Chapter 10
Ash
I almost turned around three times before I made it to Murphy’s.
The fourth time, I had my hand on my car door handle, ready to get back behind the wheel and drive off, when lightning split the sky and made the decision for me. Driving through a thunderstorm to escape my own bad choices seemed like overkill.
Just go in. Have one drink. Leave.
Murphy’s was chaos. Wall-to-wall bodies, voices competing with thunder, and the sports game blaring from every screen. The air hung thick with humidity from wet clothes and the smell of spilled beer. I stood just inside the door, water dripping from my jacket, wondering what the hell I was doing.
Getting under Jude’s skin. That was the plan.
After that photoshoot, after feeling his pulse hammer against my fingers while I held his jaw, after watching his eyes go dark and hungry despite the cameras, I needed to reclaim some control. Even if it was petty. Even if it was stupid.
So I’d make him watch me with his crew. Make him paranoid.
Riley spotted me first. She waved from a booth near the back, her space buns still perfectly intact. I pushed through the crowd, bodies pressing close, until I reached the table and dropped into the seat she’d saved.
She slid a glass of something amber toward me.
“Didn’t know what you drank. Got you a whiskey.”
“Perfect.” I took a sip, letting the burn settle in my chest. The alcohol helped. A little. “Thanks for the invite.”
“Thanks for actually showing up.” She grinned, leaning back in her seat. “Thought you were going to bail when you stood there looking like a drowned rat.”
Two performers from the Asylum zone appeared beside the table, their necks still stained from the fake blood. I was glad I didn’t have to worry about that stuff.
“Ash! You made it!”
“Finally getting to know the real crew.”
They clapped my shoulder and introduced themselves properly. Kent. Sienna. Names I’d only half heard shouted over screaming guests before tonight.
Riley waited until they drifted toward the bar.
She leaned back, surveying the group. “You settling in okay? I know the crew can be intense.”
That was the understatement of the fucking century.
Getting accepted onto this team had been harder than any of the actual physical work.
They were all tough performers, stage fighters, and martial artists who’d trained together and developed routines over multiple seasons.
Most of them worked together throughout the year as well.
Just because the Scream Scene died at Ridgeway didn’t mean the performers faded away.
They did gig work for bands and movies, taught classes and competed in competitions.
They had inside jokes and shared history that I couldn’t crack no matter how well I performed.
And they were all loyal to Jude. He’d taken them from the sidelines, nameless and faceless in twisted carnival outfits, and right into the face of the public. He might not have been the creative genius behind the thirst trap social media posts, but he was the reason people wanted to look.
“It’s been good,” I lied, taking another drink.
Riley gave me a look that said she wasn’t buying it but wasn’t going to push. “Well, you’ve been doing great. And that shoot today? Caught the end of it. Those shots will be killer.”
I thought about Jude’s throat under my palm, the way his pulse had jumped when my thumb brushed his lip. “Yeah. Mia has a real eye for it.”
A guy I recognized from the scare maze, tall with a nose ring, leaned across the table. “Ash, right? You’re the one who keeps making Jude lose his mind on stage.”
Several people laughed. My stomach tightened. “I stick to choreography.”
“Sure you do.” He grinned, but there was no malice in it. “It’s fun to watch. Jude needs someone to shake things up. He gets too comfortable. King of Halloween that he is.”
That was news to me. Everything about Jude screamed controlled and deliberate, like he’d planned every move three steps ahead.
Riley signaled for another round. “Ash is fitting in fine. Anyone giving him shit can answer to me.”
The casual declaration surprised me. Riley and I hadn’t worked together much, but apparently, she’d decided I was worth keeping around.
Conversation flowed around me after that. Shop talk, mostly—who’d gotten the best reactions tonight before the storm hit, speculation about whether management would extend the season since it was so popular this year.
I nursed my whiskey and tried to look engaged while my eyes kept drifting toward the door.
He’s not coming. Maybe Jude had changed his mind. Gone home instead. The smart choice, really. I couldn’t even blame him for it. Not when my intentions were so clearly manipulative.
Except then the door opened, letting a gust of wind into the pub, and Jude walked in.
I forced myself to look away so he wouldn’t catch me gawking.
