Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lennox

The scene is the same. Abandoned hallway. Junk littered on either side. Two flashlight circles attempting to penetrate the darkness. A pulse beating in my throat, because that's the way it always seems to be around Reed. Our steps slow, our breaths hushed.

I only hear one noise from ahead. A scratching. Far off. Maybe some kind of animal, claws scratching on wood, nothing more than a dim scuffle.

And us—Reed and I—moving together, heading into the darkness, toward the unknown.

Or is the unknown coming for us?

Perhaps.

"We have to be almost there," I whisper, checking my arm and then the blueprints again. It's cooler now, even though we haven't gone any deeper. The temperature has probably dropped. Unlike on the floors above, there aren't windows to give any hints. We're fully insulated from the outside world.

"That's what I said at the last turn." Reed responds in the same hushed whisper, my ear prickling at the tenor of his soft, masculine voice. We're close—a foot away from each other. "And the one before it."

"But, shit, look…" I jog my light. There's an open doorway, for once. Wide open—a double door where the hallways abruptly expands, cutting out into either side. And beyond the door, an open space. "I think this is it."

"Fucking finally." He lets out a breath, his flashlight meeting mine. "Is that a pool table?"

I sigh out a quiet laugh. "I think so."

We hesitate at the door, both of us examining the inside before stepping through. It's definitely a rec room. There's a long bar to our right, and the mirror behind the empty liquor shelves reflects our lights back. The pool table is directly ahead, a cue sitting on top, with the orange five ball on the floor underneath. On the other side of the room lies upturned stools and upholstered leather chairs that look like they used to be set around a few tables.

"This is good," I say. "Jamie wanted a scene in a bar. The mirror backdrop will be great."

"What's the scene?" He crosses to the serving station at the end, the brass bar along the bottom long since tarnished, a layer of dust coating everything.

I follow after him, careful of broken glass. "Someone dies here."

"Who?"

My brows rise. "Jamie hasn't said."

"Me?"

"I don't think so." I round the bar, using my phone to snap a few pictures to show Jamie later. The bottle ledges are all empty, the sinks filled with towels and pint glasses. "I think you have a while to go, actually."

A long time .

Jamie's hinted to me that Reed makes it nearly to the end.

Or he is the character at the end?

I'm not sure. I'd thought Jamie would struggle to kill off Indy, but a part of me is wondering if Reed will be our final boy. His character—the hot, obnoxious jock who has sex in his first appearance—usually gets it in the first few scenes. But Jamie doesn't play by the rules.

I move my light over a swinging door to the side of the bar that looks like it might lead to a kitchen. "We should see what else is here before we head back."

Inside, we're greeted by a galley kitchen: silver work tables and a gaping hole where the ovens were. Most of the equipment is gone, the wire racks empty. The kitchen is probably the cleanest room we've been in, stark except for the dust and an astringent scent. Ductwork runs above, cobwebs stretched between.

I take a few pictures in here too.

Reed stops behind me, the quiet complete. No scratching at the moment. No words between us.

Just that feeling . It doesn't go away. No matter how much I try to ignore it.

It's overwhelming, occupying half of my brain, tickling up the back of my neck as he stands behind me.

What if I'd gone to that party over at BU last month? Indy had knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to go. I'd been working on a nude of a man, so fixed on the details that I couldn't bring myself to leave. But what if I'd gone? Met him at the same time as Indy.

Would it have changed things?

I concentrate on taking a few more pictures, then I hold out my arm. "We should complete the map and take a picture of that too. Before it smudges."

He digs out the Sharpie and uncaps in before bending over me. He labels the rec room and kitchen. "Should we check what else is back here?"

"Yep." I clear my throat, backing away from him.

I just need to get through this.

A hallway off the kitchen leads to a pantry and a couple of metal doors. The first opens to a freezer, shelves empty, and Reed keeps close as I step inside.

I side eye him. "The other's probably a cooler."

"Probably."

We walk to the next door—the dull silver casing of a cooler.

He cracks the door, peeking inside. He stands there for an extended moment, holding the door just open enough to see.

"Reed?" I ask.

"It's fine." He turns to look at me. "You'll want to see this, Lenn."

Lenn .

His smile falters, like he just realized what he called me too.

"Lennox," he corrects.

"Lenn is fine."

"I like Lennox." He nods to the cooler. "Come see. It's like the angels."

Not the angels, though. It's the universe.

Inside the cooler, the shelves were removed, and there's a small square room reinforced by whatever metal lines the walls, probably aluminum over insulation. The universe greets us. White stars above our heads and under our feet.

"We're inside the sky." I tip my head back, turning on my heel, forgetting everything else for a lingering, slippery moment. A rush of exhilaration. Euphoria. The way it makes everything feel so crisp. Makes life so real.

I exhale. From somewhere deep in my stomach and lungs.

Reed is next to me. His forearm brushes mine, the small square of the room tugging us together. The door slides nearly closed, only two inches open.

A tree is painted across the rear wall, made of stars, the branches extending the full length, stretching wide. Celestial and unearthly.

"Is it the same artist?" His arm rubs against mine as he tips his head back.

