Page 6 of Phobia

Yeah, yeah. And they hadn’t done worse things than what they’d gone to jail for.

I framed my hands on his stubbled cheeks, savoring the rasp against my palms while searching his eyes. “You’re right,” I observed lowly. “You’re horny. Which is worse.”

Adam with blue balls was a hazard to himself.

He lifted a daring brow at me, the frustration vanishing from the mossy green-brown orbs, heat taking over. Without warning, his tattooed hand closed around the back of my neck, his fingers shoving through my hair, forcing me onto the tips of my toes to close the distance. It was like the rest of the world faded away around us, his stare holding my own. The pleat of his lips fitted against mine, his hands keeping me pinned against him, refusing to allow me to come up for air or to ease the ache in my trembling, overextended toes. His teeth nipped at my bottom lip with a promise, and he released his hold on the back of my neck, setting me flat on my feet again.

Linking my fingers with his, I gave him a reassuring squeeze, following his long strides as he led me toward a massive, two-story stone structure, separate from the rows of historical facades lining the one-way street. Weather-beaten gargoyles fringed the ornate, carved tracery of the roofline, guarding the edifice. The roof sloped into a nave, flying buttresses on either end of the building, and a stained-glass wheel window reflected blue and red light to the street below. It looked like it had once been a theater of some sort.

God, I loved this town and its buildings.

Beneath the window was an out-of-place marquee jutting out, readingWagner Wax Museum and Other Oddities.

Excitement kicked my pulse to life as we neared the clusters of people standing outside of the building, huddled in tight groups to stave off the chill. The fall air was crisp and sharp, and it tickled my nose, my breaths leaving my mouth in a cloud of steamy vapors.

From beyond the double glass doors—the most modern feature on the structure—industrial Gothic metal pounded, the glow of dim lighting illuminating the vestibule.

I’d never visited the museum before, but I knew of its existence. I didn’t see the appeal of wax figures, though I could appreciate the time that went into any art form, no matter how creepy it was.

Online, I’d read that in late September, it transformed from its usual wax figure lineup to a Chamber of Horrors. Grizzly crime scene recreations, homage to serial killers—real and fictional—and replica medieval torture devices were on display. They converted gallery rooms into mazes, and they peppered scare actors between the figures, making it impossible to discern who was real and who wasn’t. Maybe you’d get scared out in the open with a crowd to bleed into, or perhaps you’d find yourself lost within the labyrinths while the threat of someone who knew the museum like the back of their hand charged after you.

I wasn’t sure how much I liked the latter. A nervous shiver crawled up my spine, my stomach flipping at the threat. I was an adrenaline junkie, sure, and that came with a certain level of love for the fear of the unknown, but it was a whole other beast when you were pursued by someone who wanted to scare you for no other reason but because they were being paid to do so.

It lacked authenticity, so it was going to be an interesting night.

Joining the long queue, I leaned against Adam, trying to warm up. Painful goosebumps stretched along the stretch of my exposed legs, my toes curling into my boots. His fingers splayed on my back, swishing back and forth, trying to keep me warm. Stealing a peek at Vince, I studied the pensive set of his jaw and slight bend in his brows as though he were concentrating more than usual. Something told me it wasn’t because he couldn’t wait to get inside the building.

“Why did you want a ride?” I asked, our footfalls falling into an unintentional synchronization as we moved with the cue closer to the building.

“So he could piss me off,” Adam muttered, keeping his attention pointed straight ahead.

Vince’s brittle laugh rumbled in his chest as he pulled a shiny red apple out of his jacket’s interior pocket, tossing it in the air and catching it with ease. He almost always had an apple on him or within reach.“You flatter me.”

That wasn’t exactly an answer, though.

Adam flipped him the bird, clearly not caring what his reason was.

But I did. Rockchapel wasn’t particularly big to begin with, occupying only fifteen miles. Vince lived only five minutes away and going to pick him up had required us to make a slight detour.

He could have walked if he didn’t feel like driving tonight.

Suspicion spiked in my veins, and I narrowed my focus on Vince, really taking him in. He never did anything without a reason. So, what the hell was he up to?

His styled, raven-black hair pushed off his forehead, his thick brows at ease over his equally dark, brown-eyed gaze. Despite the faint traces of aftershave on his skin, I could already see the sprouting of regrowth dusting his jaw. Now that he knew I was paying attention, he wasn’t going to give me anything to run with. Well, almost nothing. The formation of a smirk touched his lips for the briefest moment before it vanished.

Vince was as tall as a renaissance statue. He had a whole foot and then some over me and always had to incline his frame to meet mine, my head landing a little under his pec. The black waffle-knit Henley he donned stretched over his frame like saran wrap, his free hand tucked into the pocket of his black zip-front bomber jacket.

He constantly dressed like he was attending a funeral, and I supposed it was fitting, given his family’s line of business. Vince had been embalming bodies well before he could even get his learner’s permit. It was in his blood.

Adam was the shortest of his brothers at five-eleven, but I’d always felt his energy took up the most space. It was larger than life, overshadowing his friends somehow.

Redirecting my attention forward, I brushed my fingers along Adam’s black wedding band, his stiff inked fingers constricting around mine. He twisted the hoop fed through his right nostril, his eyes tracking the throngs of people. He was always surveying people, hunting for an anomaly. The only time he looked completely at ease was the fleeting times he entered a deep sleep. But even then, sometimes his nightmares caught up with him.

By contrast to Vince’s attire, my husband was a whatever was clean kind of guy. He had an arsenal of plaid shirts I frequently stole. While he normally wore distressed jeans with intentional holes in them and frays around the knees, today, he’d opted for joggers that were tight around his calves and did little to disguise what was sheathed beyond the fabric. It was sweatpants season and Adam in joggers turned him into a walking thirst trap. The autumnal breeze toyed with the strings of his hoodie under his jacket, and the scuffs on his Converses illuminated under the glow of the streetlights. He had the kind of face you couldn’t help but study—squared jaw peppered in three-day-old scruff, the same shade as his mahogany hair, hollowed cheeks, and hazel eyes fringed by dark lashes.

"I like it when you eye fuck me,” he began under his breath, rubbing his thinner top lip into his bottom. “But if you don’t stop, we’re not going to make it in there.”

Vince snorted behind us. So much for Adam’s attempt at discretion.