I took a drink and counted to five before letting my gaze slide back.
He’d changed into dark jeans and a fitted black shirt that clung to his lean frame. Either he’d washed the gel out of his hair, or getting caught in the rain had done the trick, because it curled across his forehead in that messy way that made him look younger and less aggressive.
I watched Jude scan the bar until he found our group, and maybe I was hoping for something not there, but I was sure his expression shifted when he saw me. Not quite a smile but close to it.
The crew erupted with greetings as he approached. Jonas, the nose ring guy, shoved over to make room. Jude slid into the space, accepted the beer Riley handed him, and the entire dynamic of the table changed.
Fuck. I’d known Jude was good with people on stage, but this was something else. Watching him with his crew, seeing how they naturally gravitated toward him, was like witnessing a wartime commander bond with his troops.
Jude launched into a story about a kid who’d tried to climb the scaffolding last week.
“Swear to God, his mom just stood there filming while he scaled the thing like Spider-Man.”
Jonas nearly choked on his beer. “What’d you do?”
“Stayed in character. Grabbed his ankle and dragged him back down. Kid screamed louder than anyone we’ve scared all season.”
The table erupted. Riley threw a napkin at Jude. “You did not.”
“Parker had to comp their tickets.” Jude grinned, unapologetic. “Worth it.”
More laughter. Someone mentioned another incident from two seasons back. The conversation spiraled into shared memories I had no part of. Inside jokes I didn’t understand. References of people whose names meant nothing to me.
I sat there nursing my whiskey, nodding when appropriate, while trying not to look as out of place as I felt.
Jude caught the bartender’s attention and ordered another round for the table without asking.
His eyes flicked to me, and I was fucking powerless to look away.
My pulse kicked up a notch, and I hoped the lighting hid how red my cheeks felt.
This was a mistake. Coming here, thinking I could somehow gain ground with him by infiltrating his territory, had been a stupid idea. All I’d done was remind myself that Jude had a life and friends and an entire existence beyond what happened between us in dark corridors and backseats.
I drained the glass as the waiter brought the fresh round.
***
Two hours and countless whiskeys later, the storm outside hadn’t let up, and neither had the noise inside Murphy’s. The crew had expanded, pulling in stragglers from other acts, and the table had turned into a celebration of survival.
I’d laughed at Jonas’s story about nearly breaking his neck on a wet platform, contributed to the debate about whether werewolves or vampires made better scare characters, and managed to avoid looking at Jude for almost twenty minutes straight.
Almost.
Every time I thought I had my shit together, my eyes would drift his way. I’d catch him mid-laugh or see him lean back with that casual confidence that came from knowing exactly where he stood in the world. He belonged here, with these people, and they flocked to him. I was just visiting.
The whiskey made it easier to pretend that it didn’t bother me.
“I think it’s my shout,” I announced to no one in particular, pushing back from the table.
Riley held up her empty glass. “You’re a saint.”
I navigated through the crowd to the bar, squeezing into a gap between two groups of college kids arguing about the game on TV.
The bartender caught my eye, and I held up fingers to indicate the number of beers I thought we needed followed by a rough count of spirits.
He nodded and started flipping glasses up onto the counter.
“You’re one of the performers at Ridgeway, right?”
It wasn’t unusual to be recognized without makeup and costume, but it wasn’t common either. There were always a few candid photos of us all floating around on the internet, those hardcore fans—stalkers, really—snapping us between the stage door and our cars like we were B-grade celebrities.
It’s what made allowing Jude to fuck me in my car so dangerous.
I turned. The guy beside me was maybe my age, with dark blond hair, good bone structure, wearing a gray henley that showed off a solid build. He had an easy smile and eyes that lingered a bit too long to be casual.
“Yeah,” I said. “Have you been to the park?”
“Last weekend. You and that other guy put on a hell of a show.” He shifted closer, voice dropping to be heard over the music. “I’m Ryan.”
“Ash.”
“I know.” His smile widened. “Followed you on Instagram after. Hope that’s not creepy.”
It was a little creepy, but I’d seen worse. Social media came with the territory. I gave him a polite nod, nothing encouraging.
Ryan didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m already ordering.” I gestured at the bartender, who was lining up bottles on the bar.
“The next one, then.”