29. InOut.
Selene
"Do you prefer popcorn or potato chips?"
The question slips out of me abruptly, cutting through the background chatter. I will never admit it, not even under torture, but... I'm actually starting to like this stupid dare of asking each other a question a day.
Ron turns to look at me. I hear him move, the fabric of his jeans rustling against the wood of the bleachers we're sitting on. Production set up a sort of small, makeshift grandstand on the sidelines for us "safe" contestants, letting us watch the elimination challenge as privileged spectators.
"Hmm..." Ron tilts his head, narrowing his eyes with an expression of dramatic concentration. "That is truly the most complicated question you have ever asked me. It's cruel, even for you, Queen of Darkness."
He reaches out to grab another handful of popcorn from my bag, and his fingers brush mine. A hot, lightning-fast electric jolt shoots up my arm. I pretend not to notice, but my stomach tightens.
"Reluctantly, though, I think... chips," he finally decrees, chewing solemnly. "I love popcorn, but chips... are top tier. You?"
I swallow the crunchy bite I was chewing, taking a second to savor the butter and salt, before turning to look at him. "Without a shadow of a doubt, chips."
"Excellent choice," he nods, flashing a smug smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
The deafening shriek of Aunt Tina's megaphone echoes across the clearing, grabbing the entire grandstand's attention.
She has positioned herself right in the center of the dirt lot, illuminated by two massive red floodlights.
"Survivors! And condemned!" she begins, her voice vibrating with an almost macabre excitement. "The Trial of the Demon's Brand is about to begin! An obstacle course through smoke and darkness, where speed means nothing without courage."
She spreads her arms wide, pointing to two long wooden posts driven into the ground at the far end of the course.
"The goal is simple. The two challengers must navigate the fog to retrieve the branding irons. Don't worry, they won't burn you... too much."
Tina takes a dramatic pause, smiling diabolically.
"The brand is equipped with a special thermal plate. It reaches a temperature just high enough to leave a red mark and give you an... intense thrill of heat on your bare skin. The first cowboy who manages to brand the thigh of the maiden tied to the post will win the right to stay in this house!"
"That sounds like a kickass challenge," Ron murmurs.
I turn to look at him. His eyes are fixed on the fake branding iron that an assistant is placing into the brazier. Then, he slowly turns his face toward me. His gaze slides down from my face to my legs, covered in dark denim.
"Maybe..." he picks back up, "I can bribe someone on the crew at the end of the episode and get my hands on one of those branding irons."
He looks at me with an intensity that pierces right through to my soul, and shoots me a slow, shameless wink.
My brain completely shuts down.
My God. Picturing Ron sliding a hot iron over me, branding my skin, claiming me in the dark... Dammit, yes. I sincerely hope he manages to get his hands on one. My mouth goes instantly dry, while a heavy, liquid pulse comes to life between my thighs.
"I'm starting to like your ideas, new-cowboy," I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady.
That lethal dimple pops on his cheek. He leans toward me. He closes the distance, bringing his lips a millimeter from the shell of my ear.
"If you like the idea... I'll get it, Selly," he murmurs.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I'm already covered in goosebumps. A violent shiver runs down my spine. He pulls back just a fraction, noticing the effect he had on me, and smiles, deeply satisfied with himself.
Meanwhile, down in the clearing, the action is heating up.
Two stagehands lead Susan toward one of the wooden posts and loosely tie her wrists around the beam.
Right after, Emerson makes his entrance.
He stops at the starting line of the course, lit up by the floodlights. He scratches the back of his neck, adjusting the glasses slipping down his nose, scanning the maze of chains and smoke with the expression of someone trying to mentally calculate a quantum physics formula for survival.
Then, the lights on the opposite side of the field flicker, and the fog machines start spewing a thick black cloud.
The mystery cowboy makes his entrance.
He strides through the fog with the swagger of an apex predator.
He's shirtless. The red lights slide over the muscular ridges of a massive, ruthlessly defined chest and taut abs, gleaming with fake sweat and dirt.
His dark jeans sit low, dangerously low, held up by a heavy silver buckle.
His face is completely obscured by a black bandana tied tight across his nose and a wide-brimmed Stetson pulled low over his eyes.
"Oh, mama," Indya comments in a breathy whisper, her eyes wide as she leans forward.
Carolina lets out a strangled gasp. She stares at the chiseled figure in the shadows, her lips parted.
"Holy. Shit."
The air horn blasts with a harsh, piercing sound, officially starting the race.
