Chapter Twenty-Six
“Skip it,” Kristy says, her foot jabbing my thigh. “Last thing you need is another ‘feminist’ horror movie where women suffer beautifully for two hours.”
I squint at my laptop. “But Midsommar is different and—”
“Flowers in her hair while she burns some dude alive? Please. If I want to watch a toxic relationship go up in flames, I’ll screen your text thread with Brett.”
She’s right. Two days of rereading the same three messages and calling it closure. God, since when did I get so pathetic?
“At least have the balls to say it to my face,” I mutter.
Kristy snorts. “Obviously, the guy’s idea of confrontation is clicking ‘unfollow.’”
Lana raises her glass. “Cowardice isn’t illegal, unfortunately.”
“Should be. Along with that tragic chinstrap beard.” Kristy passes me the remote. “Now pick a movie in thirty seconds. Or I’m putting on The Notebook.”
“It’s not even about Brett. It’s about common fucking decency. Can’t believe I wasted six months with a douchebag who can’t even text me ‘it’s over.’”
“Want me to make a voodoo doll?” Kristy offers. “I’ve got glitter glue and tiny khakis.”
“If you ask me, men like Brett don’t deserve anger. They deserve oblivion.” Lana stretches across my couch like a panther, her silk shirt riding up. “Speaking of professionally disappointing men …”
She sets her glass down and flashes her phone screen—a Slack thread with J.B. Young. They want to discuss her ‘attitude’ in Monday’s deposition.
Kristy whistles. “Damn. What’d you do this time?”
“Told a judge his precedent was ‘as outdated as his haircut.’ Worth every penny of the ‘professionalism seminar’ they’re making me take.”
“Fuck ’em,” I say automatically.
“Oh, I plan to. Just not at the office.”
Kristy steals the laptop. “How’s the family empire? Still pretending you’re not the black sheep?”
“Please. My mother’s Thanksgiving toast last year was ‘At least my little girl’s not pregnant like Cousin Emily’.” Lana rolls her eyes. “Three generations and I’m the only one who didn’t get into Harvard. Apparently, I owe them a lifetime of overcompensating.”
“That’s awful,” Kristy says.
“Good news is, I’ve got my own personal hype man now.”
“The guy from your Insta story?”
“Nope. You haven’t met him.”
“So, who is it?” Kristy pounces. “How long’ve you been sneaking around?”
Lana’s fingers tighten around her glass. “Two years.”
“Really?” Kristy sits up so fast my laptop slides to the floor. “Two years and we’re just finding out?”
A shrug. “Wasn’t serious at first.”
“And now?”
“Now he’s teaching me things.”
“Ugh, don’t make it sound like a bad porno—”
I nudge Kristy. “Let the woman have her secrets. You know Lana collects men like they’re trial exhibits.”
“Fine. Fine.” Kristy huffs, scrolling again. “Okay, no sad movies, no rom-coms. What about Zombieland? The apocalypse feels relatable.”
Lana traces her glass. “I’ve always liked zombies. Predictable. Honest about what they want.”
“Yeah. Brains.” Kristy mimes a chomp.
Lana swirls her wine, watching the legs slide down.
I nudge her. “You okay?”
“It’s just exhausting trying to please everyone sometimes. Pretty sure that headache before Sunday dinner is the only thing I don’t fake.”
“That’s the Chardonnay talking.”
“Nah,” Lana says softly. “That’s the ‘me’ they’d send to therapy.”
I wince. “That bad?”
“Worse. But I’ve found … outlets.”
“You mean that guy?” Kristy teases.
“Krav Maga.” Lana flexes her hand. “Turns out I’ve got a killer right hook.”
“Wow. Self-defense classes, huh?” Kristy grins. “Does this mean I finally get to see you in those tiny MMA shorts?”
Lana flicks a pistachio shell at her. “I wear sweats, you degenerate.”
“Yeah, you own, like, four silk blouses and a skirt that legally qualifies as a belt.” Kristy turns to me. “Remember when she wore heels to that frat party sophomore year?”
“The mud pit incident,” I deadpan.
Lana scoffs and sips her wine. “Enough about me. Can we get back to the actual crisis here?”
“Right, right.” Kristy giggles and turns to me. “You need a distraction, babe. Something so good it kicks the heartbreak right out of your spine.”
“I don’t need a distraction. I need a lobotomy. Or his balls in a blender.”
“Oh, come on.” Kristy slings an arm around my shoulder. “Time to reclaim Slut-O-Ween. Let’s do something fun.”
“Mmm …” Lana sets down her glass. “I can’t. Already got plans.”
Kristy shoots her a knowing look. “Oooh. A date with Mr. Teaches-You-Things?”
“More like a date with many.”
“Sounds like either an orgy or a cult.”
Lana’s smile is lazy, secretive. “Maybe both.”
“Details … now.” I throw a pillow at her.
She snatches it mid-air. “Fine. There’s this place. The Verge.”
Kristy frowns. “What, like a bar?”
“Nah. It’s a place out in the woods. Most of the year it’s low-key. Kink retreats, bondage bootcamps. But Halloween? That’s when the Hunt happens.”
I blink. “The what?”
“Ever heard of primal play? You get a safe word and a head start. Then the hunters are released.”
Kristy nearly drops her wine. “Hunters?”
Lana nods. “Professional Doms. Men wearing masks from iconic horror movies. You run. They chase. If they catch you … well. That depends what you’re into.”
I swallow. “Wait—like Ghostface?”
“Ghostface, Jason, Michael Myers, plenty more.”
Kristy gasps. “Why are we just now hearing about this?”
