Primal

Chapter One

By the time I elbow through the costume chaos, my cart’s a red flag on wheels. A dozen Magnums. Industrial-strength lube, because challenge fucking accepted. And a knife sharp enough that security actually trails me to checkout.

The cashier scans it all without missing a beat and smirks when she bags the final item—a blindfold.

“Happy Halloween.” What she really means is, ‘Try not to get murdered.’

Joke’s on her. That’s half the appeal.

The only thing missing when I load it all into my car? A receipt for my sense of self-preservation.

My phone lights up in the console just as I take the turn onto my street. Steering one-handed, I lick the Flamin’ Hot dust off my fingers and tap speaker.

Too late.

They definitely notice.

Kristy appears first—resting bitch face fully armed. Lana joins a second later, smirking like she can smell the emotional damage through the screen.

“Let me guess,” Kristy drawls, before I can even say hi. “Ben & Jerry’s, family-size Cool Ranch, and that $4.99 wine you pretend is a personality?”

I glance in the rearview at my shame parade. “Rude. It’s Talenti sea salt caramel. Basically self-care.”

“Please.” Lana snorts. “We can see the Cheeto dust on your shirt from here.”

“Trauma has a flavor,” I mutter, “and it’s nuclear orange.”

Kristy sighs. “Honestly, you’re better off. Who needs a thirty-year-old fratboy with a crypto podcast when you’ve got loyal battery-operated company and better lighting?”

I kill the engine.

Damn. Feels good to hear their voices. Somehow, after two years of half-assed texts and birthday wishes, we’ve slipped back into rhythm like no time passed.

Like I didn’t fade out somewhere between rent checks and low-grade panic that hits at 3 am.

Back in college, we were chaos—stealing street signs after tequila shots, comparing dorm-cookie food poisoning like war wounds. Then adulthood scattered us. Lana to her law firm. Kristy to a classroom. Me? My freelance cave, where my most stable relationship was with my French press.

Until I broke the group chat silence with one text three weeks ago:

He fucking ghosted me.

They were at my door within the hour. Lana with top-shelf tequila. Kristy with her breakup playlist (Irreplaceable to Before He Cheats, zero skips). Both armed with the kind of venom only best friends who’ve held your hair over a dorm toilet can muster.

“Forget Brett,” Lana purrs, her cleavage practically eclipsing the screen. “The Verge’s hunters will ruin you in the best way.”

Kristy giggles. “That’s not on their Yelp page.”

“It’s implied,” Lana says. “Eight hundred bucks is totally—”

My key fob clatters to the footwell. “Eight hundred? You said five.”

“Worth every penny when some Jason Voorhees-looking Adonis pins you to a tree.”

The Verge’s Halloween Hunt. One night only, dusk till dawn. No names, no faces, just pulse-pounding adrenaline and very skilled hands in the dark. My stomach does that pre-rollercoaster flip between ‘Oh fuck’ and ‘Hell yes.’

“If I end up sacrificed to some rich dude’s sex cult, I’m haunting you both.”

“Five years running, zero police reports,” Kristy says. “Just glowing five-star reviews. Oh, although there’s one that said, ‘So intense, I blacked out.’”

Lana winks. “That was me. You haven’t lived till you wake up with leaves in your hair and no idea how they got there.”

“La petite mort, baby,” Kristy quips.

“Anyway,” Lana continues, “just transfer your share, P.”

“Eight hundred,” I groan, hauling my junk food haul out of the car. “For one night of—”

“Premium dick?” She counts on manicured fingers. “Professional Doms. Private forest. Top-shelf liquor.”

“So, you do this every Halloween?”

“Nah, just once.”

“And?”

“Best night of my life. Couldn’t sit right for a week.”

Kristy chokes on her wine. “How many times? I mean, how many guys?”

“Not the point.” Lana adjusts her top, mid-tutorial energy. “Point is, they vet everyone. Hunters and prey. No weirdos. Just …” She makes the universal finger-licking gesture.

The logical part of my brain is waving red flags. The Talenti-fueled part? Already lacing up her sneakers.

“Alright, ladies,” I say, hoisting my breakup buffet. “Wine and Scream tonight. Actual screaming tomorrow.”

“I packed bandaids, FYI,” Kristy says. “And pepper spray. Just in case.”

“For what?” Lana laughs. “Too much groping?”

End call.

Six hours to Halloween and the neighborhood’s bleeding orange. That PTA mom across the street has a motion-activated zombie. Moans every time you pass. The only two houses not decorated are mine and Kade’s.

Speak of the devil, I’m losing a battle with my grocery bags when the garage door across the street creaks open.

Out comes Kade, hauling a fake tombstone. He’s not wearing his usual rumpled flannel or whatever dad sweater. It’s a thin white tee. And it’s riding up when he shifts his grip. Damn. Since when did IT Guy have abs? No idea what he does at his job. Debug routers with his teeth? Wrestle servers?

And there, just above his hipbone … a jagged scar.

He looks up. Catches me staring.

