5. Saxon

5

SAXON

In the darkness, the reflections of the mirrors that line the walls, ceiling, even the floor, are dizzying. They're aligned at different angles, some sporting small lights to give a glimmer of visibility, some not. The room feels like it's spinning on its axis. I think it's just an illusion, but for all I know, the room could be moving around us. Brendon takes a step and I follow, huddling in close to his body as my stomach starts to flutter in excited anticipation once again.

Our movement in the reflections of the mirrors makes it seem like there are hundreds of us coming and going in every direction, and it's unnerving. Even more unnerving than the actors in the previous room that were portraying a scene on a St. Andrew's Cross gone terribly wrong.

I'd really like to know the special effects artist who made it look like that woman's arms were truly hanging on by tendons.

My eyes can't settle on where to look, not when I can barely tell the difference between which Brendon is real and which one is a reflection. He's got his free arm outstretched, eyes pointed straight forward as he guides us through the hall, on a mission to get us the hell out of here.

A flash of light catches my attention, and as I turn, the world seems to slow down. The pumping music roars in my ears and my eyes glaze over as I watch as a glowing green bracelet maneuvers a mirror to the side, revealing one of the hidden corridors of this kink speakeasy. It's only a second before the mirrored door begins to swing close. If I had blinked, I would have missed it. Right there, on the other side of this creepy ass hallway under the glow of a twitching Edison bulb, is the shadowed outline of someone on their knees, ass propped up and hands held behind their back while someone rams into them so rapidly, I can hear the slap of flesh over the pounding in my ears.

Maybe my eyes are playing a trick on me. It's probably just actors playing out some sort of torture scene for scares. Maybe there's no one on the other side of the mirror at all. I can't be sure. All I know is what my mind wanted to see, and that is someone being fucked within an inch of their life in a dark, scary place. It's raw, animalistic, exactly how I'd hoped to be spending my night when I booked my ticket in the first place.

I feel stuck, rooted in place even as the mirrored door closes, and I'm left staring at nothing but my own dark reflection. An actor coated in demon clown makeup places themselves between me and the mirror, yelling something about moving along and keeping my eyes to myself. It isn't until Brendon realizes that I haven't followed him and tugs on my hand that I feel like I can move my feet again.

"C'mon, Sax. Let's get the hell out of here and get a drink," he shouts over the music, and I reluctantly fall in step behind him once again.

The image of that person on their knees is burned into my pupils, and even as we move through the last room— an open-air conservatory made up to resemble an eighteenth-century graveyard, complete with floating votive candles dripping wax suspended from the vine-laced bars above us— I can no longer tamp down the overwhelming annoyance in my gut. I don't scream when a faux maggot covered body erupts from one of the gravesites, nor do I join Brendon in breathing a sigh of relief when we finally reach the exit and step back into the chilly October night.

My best friend starts to chatter away, already reminiscing about the experience and making jokes about how brave he is for keeping all his urine inside of his body this time as he heads towards the bar, but I don't follow him. I stand near the exit of the house, looking longingly at the people around me, many of them affixed with green glowing wristbands, flushed and clearly seeking a brief reprieve from the salacious depravity happening in the house behind us.

Resentment knits up my spine. Anger burns in my lungs and before I know it, I have my arms crossed over my chest as I stomp away from the house, away from Brendon, towards the woods like a petulant child being denied their favorite dessert. The wind whips in my hair and the chill bites at my nose as irritated tears begin to prick at the corners of my eyes. I'm hell bent on getting home and forgetting all about my lost opportunity to explore my desires when a large, warm hand lands on my shoulder, yanking me back.

Even in my pissed off frustration, the move sends a wave of lust rolling down my spine.

"Sax, what the hell? I drop your hand for two seconds and suddenly you're storming away from me?" Brendon says, gripping my shoulder just this side of too tight. I can feel the imprint of his fingers on my skin, even through the faux leather of my jacket. I shrug him off and start to walk a little more briskly this time.

"Fuck off, Brendon," I grumble, low enough so that he can't hear me. It's not his fault that he didn't know what I really wanted to do tonight, but he's the only one here, so I will be directing all muttered insults in his direction.

I'm not as quiet as I think I am, though, because in a second, Brendon has a fistful of my jacket and has hauled me back against his chest. I gasp from the force of it, the impact of his hard body on my back nearly knocking the wind out of me. With his free hand, he reaches around and grips my chin, dragging my face up to look at him. In the moonlight, the shadows on his face make him look darker, more sinister. The ridiculously sexy mask that he pushed down around his neck in the haunted house sits right below his chiseled jawline, and my fingers itch to reach up and cover his mouth with it once again. His breath is hot on my skin as he snarls at me.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Saxon?" He growls, gripping my jacket tighter and hauling me up to my tip toes.

"Let me go, Brendon," I say, but he shakes his head. A chill runs through me, and I press my thighs together. I've never seen him like this before, I've never seen him so pissed off at me. It's unbearably sexy.

"You've been a fucking brat all week, Sax, and now you're acting even worse. You can't just storm off on me without a word. This isn't you. You don't try to ditch our traditions, and you don't roll those pretty eyes at me. I don't know what the hell crawled up your ass but if I've got to toss you over my knee and spank the attitude out of you, I'll fucking do it."

I feel his chest rise and fall with each ragged breath as his eyes go wide, as if he's surprised himself with the words he just said to me.

Spank the attitude out of me?

That is the last thing I ever expected Brendon to say to anyone, let alone me. The shock of it all settles low in my belly, and I squeeze my thighs together, desperate for some relief from the pounding ache between them. His pupils are blown out, his grip on my chin is so tight I fear I may be bruised there tomorrow, but I don't care.

My big, goofy golden retriever has gone feral, and I want him. I want him so fucking bad, that I'm suddenly willing to risk everything— our friendship, his view of me, possibly even my dignity— just for a chance to see how far I can push him. Because if I'm going to do this— if I'm going to cross this line with Brendon, I'm going to make sure he knows exactly what I want, and hope like hell he'll be willing to give it to me. I whip my head, freeing myself from his hold and turn to face him.

"You want to know what my problem is, Brendon?" I hiss with a shove to his chest. His hand wraps tightly against my wrist, gripping, squeezing, marking my skin, and it's now or never.