Germ, take a nice big bite of that biscuit,” as she licks the microscopic crumb from my fingertip.
With a garbled noise that I’m pretty sure is supposed to be “Don’t give her a biscuit,” Margot emerges.
“She lives.” I’m a little too loud, based on how Margot flinches. “Can I bring your coffee over, or will you yak on Germ?”
“Please bring it.” She groans, brushing a tornado of hair out of her face. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she looks around the room as if trying to figure out how she got there.
“So, now we know one and a half drinks is one drink too many.” Passing over her coffee, I sit on the edge of the bed to sip my own.
There’s a chair at the desk I could pull over, but I’d feel too far away.
This is yet another side of Margot I haven’t seen: the morning after.
She closes her eyes, making a small, contented noise as she swallows.
Shifting uncomfortably, I try not to think about how good her body felt against mine when she was grinding on me last night.
Or about how badly I want her to make that noise when I’m inside her again.
I’m staring when she lowers the cup.
“I’m so sorry for last night. I don’t know why it hit me so hard.” She shakes her head. “I can’t drink anybody under the table, but I’m usually good for a few glasses of wine over an evening.”
I shrug. “Bodies are weird. Maybe you didn’t eat enough before.” Setting my coffee on the nightstand, I head for the dresser. “Speaking of eating…” Giving the bag a gentle shake, I move back to the bed and settle in.
Her eyes sparkle as bright as Gremlin’s. “Breakfast food?”
“Of course.” I pull out one of the biscuits and pass it to her.
Unwrapping it, she asks, “What time is it?” before taking a bite.
I check my phone. “Almost noon.”
She swallows with a gulp, dropping the biscuit back onto the wrapper. “We were supposed to check out by ten.”
I catch her arm before she can get up. “We’re good, we’re good. I asked for late checkout.”
“Shit.” She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been such a pain in your ass this weekend. I’ll pay you back for whatever it costs for late checkout.”
“You have not, and you will not.” I nod at her abandoned biscuit. “Now eat or the Germ gets it.”
Gremlin yips in agreement.
Margot
Mortification at what an inconvenience I’ve been has me moving at warp speed, doing everything in my power to make up for it.
Hurriedly packing my makeup, I pinball around the hotel bathroom.
After knocking out a quick face wash and teeth brush, I make a mental list of specific apologies I owe Caine for my drunk behavior.
Sorry I all but peed on your shoe anytime someone looked at you.
Sorry I made you listen to a TED Talk on how nice your hands are.
Sorry I showed you the proper way to remove waterproof mascara.
Gathering my courage, I grab my makeup bag and give the bathroom one last glance to make sure we didn’t leave anything.
In the hotel room, Caine’s playing with Gremlin. He sits on the edge of the bed, spider-walking one of his hands back and forth across the duvet. Gremlin pounces and snarls, darting in to mouth his fingers before scurrying away. Her playfulness makes me grin.
“Think I’m finally ready.” Dropping my makeup bag into my suitcase, I try to force an apology out.
It sticks in my throat, unwilling to crawl into my mouth.
Not because I’m not sorry, but because the absolute humiliation of having to relive those moments makes my head ache.
Thinking of headaches makes me think of my meds, namely how missing them will only intensify the dull pounding in my skull.
Pulling the bottle from my purse, I shake three white circles into my palm and swallow them dry.
Caine’s witnessed the whole process, so I answer before he can ask.
“Bupropion. It’s an antidepressant.” I wait for a comment.
People always have to say something, ranging from the dismissive but well-meaning My aunt fixed her depression by doing Pilates, have you tried that?
to the guaranteed-to-piss-me-off Must be nice to just medicate your problems away.
Or Nicholas’s go-to, which still makes me rage: You’re relying on man’s cure instead of god’s; how can you ever expect him to fix you when you’re faithless?
As if I were a broken toy, and not a person whose brain needs a boost to balance out its chemicals.
Caine nods. “Gotcha.” Gremlin chooses this moment to attack his—now unmoving—hand with a growl that would be impressive if she were bigger than a shoe. “Whoa, easy, Cujo.”
Her butt waggles as she hops backward, trying to drag his hand across the mattress. “Gremlin, don’t be mean!” I scold. Releasing him, she gives me a look that can only be described as indignant.
“You interrupted her hunt.” Caine tsks. “That’s a capital offense. You better hope she’s feeling merciful.”