I study the brush strokes of the tree. The disconnect between them, the sweep of the steady arcs and lines. "I think so."

"The same person who created the journals?"

"Yes." It gives off the same vibe. Haunting. And beautiful.

"I wonder what it means." He swallows, his head still tipped back, his chest expanding with an inhale. "I'd like to know."

"Me too."

He twists to look at the door. "The scratching is back."

I still, my ears perking, my eyes settling on the small space visible beyond the door.

I hear it.

"It's louder now," I say. "Closer."

Fuck, what is it? The wombat? Something else?

Reed swings his light toward the opening.

"Do you see anything?" I ask.

"No." Listening, he turns in the direction we haven't gone yet. "I think it's coming from…"

Something moves beyond the gap.

Something fucking moves . A dart of brown, the speed of an animal. Out in the hallway, something whips past. The door whooshes, the two-inch space vanishing.

The door clicks shut.

We're sequestered inside, the stars glowing all around us—on the back of the door too.

"Fuck," Reed mumbles.

I feel like that sums up the situation.

"Was that the wombat?" I hiss. I stare at the door, as if it could bust through. It can't, right?

"That's what I saw before."

"It's fast." I press my palm against the thigh of my jeans. "But small."

"It's probably more scared of us."

"Are you sure ? It seemed pretty fucking fearless. Nearly ninja-like." I take a breath. We're in a small room, tightly insulated and contained.

He tugs down the brim of his hat. "Well, it's out there and we're in here. Which means we're kinda trapped."

"By a wombat."

He blinks at me. His smile slips up. "This sounds ridiculous."

"I don't care how ridiculous it sounds. I'm still glad it's out there." I sweep my hair back. "But we can't stay in here forever. So, I say we give it a bit of time and then peek out."

He nods. "It'll probably go back to wherever it hides. Have you seen it since the first night?"

"No."

"I don't think we need to be worried."

I eye him dubiously. "I don't see you busting out into the hallway after it."

"No. I guess not." His smile rises, despite the challenge in my tone—or maybe because of it? "So we stay for a bit."

"Uh… yeah."

With Reed.

Under the painted white stars, in the maze of this basement.

I rub at the side of my neck, turning in a circle and fighting the constant anxiety of being here. I don't know if I can ignore it, especially in this cramped room, the flashlight on his phone going black.

"My phone's almost dead." He clicks it off and slides it into his pocket. "I was using it on the bus, kind of a lot."

"Use this one." I drop my flashlight to the rectangular outline of his phone tight against his thigh—fuck, why does that draw my eyes so much? I bite my tongue as I flip the handle, offering it to him.

"I don't wanna steal yours."

"I've got plenty of charge left." I wait for him to take it.

He finally lifts it from my hand. "Thank you."

I dig out my phone, just using the glow of the screen to see. "Did you have phone service down here?"

"Nope."

"Me neither."

"I guess we're on our own, then." He turns in a slow circle, then slides down to a seat against the wall, his long legs bent in front of him, an exhale releasing from between his lips. He sets the flashlight on the floor next to him, the beam hitting the opposite wall. "I'm tired. It was a long ride on the bus."

"Tell me what it's like." I hesitate, standing in the center of the cooler, looking down at him.

"The bus ride?" He tips his head to look at me, the brim of his hat cutting across his eyes.

"Yeah." I shuffle over. Then, after a moment, I slide to a seat next to him. "Tell me about the bus."

"Have you ever been on a team?"

"Nah." I shake my head, my phone going dark. The only light is Reed's, stretching across the floor, illuminating some low-hovering stars. "I do Muay Thai, but it's not really a travel-in-a-bus thing."

He twists. "You fight?"

"Not really. I've done a few smokers, just friendly fights, to know what it's like. But I'm not really a fighter. I like knowing I'm capable, though. And we just all meet at the gym. No buses."

I relax against the wall, the temperature of the metal cooling the back of my neck. It feels oddly safe here, alone in the dark. Even with Reed next to me as he stretches his legs straight out. They're so much longer than mine.

"To be honest, the bus rides aren't my favorite," he says. "Just a lot of attempting to sleep in cramped seats, with a bunch of guys nearly on top of you. It's too hot during the day, too cold at night. And I always get hungry, no matter how much food I bring." He pauses. "It's a lot of waiting."

"What do you do while you wait?" I stretch out my legs next to his, the toes of my Vans pointing up, glowing white, just like the stars across from us.

"We talk a lot." He reaches up to slip off his hat, resting it on his thigh. "Well, not a lot. But Colin and I talk sometimes. I usually sit with him."

He itches at his hair, and I can see just enough to notice the strands stick up on the side of his head as he looks at me.

And… holy crap.

I haven't really seen him without his hat, and I can barely see him now, but it takes me a moment to adjust. His hair is dark brown and thicker than I expected. Physically, he's fucking incredible. Like nerve-inducing attractive.

I press my back into the wall, the floor hard against my ass, my throat tightening, a hum starting deep in my chest. Fuck, I don't want this reaction to him.

"Who's Colin?" I ask, my voice rough, my throat wanting to trap the question.

