Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Fright Night
The moon is a sharp sliver in the sky, and despite the humidity, the air feels like an extension of my skin.
The moment we exited the bar, it felt like we fell back into some routine we could never have possibly had.
An easy rhythm of banter covering so many things: poetry, music, books, even my own past. Nothing felt off the table anymore.
We turn a corner, the rhythmic clack of my boots almost in time with the slap of Manny’s shoes. The entire time, I am struggling to get a thought out between chuckles. “I swear, I thought he was asking me on a date!”
“Pitchforks and torches weren’t a dead giveaway? Actually, how did they not think that was a cliche?!”
“To be fair, it wasn’t a cliche yet.” I have to stop, choking on my own laughter.
Manny slows next to me, his firm hand rubbing circles into my back as my mismatched lungs try to catch their breath.
When I look back up at him, I see the Manny from before, the one I met that first night, but knowing what I know, I’ve become so curious about what was actually going through his head.
“So, I gotta ask.” My words come out between exhausted exhales. “What did you think when you first saw me?”
It takes a moment for him to get his composure, but there’s no more of that holding back. “I thought you were too sexy for a haunted house.”
“And your eyeglass prescription had no effect on your ability to leer at me?”
He purses his lips, caught in the lie. “Maybe, maybe I saw a curvy woman, yeah, but I also saw someone in need.”
The answer catches me completely by surprise, and I almost forget that the only reason I ran out that door was that I was having a borderline panic attack.
He waits to make sure I have no witty comeback before continuing.
“I saw you were having a bad time, not uncommon at a bar, though not usually at our bar, and I wanted to help.”
He steps back and then gestures to himself. “Only problem is I look like this, and I didn’t want to add to your panic attack. You bust into a back alley only to get cornered by a big dude.”
“So your solution was to flirt with me?”
“I thought I was being corny! Like, if she thinks I’m some idiot, maybe it will get her mind off whatever is bothering her. That and a cigarette seemed to do the trick.”
I wanted to protest, but I couldn’t argue with the results. “So, you didn’t actually think I was a sexy Frankenstein?”
He pauses, one foot caught in a trap. “Ah, well. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued.”
“Intrigued? Is that like interesting?” I tease, bringing up thoughts of yesterday's conversation about books and inspiration.
He continues, as if walking will somehow get him away from the topic.
“Let’s just say if I had to do it over again, I would have tried to play it a little smoother.
Though I swear I wasn't trying to be rude. I thought you worked at the new place up the road. How could I imagine someone so amazing would walk into my bar?”
We turn the corner and are immediately assaulted by the flashing of a bright, glowing neon sign.
“Speak of the devil,” Manny declares.
When he had first described it, I was expecting some sort of classy haunted house; instead, we are met with Steamboat Willie's Horror Tour. A fair use cash grab on some recently liberated Disney IP.
I chuckle, a genuine, throaty sound that rumbles in my chest. Somehow, I can’t reconcile his calling me amazing with whatever this is.
“And what, exactly, did you imagine the women who work there look like?” I tease, a playful glint in my eyes. “Because if this is your standard for 'amazing,' you must walk around perpetually disappointed.”
I can see how badly he wants to frown, but that cheeky smile is beating him so thoroughly.
I look back at the haunted house in all its tacky glory, a cacophony of mismatched themes, with neon signs promising both family-friendly scares and seedy thrills.
Something swells in me, not an act, but a genuine enthusiasm, as my fingers lace with Manny’s. “Come on! We gotta go!”
He shakes his head, letting me lead him like a dog on a leash.
We approach the painted plywood entrance.
Manny slips the teenager the requisite $10 bill as I slip my arm around his bicep.
The teen jerks his head for us to enter, and I follow, hoping this sideshow will live up to the unrealistic expectations Manny has set for it.
Inside, the air instantly changes, thick with the scent of dry-ice fog and fake cobwebs, underscored by a low, cackling soundtrack. It's cheesy. It's predictable. And I absolutely love it.
“It's perfect, isn't it?” I whisper, my eyes dancing with mischief in the strobing lights. I tug Manny deeper inside, past a skeletal figure that pops out with a groan. He doesn’t even flinch, his focus entirely on me.