A flash of the world’s most reluctant smile. And that faint dimple in his left cheek. Because God forbid he just be cute without it.

“Need help?” he calls out.

“Nah, all good.” I manage a half-assed wave before tackling the porch.

I’m one uneven step away from becoming a meme when I slam into some brick wall.

Kade.

My six-foot-three neighbor. Kneeling in my driveway, collecting my scattered snacks.

“You okay?”

The light flares against his glasses. Perfect timing. Now I can pretend I wasn’t staring. “Peachy. Just gearing up for tomorrow.”

He rises with an armful of my dignity. “Halloween plans?”

“Yup.” I grab my haul from him, flashing a smirk, because Kade’s the kind who probably hands out organic fruit goodies to trick-or-treaters. “What about you? Reciting sonnets to your cat?”

“Garage of the Damned.” He nods toward the tombstone slumped by his porch. “All Max.”

“Aww. Community service for the neighborhood kids. How … wholesome.”

His lips twitch. “We’re using strobe lights. And fake blood.”

“Ooooh, Mr. IT Guy gets wild.” I lean in. “Tell me you’re at least dressing up in costume.”

“Tortured Victorian ghost.” Deadpan. “Been practicing my moaning.”

I snort.

“Kade!”

The screen door slams. Max barrels toward us.

“Mom says we need more Snickers.” He skids to a stop, eyeing my junk food. “Whoa. Halloween snacks?”

“Post-meltdown munchies.” I glance at Kade. “Let me guess—you’re about to tell me this violates some ‘optimal nutritional algorithm.’”

“Was gonna say ‘Fire hazard.’” He shoves his glasses up with the side of his knuckle. “With the wine.”

“Buzzkill.” I shake the Cheetos bag at him. “Live a little, IT guy.”

“It’s data science,” he mutters, a flicker of amusement behind the lenses, and nudges Max toward their house. “Go get the stuff ready.”

“You’re no fun.” Max sticks out his tongue but obeys, calling over his shoulder, “Payton, you should come.”

“Sorry, Max. I’ve got plans tomorrow.” I jingle my keys.

“What plans?”

“Max.” Pure big-brother warning.

I wink at the kid. “Let’s just say I might need my running shoes.”

Max grins. “Kade says never run in the dark. That’s when—”

“—you trip over your own feet,” Kade interrupts, shooing his brother off. “Go find the duct tape.”

Then he crowds into my space, his shadow swallowing mine against the doorframe. “Heard The Verge’s gonna be intense this year.”

My thumb pauses on the lock. “Wait, how’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. Why else would you need running shoes?” He brushes past me. Tests the doorknob. Cedar, same as always. But there’s something sharper underneath tonight. Sweat. Adrenaline. “Watch for tree roots. Easy to stumble.”

My pulse stutters. “Think I can’t handle a little chase?”

He pulls back. A glint in those steel-blue eyes. “I think you’d chase danger just to see if it could keep up.”

“Kade,” Max yells from inside their house, “we’re out of tape too.”

Kade exhales, shaking his head. “Have fun, Payton.”

I watch him cross the street.

Those glasses are a crime. That jawline should be illegal. And oh, he absolutely reads sonnets to his cat. Probably iambic pentameter, because of course Kade would take his nerd game all the way to Shakespearean levels.

And still … I’m standing here with cheap wine. Melting Talenti. Cheetos crumbling under my elbow like my standards. That man just implied I’d flirt with danger. For fun.

Rude.

Accurate, but still rude.

Inside, I dump my haul on the counter. My stupid heart’s pumping way too fast. As if I’ve already sprinted through a goddamn forest.

The guys at The Verge? They’re supposed to be fantasy. Anonymous, muscular, paid to ravish you in ethically sourced leather masks. That’s the whole appeal. No awkward run-ins while taking out the trash the next morning.

Which makes Kade completely off-limits.

Besides … he’s not my type.

Shy. Predictable. Safe. The kind you’d ask to water your plants. Or troubleshoot your router.

Kade’s idea of danger is using the same password for all your logins. Probably thinks foreplay is whispering, ‘Sudo access granted’ in your ear.

Doesn’t matter his hands look like they could pin me down without breaking a sweat. Or that the glimpse of his lightning bolt scar made my brain reboot like a corrupt file. Or that sometimes I wonder what he looks like without those glasses. Without the shirt.

Nope.

Guys like Kade are the human equivalent of unbuttered toast—technically nourishing, if you like bland men with stupid, unfair dimples.

Priorities, Payton.

I pour a generous glass of the wine and text the group.

What exactly should I expect tomorrow?

KRISTY

To forget the douche’s name by sunrise.

LANA

Running. Screaming. And when they catch you? Ohhh, baby. That’s when the REAL game starts.

LANA

Pro tip: The fun isn’t in escaping. It’s when you realize you won’t.

KRISTY

Or you don’t want to. LOL.

The wine burns going down. The Verge feels like stolen street signs. Like every bad idea that seems brilliant at first.

I toast the dark window—to the hunters, the monsters, whatever’s waiting in those woods. Bring it on.