2. Gunnar
GUNNAR
I had just walked into the storage room when this little surprise popped through the door.
Now I can’t seem to let go of her. “I’m sorry,” she says shyly.
I unlock my jaw, finding it hard to talk with her scent invading my airway. Beer, delicate perfume, Halloween makeup.
“Don’t be,” I rumble.
This woman isn’t Claire. She sounds exactly like her. Same smoky voice. Matching the slight breathlessness when she talks too fast. Beneath the dead zombie flesh painted across one side of her face, she looks like her too. Same hazel eyes even.
But the woman I met a few weeks ago didn’t ramble or whimper nervously.
Claire walked into the clubhouse like she already owned a piece of it. She flirted with three brothers, drank fast and hard with Logan, then put her hand on my chest and suggested we find someplace private.
I walked away.
This woman barged into the storage room, screamed when she hit me, rambled cutely, explaining how beer ended up inside her bra.
Not Claire. I should tell her I know.
Instead, I flick on a small work light over the bench and lean against the counter so I can take another look at the pink monstrosity filling most of the room.
She looks around, pretty hazel eyes widening. “This is creepy.”
“It’s our prop storage.”
A choppy exhale leaves her parted lips. “Still creepy.”
The storage room became a temporary prop-staging area. Every available surface is covered with fake knives, rubber intestines, and the chainsaw I’m going to be using.
She fits right in.
Nervous, the woman fidgets with her dress, blinking across the dim space at me. I think she’s blushing, but the zombie effect covers it.
The dress is quite a piece of work. Hard to tell if the thing was real or was made for something like this. The pink fabric is torn, smeared with dirt, and splattered with blood. Some kind of thing—maybe hoops—holds the skirt away from her legs, taking up enough room to hide a body beneath it.
The costume is ridiculous. She looks fucking incredible.
“You’re coming with me,” I announce before the thought is fully formed. It also comes out as a rough growl.
Her eyes widen, a delicate hand flying to her throat. “Where?”
“I have a shift in the haunted maze.”
She glances at the chainsaw beside me on the bench before slowly returning her attention to the skull mask covering my entire face.
“I think you’ll scare them to death. You nearly did me in. I don’t think you need any props. Not looking like that.”
I pick up the canvas bag at my feet and shove two rubber hands inside. “Your costume is perfect. You can help me scare the fuck out of people.”
For a moment, she only stares. The way she catches her bottom lip in her teeth makes my dick stand at attention.
Her gaze drops to the bloodstained lace covering her chest, then travels over the wide skirt as if she’s seeing the costume through my eyes.
“You think it’s perfect? I felt all wrong when I got here.” The surprise in her voice catches me off guard.
“Yeah.” I sling the bag over my shoulder. “You look terrifying.”
Her face falls and she clears her throat.
“Not in a bad way,” I correct quickly. “You look good. Creepy, but good.”
Her fragile vulnerability does a number on my armor. Especially when a small smile pulls at her painted mouth. She tries to hide it by looking down and adjusting one of the folds in her skirt.
Muscles tighten low in my stomach. It’s an unfamiliar stirring.
I don’t know this woman. I don’t know her name or why she let me believe she was Claire. I should point her toward the actual bathroom and get to work.
Instead, I hold out my hand.
“Come on.”
She eyes it suspiciously. “You’re serious?”
“My shift started two minutes ago. It’s your fault that I’m late.”
She releases a disbelieving laugh, then reaches for my hand. Her fingers are cool, and so much smaller than mine that they disappear when I close my hand around them.
I like the way they feel there. Too fucking much.
“You can’t grab a random woman and put her to work,” she informs me as I lead her toward the door.
“This is a clubhouse. Different rules. You’ve been voluntold.”
“That’s not a word and I don’t remember agreeing to clubhouse rules.”
“You came through the gate, that means you play by our rules, and voluntold is a word. I use it all the time.”
She mutters, “I’ll read the fine print next time.”
I open the door and step into the hall. She jerks to a stop. “Hold on.” She twists sideways, but that only makes it worse. “I have to angle it.”
I reach down and tug the hoop through the opening. She pops through with a laugh, stumbling into me.
She looks up at my mask. Neither of us moves.
“This dress hates me,” she finally says.
“It attacked me too.”
She whispers huskily, “It has good instincts.”