I pull him into a crooked, narrow hallway designed to feel claustrophobic, the space pushing us closer together.
The flashing red lights cast strange shadows on his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the earnestness in his eyes.
Something about the innocence, the privacy, and the absurdity of this moment, shared with him, feels so freeing.
Lost in the maze of bad angles, I bump into a wall, dragging Manny into me. When I turn around, he’s looking at me, his face inches from mine. Suddenly, the deafening shriek of pre-recorded ghost echoes fades into the distance as I get lost in his eyes.
I know I shouldn’t, I know we are both working through some things, but I can’t help myself as I step closer, and this time I find no hesitation in him.
Whatever this is, he feels it too. The moment his face invades mine, my stomach drops.
Those lips, those eyes, the mystery they conceal.
I can't believe he’s offering them willingly.
I didn't even realize I'm already leaning, lips pressing, arms firm against his chest.
Any cautious energy I’d been clinging to the past few days dissolves, replaced by a current so potent it steals the air from my lungs.
The taste of him is intoxicating—faint remnants of whiskey and cola, and something that is uniquely him, warm and honest. It's not just a kiss; it's a collision—two forces drawn together in the manufactured dark, finding something startlingly real.
My initial response is a soft gasp of surprise and relief against his mouth.
Then instinct takes over. My hand, which was resting tentatively on his chest, curls, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.
The press of my lips turns into an uninhibited hunger, pouring all the loneliness of the past few days and all the soaring hope of tonight into it.
This is what I wanted. This recognition. This fire.
His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against him, erasing the remaining inches between us.
A tremor runs through me—not from the cheesy spooky effects, but from the sheer, solid reality of his muscular form pressed to mine.
He’s not scared, he’s not hesitating anymore, he’s right here, matching my intensity.
His hand is firm on my back as if I’m the only thing that will anchor him.
The deeper we kiss, the harder we press, the more a primal realization bubbles up from deep in my bones.
Men in my past, men like Manny, usually are terrified of me at this point.
They are scared of the intensity, of how tightly I hold them as my mouth fights for dominance, demanding I be submissive.
But Manny… he’s melting into it, surrendering to it with a quiet moan that vibrates against my lips.
He’s not fighting my predatory advances; he’s welcoming them.
Feeling his total surrender, a slow, satisfied growl rumbles in my own chest. My teeth nip at his lower lip—a small act of possession.
My hand abandons its grip on his shirt, sliding boldly down, tracing the solid ridges of his abdomen, exploring the terrain of him with undisguised ownership.
I can feel the frantic, steady drumbeat of his heart against my palm, a wild percussion that matches my own.
“You feel it, don't you? My strength.” I pull back just enough to speak, my voice a husky whisper that slices through the ambient horror-show soundtrack. My forehead rests against his, my eyes locking onto his in the pulsating gloom. “And, you’re not afraid.”
All he can manage is a frantic nod as he stares at me in awe.
My other hand moves from his chest to cradle the back of his neck, my fingers tangling in the short hairs there. I hold him there, captive and willing. “Everyone tries to run,” I murmur, my thumb stroking the nape of his neck.
Manny pulls back, not trying to free himself, but in a humble act of asking. “I don’t ever want to run, but I do want to get out of here.”
The words cut cleanly through the manufactured horror and heady desire, landing with the electricity of the lightning strike that brought me life.
I don’t want to stop, I don’t want to release him, but as I stare into his face, I know he’s not trying to flee; he wants me to devour him, to be devoured.
Just... somewhere with better acoustics.
A slow, triumphant smile spreads across my lips, followed by a short, breathy laugh of pure exhilaration.
I thread his fingers into mine and start running, pulling him toward the nearest emergency exit.
We crash out into the humid night, his heat burning every digit in my hand.
My mind races to think of where we might go.
Only one place comes to mind, and after the past few days, Gabby and V owe me this. “My hotel's three blocks from here.”
Just as we’re about to cross the street, Manny tugs on my arm. “That’s two blocks too many, I know somewhere closer.”