Chapter 17 Violet
VIOLET
There are at least forty girls standing around the haunted house entrance and twice as many men.
Not going to lie, I’m nervous. Like, really nervous.
Despite my bravado when talking with Lexie, I really don’t like scary things.
Or the dark. I really hate the dark. There’s something about your imagination and the way it plays tricks on reality.
The way it twists and taints while opening the door to your scariest nightmares, letting them wreak havoc on you until all sense of logic is replaced with utter fear.
I wasn’t always scared of the dark. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I can blame my dad for that particular phobia.
One too many nights of being locked in my room, the windows boarded up to keep me from sneaking out, and the money for the electricity bill being used on alcohol or fast food for one or, you know, anything but for the actual electricity bill until my room was painted in nothing but darkness for endless hours.
I take a deep breath and shove the memory aside. He’s not here. And even if he was, he’s not the man he used to be. He’s not the monster from my childhood. He’s aged too much to keep the title, despite his worst intentions.
Now, he’s just a lazy old man. He can’t hurt me. No one can hurt me.
This is only a game.
“You gonna win?” a low voice asks me.
My breath hitches as I peer up at the culprit. Ethan. “Oh. Hey.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “And, uh, I hope so? I guess we have to wait and see.”
Slowly, he circles around me, looking me up and down. “Guess we will.” A sly smile spreads across his face. “You missed the run-down. It’s gonna be a wild ride. You ready?”
A lump the size of a golf ball forms in my throat, and I swallow past it. Am I ready? No. No I am not. Will I tell Lexie’s older brother this? Not a chance. “It’ll be fine,” I tell him.
“And if it isn’t, I’ll buy you dinner,” Ethan offers.
Like a fish, my mouth gapes open. “Oh, uh—”
“Ladies,” another person calls from the front while simultaneously interrupting my conversation with Ethan. Hallelujah! It’s Roman. He’s wearing the same skull facepaint as Jagger, and for some reason, the familiar face almost manages to calm my nerves.
Stay right. Go left.
“Good luck,” Ethan adds. His hand runs from my elbow to my wrist, and I fight the urge to yank my arm away until his touch disappears.
He leaves me near the entrance, meeting up with a few of his friends.
I kind of hate it. How he’s attractive and somewhat familiar.
How he can relate to me on a personal level and clearly gets along with my best friend.
You know, since they’re related and all.
And yet…yuck. Sure, there’s a red flag or two.
I stand by my first assumption. He’s an ass.
But Jagger’s an ass, too, and how do I feel when Jagger touches me?
Not like when Ethan does, that’s for sure.
Not. The freaking. Time.
I look back at Roman, determined to pay attention even if it kills me.
“Put one of these on your shirt,” Roman continues addressing everyone. He holds up a stack of large, neon stickers, each with a different number. “It’ll help us know who’s who.”
My hands tremble as I wipe them against my baggy jeans while stepping forward so I can take a sticker.
“Violet?” His gaze rolls over me in confusion, though he covers his reaction almost instantly. “Got the short end of the stick, did you?”
“What?”
“Kidding.” His smile is almost warm. “Have you signed the waiver?” he asks.
“What waiver?”
Snapping his fingers, he points to me, and another person approaches with a contract of some kind. “It says you can’t sue anyone,” he explains. My eyes bulge. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “Nothing that happens in the haunted house can actually hurt you, all right? They’re just mind games.”
Mind games?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I scribble my name across the dotted line.
“Perfect,” he says. “Have you paid the entrance fee?”
I slip the hundred dollar bill from my back pocket.
“Benjamin for number thirteen,” he calls, but I have no idea who he’s talking to.
Without missing a beat, Roman hands me a sticker.
Sure enough, a one and three stand out on the neon pink background.
Not exactly my lucky number, but it’s not like I can ask for another one. “Good luck,” Roman says.
Why does everyone keep saying that?
You’d think it’d be comforting, as if someone’s rooting for you, but all I feel is the need to ask why I need any luck to get through this? Is it really so bad?
I shove the voice of reason aside, peel off the back of the neon sticker, and place it on my shirt above my racing heart.
It’ll be fine. They can’t hurt me. Roman said so himself.
So why am I freaking out? I’m already losing it.