“I’ll prepare to plead my case.” Capturing Gremlin, I cuddle her to my chest.
He rises from the bed. “Do you mind if we stop by the haunt on the way back? It’s a little out of the way, but I didn’t think to grab the floor plans when I did the walk-through.”
After the way I behaved, I wouldn’t make a peep if he wanted to make a dozen stops on the way back to the house.
I’m also looking forward to being back at the haunt for the first time since last year, and I tell him as much.
The sly smile he gives me makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with how much I drank last night.
· · ·
The Abattoir is on the outskirts of Newbound.
The haunted house earned its name because it was built to be a slaughterhouse some decades ago.
However, zoning regulations changed, and that never happened.
The building sits in a large field surrounded by woods on three sides.
The field serves as overflow parking, and depending on the year’s theme, a space for outdoor scenes.
Over the years, the building has transformed from an industrial-looking warehouse to a more traditional haunted house aesthetic.
The main entrance was built out to look like a large front porch.
Faux shutters and trim have been added to give it a house-adjacent appearance, but its exterior will likely never be spectacular.
That doesn’t matter, though, because once you get inside, it’s unmatched.
A path winds through room after horror-filled room, and there are numerous spaces within the haunt that feel like they could be entirely independent attractions.
Three connected rooms are set up like an old-school haunted house, complete with furniture that makes me think of The Conjuring.
There’s a mirror maze, and a “killing floor,” as well as spaces designed for more psychological fears instead of jump scares.
Caine parks the truck on a loading ramp at the rear of the building. I’m antsy, hopping out of the cab to unbuckle Gremlin’s carrier from the back seat the moment we’re in park.
“Excited to be back?” he teases.
“Don’t even try to act like you aren’t.” Gremlin’s tote over my shoulder, I march to the massive roll-down door, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “I can’t believe you bought this.”
“Technically, the bank helped.” He unlocks the padlock as if this is just another year.
Though he’s trying to play it cool, he’ll cave eventually, I know it.
The metal door rolls up with a clatter and a whir.
Darkness waits beyond it. Any residual fatigue from last night is long gone.
Our footsteps echo in the large warehouse.
I’ve been in the haunt before it’s set up for the season dozens of times, but this feels special.
Filtered sunlight hits unassuming black-painted partitions, but I’ve seen how the space comes alive in the dark.
The way the already generous square footage seems to double or even triple.
Walls that stand dusty now will begin to breathe as patrons move through.
Shifting and swaying, they’ll pull guests deeper and deeper.
Screams and shrieks will become a symphony, evidence that the haunt is doing its job.
Caine and I move from one hallway to the next.
I watch him closely as we walk, trying to read his face.
He’s thoughtful as we peek into each room, occasionally making a note on his tablet.
I’m eager for a chance to peek inside his brain, see exactly what he’s dreaming up for this year.
In typical tortured-artist form, Caine does not share his notes or designs until he’s ready to execute them.
Eventually, we end up in the main storage room. Last year’s close must have been more chaotic than I remembered, because there are boxes and bins scattered everywhere. Adding to my confusion, none are labeled.
Caine sees me eyeballing a cardboard box nearly as tall as me and explains.
“Ronnie had a whole storage unit full of old haunt stuff. He was going to haul it to the dump, but I figured it was worth seeing if there’s anything we can repurpose.
” He nudges a box with the toe of his boot, waving away the resulting dust cloud.
“So we’ll need to sort it all?”
Caine nods. “Do you think you’ll be able to start a little earlier than usual this year to help me with this?”
“Yes.” I live for this sort of task. “Can we take a peek now, or…?”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Moving to a metal shelving unit along the far wall, he grabs a box cutter.
Before long, we’re five boxes in, up to our elbows in every wearable material possible.
Sorting items into keep and ready to use, keep but needs repair, chuck, and what even is this?
piles is immensely satisfying, but instead of settling into the calmness of a task, I’m scattered.
Maybe it’s being back in the haunt, or maybe it’s seeing how happy Caine is, but I’m aroused to the point of distraction.
Watching the muscles in his forearms shift and flex as he works doesn’t help.
Neither does his throaty laugh when I slip on the occasional mask.
Last night in the truck is the only thing in my head.
How Caine put on the mask when I was so close, as if he knew that jolt of fear would take me over the edge. I want to do it again.
I want him to terrify me.