“Because we were barely talking, and ‘hey, wanna get hunted for fun?’ doesn’t really land in a birthday text.”
“Holy shit. This is happening. We’re doing this.”
Lana smirks. “It can get pretty intense.”
“Good,” I blurt out. “I want intense.”
It’s stupid. Reckless. I’d probably chicken out by tomorrow.
Kristy fist-pumps. “Yes! Payton Reed, are you finally embracing your kinks?”
Lana studies me, swirling her wine. “You’d be prey. Hunted. You understand what that means?”
I nod. “They chase us. If they catch us—”
“Bonus round,” Kristy quips.
“It’s not just that.” Lana’s voice drops. “They’ll push you. Make you scream. Some girls tap out in five minutes.”
A delicious kind of shiver runs through me.
Kristy grins. “Babe, if I wanted gentle, I’d date a guy who says ‘Ma’am’ during sex. Besides, Payton needs this. Think of it as … rage therapy. With cardio.”
Lana shrugs. “Fine. Just remember it’s … transformative.” Her gaze flicks to me. “But if you’re not sure …”
I lift a brow. “Let me guess, there’s a secret ravish fee?”
“Tickets cost five hundred each,” Lana says, like it’s the cost of enlightenment.
“Wait, what? I’m supposed to fork out five hundred dollars to run around in the woods and possibly get fake-murdered by hot men in masks?”
Kristy’s bobbing her head and mouthing, ‘Please.’
“Fine.”
She whoops. “Slut-O-Ween is saved!”
#
By the time the girls leave and the last wine glass gets tossed in the sink, I should be passed out. But my brain’s still buzzing, wired on cheap Chardonnay and Brett-shaped rage. The quiet feels wrong—too heavy after all that laughter.
I’m crushing an empty chip bag when movement catches through the window. Just a flicker at first, dark against darker.
I lean over the sink, pull the blinds down with one finger.
Loitering on the curb is some sleep-deprived vigilante in glasses, a beige sweater, and gray sweats. Kade.
“Hey,” I call through the window. “You casing the neighborhood for your next knitting circle?”
“Cat won’t stop bitching.”
I push open the screen door and jog toward him.
Up close, he smells like cedar and whatever detergent he uses. His jaw’s set, shoulders tight. Grumpy-Kade mode. He grabs a pebble and hurls it at the tree.
Something hisses from the maple. An orange tabby, fur fluffed.
“Seriously?” I snap. “It’s stuck.”
“And I’m helping.” He chucks another tiny rock.
Ping. Hiss.
“Go climb up and get it.”
He crosses his arms. “Why?”
“Because you’re tall and vaguely functional.”
“And you’re what? Morally opposed to ladders?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
“You’ll break your neck.”
I wave at him to step back then roll my hoodie sleeves up. “Watch how a pro works.”
The lowest branch is thicker than my thigh. I haul myself up, sneakers skidding.
“Graceful,” Kade mutters.
I hook a knee over the branch—almost there. Something yanks me backward.
Kade sighs. “Real professional.”
“Shut up.” I tug at my hoodie—snagged on a fucking branch.
The branch creaks.
The cat watches, unimpressed.
My arms burn. Damn thing’s choking me. And fuck, that next branch is suddenly three miles away.
“Is this the part where you fall and I catch you?”
“Just stand there and look pretty.” I lunge, grab the branch, swing one foot over, and—
Yes. Mission accomplished.
My foot flails at empty air. I make a noise that’s half squeak, half dying seagull.
An arm bands around me.
Kade.
My spine’s molded to his solid chest.
He fumbles around my hip, pinching the back of my hoodie. The damn thing’s caught again.
“Told you,” he growls. Dark. Rough. Warning-label shit.
He rips it free.
Neither of us moves.
I swallow.
Turns out IT Guy’s got decent upper body strength. Not that I’m noticing. Definitely not fantasizing about him shirtless later.
The cat leaps onto his shoulder before my brain can get any more bright ideas.
Kade tightens his grip, probably imagining throttling us both.
He lowers me, bit by bit, until my sneakers touch ground.
I twist free. Spring apart.
The cat purrs smugly from Kade’s shoulder. He grabs the little traitor by the scruff. “Next time, I’m letting you both fall.”
The tabby purrs.
Kade gives me a sidelong glance. “You good?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs, scratching the cat behind its ears. “Didn’t peg you for the two am type.”
“Says the guy tossing rocks at distressed animals.”
“This little shit’s been yowling outside my window for hours.” His eyes flick to my mouth before meeting mine. “You’re bleeding.”
I swipe my thumb across my lips. Damn. Must’ve bitten it during the fall.
Kade adjusts his grip on the tabby and takes a deliberate step back. “Go to bed, Payton.”
I scowl. “Bossy much? Don’t tell me what to do.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “Then don’t climb trees drunk.”
“I wasn’t—” The lie dies when I sway slightly. Maybe that fifth glass of Chardonnay was a mistake.
“Go inside.”
I rock forward on my toes just to watch his shoulders tense. “Make me.”
For half a breath, I think he might.
Then the tabby bites his ear and leaps off.
“Motherf—”
The smart cat lands in a patch of weeds and saunters off, tail flicking.
Kade retreats a step. Then another. “Lock your door.”
I should salvage my pride. Turn around and pretend this never happened.
Instead, I take one reckless step forward. “Why? You planning to break in?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He crosses the street.
Gone before I can think of a comeback.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I sing-song, strutting back into the house.
I slam my door. Yank it back open. The street’s empty now. Only the sting in my lip and the burn in my palms proving it wasn’t all my imagination.
I leave the door unlocked. Let him try.