Chapter 33 Aston
Aston
“You do realize you’re supposed to be romancing me, not traumatizing—oomph!”
He shoves me. Hard.
Stumbling forward, I somehow manage to catch my footing before going splat and breaking my pretty face. Or worse, my dick. Because it clearly didn’t get the memo we’re probably supposed to be a lil scared right now…
What can I say? My dick’s a bit of a thrill seeker.
Knowing Vale’s equally as turned on by this little game of cat and mouse doesn’t help matters. I felt as much a moment ago—the solid, thick length of him digging into my lower back. Right above my ass.
“Okay, okay!” I mutter breathlessly. “Message received. Sheesh.” I give a little shake of my head, and take a hesitant step forward, craning my neck to look both ways. The cornfield stretches as far as my eyes can see.
Oh shit, does he mean…
“Um, Vale. Babe. You sure—”
“I said run,” a voice grits into my ear, making me jump.
(If you heard a little very unmanly eep, no you didn’t.)
When the fuck did he move?
This time, my body makes the decision before my brain can even catch up, and next thing I know, I’m racing into the fields, running like my life depends on it.
Heck, maybe it does.
Maybe I got this all wrong.
Maybe Vale’s got more nefarious plans in mind than simply fucking me silly and making me scream his name.
Maybe he’s not who I thought he was.
Maybe this isn’t Vale at all…
I nearly eat dirt with the intrusion of that much unwanted thought.
Nope. No. This is not the time to get all paranoid, I tell myself sternly.
Obviously it’s Vale. That was his voice…
I’m pretty sure.
Like fifty-five percent positive.
“Fuck. Me.” I gasp, legs pumping, lungs working well beyond their capacity.
Cornstalks rush past me in a blur, making my world feel all the more shrunken in. My heart pounds so fast and so hard, not unlike how it did when I was convinced the walls of the tunnel were closing in on me, I fear it might actually burst free of my chest.
Not having a clue where I’m going, it’s only thanks to the moon shining down on me that I can see anything at all. And while I know the smart thing to do would be to zig-zag rather than just book it straight ahead…
I really, really don’t feel like getting lost.
While this is far more preferable to the underground tunnels, the fact that I’ve yet to stumble onto any sort of break in the stalks—pathways, like the ones in the field by the Iron Furnaces—isn’t really helping the whole claustrophobic thing.
What if he can’t find me? What if he waited too long before chasing me?
What if he didn’t chase me at all, and this is some sick joke?
It’s that thought that has me finally slowing my pace and chancing a glance behind me.
Something in me sinks when I find myself alone.
No disturbance in the stalks that I can see.
Nothing.
I’m alone. I’m all alone out here.
A branch snaps loudly under my foot, making me jolt, my steps faltering as I dart a panicked look around.
At least it sounded like a branch. For all I know, it’s the bones of some other poor sucker who didn’t have the sense to say no when asked to play a game of Children of the Corn.
For as much as I hope he is out here, chasing me…
I’m equally crawling out of my skin with adrenaline—the nail-biting, chest-squeezing suspense of knowing I could be caught at any moment.
What will he do with me when he catches me?
My side twinges with a sharp pang, and I wince through my teeth as I cup my side, my legs fumbling as my body begins to quit on me.
My lungs are on fire, and my stomach churns like I might throw up.
Now that I think about it, I can’t even remember the last time I jogged, much less ran at full-speed.
Finally, I spot what looks like a break in the stalks.
Oh thank fucking—
I burst out of the stalks, crashing to my knees, chest heaving. Eyes bulging, I sweep a dizzying look around me.
“What…” I gasp, before a coughing fit overtakes me.
Having expected freedom, I deflate when all I see surrounding me is more corn. The small clearing I mistook as the edge of the cornfield is no bigger than my bedroom at the Jennings. Hacking a big wad of spit at the ground, I sink back on my haunches and wipe the back of my hand across my mouth.
My skin tingles. My throat burns. My pulse thunders in my ears.
This is so not how I imagined tonight would go.
Not that I’m complaining!
This isn’t me complaining at. All.
Nonono. I mean, so what if I’m woefully out of shape? So what if Vale’s idea of foreplay is luring me into dark, confined spaces and chasing me through an endless cornfield like some kind of axe murderer, masked and all?
My mask, might I add.
The little thief.
Not that I really knew what to expect tonight, for our first official date. When I saw Vale disappear behind that wooden cutout, I thought for sure he was leading me somewhere quaint and private for some X-rated canoodling.
