13. Anna
ANNA
I am officially fucked in the head. Ever since what happened between me and my stalker, it’s all I can do not to focus on it, but it’s not working very well.
I swear, it’s like an itch I can’t scratch.
Or at least one that I refuse to. I haven’t been able to “service” myself successfully in months since Sebastian’s face keeps popping into my head, ensuring I’ll be as dry as the Mojave Desert.
Yet, I’ve been practically aching since those blue eyes appeared in my bedroom, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.
I don’t even know what he looks like. Sure, the faint description Darcy gave me hardly painted an unattractive picture, but just because a guy is handsome doesn’t guarantee he’ll be my type.
So then why did it only take feeling him rub against me for my vagina to want to throw him a parade?
Because she’s been begging for attention since it happened, attention I refuse to give her since I’m too freaked out to venture down that rabbit hole.
I mean, what does that say about a person that they get turned on by the masked man who’s been stalking them?
More so, what does that say when said masked man is the only thing that’s been doing it for them?
Am I just that starved for physical affection?
It would make sense. I’ve refused to be with anyone since Sebastian, and Mr. Blue Eyes is the first man I’ve had any real physical contact with outside of a handshake in months. Maybe I just need to get laid.
It makes sense. And it’s a far simpler explanation than having to focus on the fact that my stalker gave me the best orgasm of my life with nothing more than his mouth and fingers.
Nope, I refuse to acknowledge that.
Instead, I’ll focus on the concept that won’t require me to visit a therapist’s office.
I’ve never had a casual hookup, but people do it all the time. It’s perfectly normal. Hell, how many apps are dedicated to this very thing?
The only problem? I can’t use any of them. At least, not one where I have to post a picture of myself. And who’s going to agree to hook up with someone they can’t see beforehand?
Answer: someone I probably don’t want to meet.
I could always do things the old-fashioned way, but going to a bar or club would likely require money.
Something I’m short on at the moment, especially given my latest purchase.
Sure, I could get a guy to buy me drinks, but I don’t want to be in a position where I feel obligated to give him something just because he does.
I want to make sure I have the resources to pay for myself and leave if things go awry.
And seeing as how I don’t have any bites yet in the application process, I’m still without a job.
This only leaves me with one option.
Pulling out a few of the boxes from under my bed, I set up my background to stage my photos for the purses and shoes I’m going to sell. I don’t like doing it, seeing as how it always freaks me out, like Sebastian might be able to track me down if he sees them, but I haven’t run into a problem yet.
Unsurprisingly, Darcy begins fawning over a certain Christian Louboutin heel as soon as she enters my room, hugging the pair to her chest when she realizes my intent to sell them.
“If you’re really that hard up for cash, I actually do know where you can get temporary work,” she says, plopping down on the end of my bed.
Darcy had already tried getting me a job at the club where she works, but the only available position was for a bartender, which I have absolutely no experience doing.
And since the place is renowned for having some pretty complicated cocktails, it’s not the kind of job where you learn as you go.
“If you’re suggesting Blackjacks, I already told Amelia no,” I laugh.
It’s not that I’m against stripping. It’s just that the only semi-reputable establishment in town still seems to have some rather loose rules when it comes to customers recording.
Plus, I don’t know how well my scars would go over, either.
Darcy playfully chucks a paperclip at my chest from the pages I have on my bed. “No, I thought maybe you’d be interested in working at The Slaughterhouse. Do you have any experience with scare acting?”
“I’m sorry?” I’ve never worked with livestock, nor am I interested in butchering them. And why would acting be involved?
I ask as much, only to receive an immediate eye roll.
“Not a slaughterhouse. The Slaughterhouse.” When she just gets a blank expression from me, she rolls her eyes again so hard that they almost come out of her head.
“Oh, Sweet Summer Child. Derry’s Slaughterhouse.
As in the Halloween festival. It runs for three weeks, and I was just talking to one of the regulars, Rachel, who mentioned they’re short-staffed this year due to scheduling conflicts. ”
She scrolls through some of the posts people put online from last year to show me what to expect, and it’s pretty much what I imagined. Carnival rides, game booths, haunted houses, and more.
“They could use a few performers around the venue, so if you’re not opposed to wearing a costume and theater makeup, I’d definitely consider it,” Darcy says, pointing to the actors in question.
Everyone’s decked out in heavy makeup, masks, and prosthetics to look like creatures from various horror movies. Clowns, ax murderers, and all.
“There is one potential downside,” she admits, no doubt bursting my bubble.
“With a body and face like yours, they’d definitely have you working the sexier end of the creature spectrum, so if you were to perform, you’d be getting a lot of male attention.
And the late-night crowds can be rather…
intense in the horny department. That’s how I met my ex two years ago, when he was one of the performers outside the haunted house.
We wound up hooking up in the ‘parlor room’ after hours, and it was honestly the best sex I ever had. ”
She winces, as if to appear guilty, but she doesn’t look too ashamed, and I can’t blame her.
Not when she shows me a picture of her former beau dressed in his Victorian vampire attire.
While the look is definitely unsettling with the pale makeup, blood, and whiteout contact lenses, there’s still something oddly sexy about it.
“Are you seriously telling me that I could get paid to perform anonymously in public, hidden beneath gallons of makeup, and I could get laid if I wanted?” Huh. Would you look at that? For once, it appears things might actually play out in my favor.
I meet up with Rachel and the performance coordinator, Natalie, later in the day with a “probationary” position, a.k.a.
I learn the ropes and perform for a night to see how I do.
If I suck, I won’t get the callback to return.