That gets a laugh out of me, which I didn’t expect. I’m alone for five minutes with the little zombie and I’m coming unglued.
Not good. It doesn’t stop me.
I keep one hand around hers as we head down the hallway. Her pink dress fills up most of it. The crowd is thick and her dress creates a traffic problem everywhere she goes.
The main room is hotter than it was ten minutes ago. Every chair is taken, bodies surround the pool tables, and two lines stretch away from the bar. Someone has opened the back doors, but the cold air pouring through them doesn’t stand a chance against a hundred drunk people.
I push into the crowd with the pink zombie close behind me.
She holds the front of her skirt with her free hand, trying to keep people from getting caught in it. Her grip tightens every time someone brushes against her, so I pull her closer and use my shoulders to clear a path.
“I have a sister around here somewhere,” she says behind me.
“I know.”
Her hand tugs against mine. “Wait, how did you know that?”
We pass the end of the dance floor, and I spot Logan near the bar. He’s wearing a plastic Viking helmet and grinning down at a familiar woman in a black cape.
It’s no surprise she’s hanging from his arm while he pours beer into her open mouth.
Same face as the woman holding my hand. Similar dark hair. Voice close enough to fool you if you’re just hearing it in passing. Twins.
Relief barrels through me. The intensity doesn’t make sense. I’m relieved she didn’t have multiple personalities, because I’m insanely attracted to zombie sister, and not at all to the other one.
The woman beside me follows my gaze. Her shoulders drop when she sees Claire attached to Logan.
“Classic Claire,” she mutters. “Always the life of the party.”
“Not mine.”
I steer her toward the back of the clubhouse before Claire or Logan notices us. I’m not ready to give her back. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with her, but I know that much.
She’s mine for the night.
“Shouldn’t I tell Claire where I’m going?”
“Logan will keep her busy.”
“Oh.” Her nose wrinkles. “That’s not an image I needed.”
I laugh once. Short. Dark. That’s my laugh. People critique it. Not that I give a fuck, but something feels different, like it comes easier with this woman.
Cold air sweeps over us when we step outside. The air is carrying a faint hint of smoke from the fire and a sugary scent from the concessions area.
The backyard hardly looks like our compound now. We worked like fuck to transform it.
Orange lights are glowing through fake fog. A bonfire throws flames into the sky. Shadowy figures move between carnival games and tents.
“The brothers who belong to the club club and prospects—the guys trying to get in as patched members are circulating,” I explain.
She listens intently as I say, “They’re keeping everything under control. Well, as controlled as an outlaw motorcycle club can be. Mainly keeping outsiders from dying. That fucks up our insurance.”
“This place is wild,” she remarks, eyes wide as she takes in the spectacle.
“This is tame, sweetheart. Our club parties are where the real fun happens.”
She licks her lips nervously, shifting closer to me. Probably without realizing she’s doing it. “Well,” she says, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Fuck, she’s innocent as summer sunshine. It claws a deep trench of need right through me.
I keep walking, her hand tucked in mine.
The maze takes up most of the far end of the field. Ace and the prospects built the walls out of black plywood and old lumber, then covered the entire thing with dead vines and strips of torn fabric.
It’s creepy as fuck. People are screaming inside, followed by the roar of a chainless chainsaw.
The woman beside me stops so abruptly her feet tangle. “I’m not going in there.”
A group of laughing women comes running through the exit. One loses a shoe and keeps going without it.
“I don’t want to be trapped in a dark hallway with scary people.”
“They’re club members.”
She looks at my mask. “Again, not reassuring.”
I take a step toward her. She backs up, and the hoop beneath her skirt wraps around one of the prospect’s ankles.
“Oops. Sorry.” She tugs the dress away from him. By the time she turns around, I’m close enough that the front of her skirt presses against my legs.
Her eyes lift to mine.
“You’re really afraid?” I ask.
“I’m cautious.”
“You walked into a pitch-black room without checking it first.”
“I was looking for somewhere to wash beer out of my boobs. It was uncomfortable. It still is. My judgment was compromised.”
The reminder puts an image in my head I don’t need. Wet lace. The taste of beer on her skin. I tighten my grip on the prop bag and clear my throat. “What’s your name?”
“Rue Abbot,” she finally says.
Rue. The name fits her better than Claire ever could.
“Come on, Rue.” I close my hand around hers again before she can change her mind.