What I didn’t expect was for him to disappear into the shadows like some kind of creature of the night, leaving me to my own devices.
Did I have to keep going?
No.
If it wasn’t for the sensation of eyes tracking me in the dark, the deep-seated knowing I wasn’t actually alone in there like he wanted me to believe, you bet your right tit I would’ve skedaddled right back the way I came and washed my hands of this nonsense.
But alas, a “final girl” I am not.
The things we do for love…
Sydney Prescott would be so ashamed of me right now.
I’ve gotta hand it to Vale though—as far as memorable first dates go, this is definitely one for the books.
But mark my words—he will pay for this. I’m thinking our next date will involve something with a whole lotta glitter. And edible lube. Maybe some animal print…
Focus.
Blinking rapidly, I force myself to actually pay attention as I take another slower look around. This time, I spot it—not quite the pathway I was hoping for, but trampled stalks could mean someone who ventured out here before was kind enough to forge some sort of path leading the way out of here.
Or it fell over, and you’re just making something out of nothing per usual.
I scrunch up my face.
Okay….so we know things are bad when there’s that pesky voice of reason mouthing off in my head.
See here, this is why we don’t make a habit of exercising—unless it’s of the carnal variety, of course—it sucks the oxygen from my brain, taking with it all the things that make me fun. Leaving room for other…not so fun things to slither their way in and take up real-estate.
Just get out of here, and all will be swell again.
Perhaps find a certain little mouse and spank him for once, for scaring me.
In my head, an image of his ass in the compression pants he wears when playing football springs to mind.
That’s much better. Follow the booty.
Wetting my lips, I reach under my robe for my knife and flip it open, sighing a breath of relief. I turn towards the crushed section of stalks. The sharp blade catches on the moonlight, glinting like a beacon.
I groan.
Nice.
“Shut up,” I mutter, angling the knife down, before tilting my head back and flipping off the moon. To that motherfucker, still on my knees, I whisper harshly, “I thought you were on my side.”
Big and full it just hangs there, staring down at me. Taunting me, as if to say, “I know the way out, silly, stupid boy…”
Grumbling under my breath, I push my heavy, exhausted limbs to a shaky stand. Steeling myself before striding determinedly toward what I hope is my way out.
I get only three steps when I hear it—
A rustling of leaves.
I freeze, eyes wide as they dart side to side. I cock my head, straining my ears, but all I hear now is the deafening thump of my heart determined to beat my ear drums to a pulp.
Probably just a breeze, I tell myself with a nod. Or you imagined it.
Okay, so maybe a touch of rational thought here and there ain’t such a bad thing.
Is this…is this a breakthrough?
Dr. B will be so, so proud of himself when I tell him. Not. As if that Dr. Phil wannabe deserves any credit for my personal growth.
Under my breath, I find myself singing, “One…two…”
Dr. B will just take it as permission to—
“He’s a comin’ for yo—” I slap a hand over my mouth, eyes bugging.
Okay, so that crackling sound did not come from me, the wind, or my overactive imagination.
Fuck. This is it. This is how I die.
I can see it now—the headlines.
From padded walls to a grisly death: how an 18-year-old twink got himself carved up in a cornfield all because a cute boy told him to run.
The press is going to have a field day.
In the back of my head, the song continues playing like an echo, but sung by a child instead. Two children. Flashes of kids jump-roping surge forth, invading the present.
“…buckle my shoe. Three, four…”
Lock the door.
I can’t remember what comes next.
LOCK THE DOOR.
Sucking in my cheeks, I squeeze my eyes shut and give a little shake of my head.
Go away.
When I’ve reopened my eyes, I tiptoe over the crushed stalks littering the ground, forming an uneven path that extends at least as far as I can see.
That will have to wait though.
First, I need to hide.
Carefully side-stepping back into the thick of it, I crouch down, using the dense cluster of leaves as cover, hold my knife out, and wait. My breaths saw in and out in uneven bursts that I try to get under control.
Was that a door creaking?
I give another rapid, jerky shake of my head. And with the hand not holding the knife, I sink my fingers into the earth until I feel a sting from my nails pushing into the beds.
You’re not there, you’re not—
Hands grab me from behind, and I start to scream, only for a hand to slap over my mouth, stifling it into a whimper.
I’m yanked to my feet, my grip on the knife loosening from the slickness that’s gathered across my palm. I manage to get hold of it before it can drop, squeezing the handle so tightly it hurts.