Under the red lights, the fog machine spits a dense cloud over the course, but I barely even notice.
In the exact same second the challengers sprint forward, Ron shifts his position on the wooden bleachers.
As he does, his leg rests against mine. The rough denim of his jeans rubs against mine, and that simple, mundane point of contact becomes the epicenter of a blazing fire.
The heat of his body seeps through the fabric, radiating into my thigh.
My mind, now hopelessly corrupted by him, flashes to an instant memory: that exact same thigh, muscular and heavy, pressed between my legs just a few hours ago. The memory of his hips driving against me, the desperate friction, the feeling of being filled until I couldn't breathe.
I bite the inside of my cheek, squeezing my knees together. I have a desperate urge to grind against his leg right here, right now, in front of everyone.
"And... what's your favorite flavor of chips?"
Ron's voice, low and incredibly close to my ear, cleanly slices through my X-rated thoughts.
I blink, turning toward him.
"I have a whole ranking system," I answer. "I love chips. Number one is tomato or spicy, tied for first, they're equally good. Then paprika. Cheese. And lastly, BBQ."
The words tumble out of me with an eagerness and enthusiasm that are definitely unusual for my standards. But... we're talking about chips. Just thinking about them makes my mouth water.
Ron stops watching the race. He turns his head toward me, looking at me with a strange, incomprehensible light in his eyes. An amused, almost enchanted glimmer.
"Who would've thought?" he murmurs.
"What?" I ask, clearing my throat and trying to rein myself in a bit, fixing my posture.
"That the terrifying Queen of Darkness was such a big fan of bagged potato chips."
"I'm a big fan of salty snacks," I defend myself, lifting my chin slightly. "I like munching on them while I write."
He smiles at me, and his smile is so... sweet? Understanding? Tender? I don't know.
All I know is that it's a strange smile.
I like it when he smiles at me like that.
"What about your favorites?" I ask quickly, shifting my gaze back to the dirt lot to force myself to stop having these thoughts.
Down on the field, the competition is a ruthless massacre.
Emerson is floundering. He's coughing in the fake smoke, tripping disastrously over a tangle of iron chains hanging from the ceiling of the fake structure.
The mystery cowboy, on the other hand, glides under the obstacles like a predatory shadow, totally focused on the goal.
"Cheese," Ron's warm voice answers, pulling me back to him. "But I'm also crazy about sour cream and onion. The ruffled ones. The pizza ones... I wouldn't know how to choose, to tell you the truth. They're all amazing."
I hear the rustle of his hand grabbing another small handful of popcorn. I turn back around.
Instead of bringing them to his mouth, Ron raises his hand toward my face.
My breath catches.
His blue eyes are two dark magnets as he brings a single, golden piece of popcorn to my lips.
Open, his gaze seems to whisper, even though he doesn't say a word.
I part my lips, blindly obeying. He slides the popcorn into my mouth.
As he does, his rough thumb intentionally brushes against my lower lip.
I feel the grit of his callus, the heat of his skin that tastes like salt and butter.
My tongue darts out to catch the snack, but ends up grazing the pad of his index finger.
And... I can't stop.
I suck on it.
Ron holds his breath, his nostrils flaring imperceptibly, his eyes igniting with a dark, possessive fire.
I let him go and slowly chew the popcorn, unable to look away from his gaze.
The roar of the imaginary crowd, blasted through Aunt Tina's speakers, makes us both jump.
Down in the clearing, the mystery cowboy has just grabbed the handle of the branding iron. The rounded tip glows with a fierce red light. With two monstrous strides, he closes the distance to the post where Susan is tied.
Emerson is still halfway through the course, tangled up and defeated.
The newcomer towers over Susan. She pants—I can't tell if it's from arousal or fear.
The mystery cowboy's hand clamps down on Susan's bare thigh, squeezing it possessively.
Then his fingers seem to move. He leans in close to her face.
A predator with his prey.
And then, he lowers the glowing fake brand onto the pale skin of Susan's hip.
The red light stamps itself onto her thigh.
"WE HAVE A WINNER!"
Aunt Tina's exultant scream booms through the megaphone, making the air vibrate. "The shadow has triumphed over science! Emerson is officially ELIMINATED from Haunted Spurs! And our mystery cowboy claims his spot... and his partner!"
"I can't believe this, it is fucking absurd!"
Susan's yell echoes through the estate's large living room, vibrating with rage.
The mystery cowboy—Lucien, as Aunt Tina called him before sending us back inside—looks like the very incarnation of calm.