Page 36 of Mixed Signals
“Are you having second thoughts, Caleb?”
“No.” Another scream erupts from behind the closed doors. I flinch. “Maybe.”
Her megawatt smile dims. She turns in my arms until her front is pressed against mine. I’m distracted by the heat of her, the smell of sugar and butter and tart cherry jam.
Layla Dupree isdangerous.
“We don’t have to go in,” she whispers, the words just for me. “You could take me to get ice cream instead. If this is too much, I understand.”
“No.” Layla deserves this. For someone to try. Even if it’s something as comically ridiculous as a zombie apocalypse escape room experience.Especiallyif it’s a zombie apocalypse escape room experience, I guess. “We’re going to escape this room.”
That wide and excited smile blooms back to life on her face. It wedges in my chest, right under my ribs. God, she’s beautiful. She should smile like this all of the time.
“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Eric offers, pressing the door open with his shoulder. The sounds from inside intensify and Layla slips her hand back in mine. I’m more focused on that single point of contact than anything else, so I almost don’t hear him when he says, “There’s another party joining you. Our rooms have a four person minimum … after the tropical island incident.”
“Wait, what?”
He ushers us in the room, completely ignoring the disembodied arm hanging from the ceiling above his head. “I’ll bring them back as soon as they arrive.”
And with that, Eric disappears back out the door and locks us into a zombie apocalypse.
I take in the space. I know Eric said no one will jump out at us, but it definitely feels like someone could. The room is set up to look like an old hospital. There’s a wheelchair tipped over on its side, a medical cart with about forty-two thousand drawers, a couple of lab charts and haphazard coverings over the windows. But I’m fixated on the fake body parts littering the ground and parts of the ceiling, fake blood oozing around the edges. They’re not hyper-realistic, thank god, but they’re enough to make me grateful we didn’t go to dinner before this little field trip.
I slip my hands into my back pockets and rock back on my heels, frowning at what looks like part of a fibula doused in ketchup.
“I really wish we were in the tropical room.”
“I don’t know,” Layla pokes a dismembered head hanging from the ceiling. We watch it swing back and forth. “This has a certain ambiance.”
I scratch at my neck, sifting my hand up into my hair and scrubbing roughly. She crosses the room and examines a splatter of fake blood on the wall like it’s a priceless piece of art at the Met.
I feel like I’m ascending to new levels of absurd during this thing with Layla. I usually struggle with connection or conversation, not—body parts. I can’t say I’ve ever brought a woman to be locked in a room with disembodied limbs before.
“Maybe we should count our next date as the first date,” I hedge. We could start fresh. Maybe I won’t be such a disaster.
Layla doesn’t even bother looking at me as she picks up what looks like a syringe. She examines it, and then sets it down carefully on the table. “I don’t think so. This is an excellent second date.”
I wince. “Can we please not count the roller skating rink as our first, at least?”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
I give her a look. “Because I still have a bruise that looks vaguely like Massachusetts on my ass.”
She snickers. “Don’t tease me about your ass, Caleb.”
Before I can sink fully into the appreciation that comes with Layla talking about my ass, the door swings open behind us. Eric ushers three new people in, and I have to bite down around the edges of my groan. Gus, Clint, and Montgomery. Our three town firefighters and collectively the most obnoxious group of people I’ve ever met. They enter the room in matching t-shirts and blood red sweatbands around their foreheads. They look like they’re about to run a marathon. Or maybe start a fight club.
Gus grins as soon as he sees us. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
“You know our names, Gus,” Layla deadpans. “Why you insist on feigning surprise when you know exactly what’s going on at all times eludes me.”
“Are you implying something, Laylabug?”
I look at her and mouthLaylabugas a question, delighted. She winces and shakes her head.
“Don’t call me that, and you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
That makes one of us. I have no idea what they’re talking about. Layla beckons me closer until her mouth is at my ear and my heart is in my throat. Fuck, she smells so good.