He smiles, his teeth white in the dark. "I forget you don't know any of my roommates. I'm closest with Colin. He's the only one I really talk to."

"What's he like?"

He laughs. "Do you really wanna know?"

"Yeah, I do." I really do. It's the first real time he's mentioned a friend. Or volunteered much of anything about his life.

"He's…" He shrugs, his shoulder moving against mine. Jesus, I didn't know we were sitting that close . "He's a pretty serious person, I guess. I don't know why I say that because he's easy to be around, but he always feels like he's got serious thoughts in his head.

"And you like that?"

His eyes move around my face, his lips parting slowly. "I like people who have a lot going on in their head."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure. I guess I like it when people are complex." His hand falls to his thigh, resting there. I can just see his chest moving in the dim light, the lift of his pecs and the faint tightening of his stomach, the soft package between his thighs.

Oh fuck.

I feel him looking at me. The weight of his gaze moving over me is as real as any touch. As real as a stroke of fingertips, as the slip of a tongue.

My saliva feels thick, the press of my packer more firm, and I don't know if he's looking there. I don't know if I want him to be. What I haven't told him feels too heavy. My heels dig into the back of my shoes as I press them into the floor. My hand is resting on my thigh too, my jeans rough under my finger-pads.

And this can't fucking happen.

Not even as his eyes move up, prickling over my jaw, so real a sensation that I nearly gasp. Then we're both looking at lips. We're both breathing so hard that our chests are expanding.

Fuck. I can't… I try to talk, a rough sound coming out before I can form words. "Do you feel that?"

His gaze settles directly on mine. "Yes."

I swallow thickly.

I want to ask exactly what he feels. If it's the same thing I do—the physicality of it. The ache-inducing shiver, how the thought of touching is nearly consuming. How actually doing it might make something explode. If he's ever felt anything like this before.

If it's real.

If it means something.

If it's just lust and chemicals, or if it's something else.

My throat closes. It can't be something else . "We can't."

"I know." His voice is all gravel, low and gruff and edged. His breath is still moving his chest, expanding even larger as his eyes travel to my neck, lingering there. His lips part, his fingers squeeze his thigh.

He's hard. Fuck, I can see the ridge there, obvious between his thighs.

What is he like?

I don't mean what he looks like—although a gasp lingers in the depths of my throat at the thought of the body he must have under his clothes, streamlined and muscular, all that work he does in the pool and gym—but what is he like ? Does he take control? Or does he want his partner to take the lead? Is he confident with his body? Is he playful? Is he serious? Does he talk? Does he take it slow? Or is he fast and rough? Does he focus on his partner? Or is he all about himself?

I'd want all of that . All of the different edges to him. Every complicated desire, every unexpected want. All the non-congruent lines that make a person real . Make them vulnerable and unique and inconsistent.

Then I stiffen.

The thought of expressing my boundaries to him sends a wash of cold down my back.

Which is not fucking right. It's not right at all . It's not cool to be with someone who makes you nervous to express boundaries. That's not what I want in any relationship I have.

Fuck. I squeeze my eyes shut, turning away and pressing the back of my head into the wall.

This isn't right .

And yet, I'm still listening to him breathe, still feeling the deep thump of my heart in my chest, the press of the floor against my ass. The way that he intrigues me. This depth of who he is, that keeps leaking out drop by drop.

He has complexity. He has thought and consideration. He has strength and determination. He must in order to keep on the path he is with water polo.

He cares for people. I can see it in the way he talked about Colin, the way he treats Indy. Despite that kiss, he's still fighting to keep true to her, even though his feelings for her aren't there.

He has honesty with me. Truth under every answer to my questions.

And he has courage. Which is one of the traits I admire most. Maybe because I'm scared, it's one I lack. Sticking to this safe world I know, living through Jamie's aspirations, not sure what to do with myself because maybe I don't have the courage to lift off on my own wings.

But Reed… who else could jump into a horror film acting role? Who else would walk down into the murder basement when they don't have to?

It's not just lust and chemicals .

I pull my feet up, and without looking at him, I push up to standing. "Do you think it's been long enough?"

"Probably." His voice is tight.

I hear him move behind me, getting to his feet, the beam of the flashlight moving across the stars. He follows me to the door and stands behind me as I take a breath. I reach for the?—

"There's no handle." I click on my phone and shine it on the inside of the door. What the fuck?

"That can't be," Reed says. "There's no fucking way. There has to be a safety release or something."

I jiggle a dangly thing that's hanging where the handle should be. It clunks against the door limply. "You mean this thing?"

"Yeah. Pull on it."

I do.

Nothing happens.

I groan. For fuck's sake. I don't know how much longer I can be contained here with Reed.

He reaches around me. He's standing directly behind me, and his forearm skims the outside of my elbow, tugging on my hoodie, as he grasps the limp safety release and gives it a pull.

And still, nothing happens.

We're quiet. Standing at the door, him just behind me, the reality slowly settles in.

His breath warms my ear, his presence so strong that I can feel the space in the inches behind us. If I stepped back, he'd be there. Right fucking there.

Fuck.

Fuck .

"We have to find a way out," I say.