It’s that simple. As Darcy predicted, I’m assigned to a “temptation” role, which means my male counterpart and I are supposed to entice festival goers towards the Hall of Mirrors.
The Slaughterhouse opens on Friday, so I spend the next few days rehearsing with some of the other actors to learn specific choreography and performance techniques.
My new role as a skeleton bride requires two hours in the makeup chair, but it’s well worth it.
The application is made to look like my face is a skull adorned with tons of tiny jewels, and my contacts give the appearance that my eyes have slitted pupils.
Paired with a waist-length silver wig and a Gothic corseted gown that pushes my tits to glorious heights, I feel gorgeous, not to mention unrecognizable.
My sentiments are confirmed when Darcy swings by, walking right past me to talk with Rachel.
Not until I’m addressed does she do a double take, finally realizing it’s me.
“So, see anything you like?” she whispers, eyeing the male actors on the other side of the warehouse.
For the past few years, Derry’s Slaughterhouse has been setting up shop at the old industrial quarters by the river.
The place used to store old mannequins and merchandise for local retailers, and though the clothes may be gone, the mannequins still remain, now dressed up in different horror movie apparel for each of the actors.
Though, with it being so close to the opening, most of the mannequins are currently naked as everybody puts the finishing touches on their looks. Since Darcy is familiar with the company, she knows several of my male co-stars and points out the ones she deems as good dating and hookup potential.
Admittedly, a few of them are pretty damn cute, both with and without the makeup.
Even better, I’ll be working directly with one, seeing as he’s my skeleton groom at the Hall of Mirrors.
The guy in question, Liam, comes over and offers an arm to me when it’s close to showtime, and, to my surprise, I’m genuinely excited to start my job.
Not only is Liam a complete and total flirt, but he gives me some tips and honestly makes me feel at ease—a sensation I don’t come by often.
And it doesn’t go away. We head out to the festival, and I slip into the role like it’s a second skin.
It’s impossible not to be swept away by the atmosphere as fog machines, mood lighting, and music overwhelm me.
We’re treated to some tracks by Sleep Token, Bad Omens, and Neoni, and by the time Marilyn Manson’s rendition of “This is Halloween” comes on, I’m in the full swing of things.
For the first time in months, I’m completely at peace being in public, not shying away from the festival goers who enjoy taking pictures and videos with Liam and me.
Given my recent penchant for avoiding people at all costs, the feeling is surreal: being able to dance and get lost in the performance.
I’m almost euphoric in my anonymity, and when I get to go on break, I take the opportunity to explore the festival grounds a little more as I grab something to eat at one of the concession stands.
Four-legged stilt creatures tower over me as chainsaw-wielding psychos pass by, and I can’t help but smile at the shrieks and laughter of the guests.
They may not serve liquor here, but I’ve already seen several people with flasks, so it shouldn’t come as a shock when a frat bro smelling suspiciously of whiskey comes up a little too close behind me and grabs my ass.
I’m prepared to do what I usually would—smack him—but I’m not given the chance.
Out of nowhere, someone in skeleton makeup charges at the guy and tears him away from me, slamming him into the side of the concession stand.
At first, I assume my white knight is Liam, given the makeup, but the outfit is all wrong.
He’s not donning the steampunk Victorian apparel Liam’s been wearing for the past three hours.
Instead, they look more like street clothes: black jeans, a black v-neck t-shirt, and a jacket with a built-in hood.
Is he security? The few members I’ve seen have been dressed similarly, though none are wearing makeup.
Perhaps he’s with the Scream Team, otherwise known as the people who lurk in the shadows and jump out to scare unsuspecting guests.
I can only see his side profile, and I realize he’s actually wearing a reaper mask.
It covers his forehead to the bottom of his nose, and the rest of his face is painted black and white to resemble a skull.
He’s got the frat bro pinned face-first against the brick siding, securing his arms behind his back.
The angle at which he’s gripping the one wrist looks like it might break if he applies any more pressure.
He growls something too low for me to hear, but whatever it is certainly freaks out the frat bro, because he begins apologizing, repeatedly, begging to be let go.
Unfortunately, the frat bro isn’t alone. Two of his friends rush over, and I call out to the temptation workers in front of the fun house, telling them to get security I know is working inside.
There’s no way Reaper here can take on three guys by himself—
But when I look back over, I see one of them laid out on the ground, another doubled over with blood coming out of his nose, and the frat bro curled up holding his wrist.
And no sign of my rescuer.
Even more befuddling, after talking with security and the other staff, we’re able to confirm that, no, the Reaper wasn’t an employee at the festival.
“You okay?” Liam asks when we return to our post.
I smile and try to play it off, but the others keep talking about my unofficial bodyguard, which is the last thing I want. What if Rachel finds me to be a liability? I may not have done anything, but my presence still indirectly created a problem.
“Hey, don’t worry your beautiful little head about it,” Liam teases, twirling a lock of my long silver hair around his fingers. “I’ll make sure everyone, including your new admirer, keeps their distance.”
I’m not sure if he’s referring to the frat bro or the Reaper, but I’m also not about to question it. Not when he takes hold of my hand and does some kind of dance move that leaves me spinning into his arms, my chest pressed against his.
“You are my bride, after all.” He winks, leading us into a waltz that has the crowd applauding.
The only reason I know the dance is because Sebastian taught it to me, and the thought has the popcorn I ate earlier churning in my stomach. The mere memory of him is enough to sour my mood, so it’s likely why that inexplicable chill settles along my spine.
Nobody ’ s watching me.
At least not anyone who knows who I am.
I’m perfectly safe.
And if I keep telling myself that enough, maybe I’ll start believing it.