Seriously, I need to rein in my anxiety as quickly as possible if I have any hope of making it through this thing.
But Jagger, then Ethan, and now Roman? I peek over at the dilapidated building.
Rotting wood. Iron door. Blacked out windows. What the hell is in that house?
“You good?” Roman murmurs, inspecting me.
I lift a shoulder, but my head bobs nonetheless.
He doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t call me out for lying, either. Instead, Roman yells, “Next!”
Another girl steps forward, and I try not to panic.
Stay right, go left. Stay right, go left.
I got this.
One by one, all the girls get their stickers then move to the front of the haunted house until a line forms. And with every additional player, I can’t help but notice my odds going further and further down. There’s no way I’m winning this thing. Shit.
“Gentlemen,” Roman announces. “Pick your winner, then place your bet. If you’d like to watch the event on a tablet, there are cameras streaming what happens inside, but it costs extra. Ladies,” he clears his throat, “Good luck.”
If that isn’t promising, I don’t know what is.
“I thought there were no electronics,” a girl claims.
“How else will we know who won?” One of the guys waves a tablet in the air. “Besides, I’m paying an extra five hundred to be able to use this thing, so you should be grateful.”
The girl scoffs. “Grateful? For what?”
“For adding more money to the pot.” The guy grins. “You’re welcome.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
Five hundred dollars just to witness our demise?
Is he serious? Five hundred dollars? What I wouldn’t do for five hundred dollars, and I'm not talking about the dirty money Jagger handed to me weeks ago. I’m talking about hard-earned cash like the money I could walk away with if I make it through tonight.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders.
I’m going to do this. I am going to do this. It’s only a haunted house.
My heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest as the final girls take their stickers and stand in line at the front of the shabby building.
Once everyone is relatively situated, Jagger reappears.
The cotton of his black T-shirt stretches around his biceps and chest, highlighting his broad shoulders like the first night we met.
His arms are crossed and a bored, almost uninterested, expression takes over his stupidly handsome features.
Or maybe it’s the facepaint. He doesn’t look at me.
Maybe he thinks I hightailed it out of here.
Or maybe he’s actively avoiding me. I can’t decide which is worse.
Beside him is Roman, with the same skull facepaint and same unnerving expression.
They legitimately look like gatekeepers to Hell, and here we are. Their prisoners.
But what’s worse? It’s how hot and cold Jagger can be.
How he can push me up against a wall and warn me to stay away one minute, then the next he’s pretending like I don’t even exist. Or maybe that’s the point.
Maybe he’s trying to seem uninterested so I can make it out of this stupid haunted house with no one the wiser, thanks to his words of caution and, let’s be real, super helpful advice about how to make it out alive.
Stay right, go left. Got it.
I cling to the words while Roman rambles on about the instructions.
I should probably pay attention, but I’m too amped up to focus on anything at all, let alone the logistics of an absolutely ridiculous event I’m participating in on the off chance I walk away with enough money to cover a new laptop and maybe a few drinks at The Pelican for me and Lexie.
Yeah. If we survive this, I’m definitely buying drinks to celebrate. That is, if I walk away with the money.
Not if. When. Because I’m not here for some extra spending cash on clothes or iced coffee. I’m here to graduate from college. I’m here for my future. I’m here because—
“All right,” Roman announces. “I think that’s it. If there aren’t any more takers—”
“Wait!” someone yells. Hair prickles along my neck as I recognize the voice. It’s my own freaking father. He stumbles through the crowd of men, a handful of twenties fluttering through the air. “I wanna make a bet.”
My gut lurches, but I don’t move a muscle, praying he doesn’t notice me in the line of girls.
“Over here,” someone else calls, answering him. “I’ll get you taken care of.”
Satisfied, Roman turns back to the group of us in front of him.
“Numbers one through ten. Line up. You have a two minute head start. If you rip off your tag, you’ll be escorted out of the haunted house for surrendering, so do not take off that sticker unless you’re out.
Understand?” Roman hesitates. “Each group is being timed. If more than one person manages to make it out alive, your time will be the deciding factor to who wins and who loses.” He turns to the group of guys speculating tonight’s event.
“Bets are officially closed. Jagger, is there anything else you want to add?”
From the porch, Jagger’s eyes finally meet mine. “Good luck.”