Page 11 of A Very Gay Halloween
His eyes hold mine for a long moment, and there's something in them that makes my stomach flip.
"We're not done talking."
Then he's walking toward the exit, leaving me sitting there trying to figure out if I'm about to make the best decision of my life or the worst.
Either way, I'm pretty sure I'm fucked.
Chapter 4
THE OCTOBER NIGHT hits us like a slap when we step outside the warehouse. The temperature's dropped at least fifteen degrees since we went inside, and I can see my breath in little puffs that disappear as soon as they form. The parking lot stretches out under a handful of scattered streetlights that cast long shadows between the cars and motorcycles lined up like metallic soldiers.
Jack-o'-lanterns still line the walkway to the street, their carved grins looking more sinister in the darkness. Earlier tonight, they seemed festive. Now they look like they're watching us, waiting to see what kind of bad decisions we're about to make.
Cooper follows me across the asphalt, staying close enough that I can hear his footsteps but not so close that we're walking together. There's something different about the way he moves now—less of the confident swagger I'm used to seeing, more like he's as unsure about this as I am.
Which is fucking terrifying, because I was counting on him to know what the hell we're doing.
My bike sits under one of the streetlights like a sleek black predator. I bought the Yamaha used last year with moneyI should have spent on textbooks, and it's probably the best decision I've ever made.
Usually, I love any excuse to ride it. The feel of the engine between my legs, the way the world narrows down to just me and the road and whatever speed I can coax out of the machine.
Tonight, though, the thought of having Cooper pressed against my back for the twenty-minute ride to the haunted house makes my pulse race for reasons that have nothing to do with adrenaline.
I dig my keys out of my pocket, and my hands shake just enough that the metal jingles against itself. Cooper's watching me fumble with the spare helmet, and when I hand it to him, our fingers brush.
It's such a brief contact that it shouldn't mean anything. Skin against skin for maybe half a second. But electricity shoots up my arm anyway, making me jerk back like I just touched a live wire.
He notices. Of course he notices.
"You okay?" he asks, pulling the helmet on.
"Fine," I lie, straddling the bike and starting the engine.
The familiar rumble usually calms my nerves, centers me, makes everything else fade into background noise. Tonight it just adds to the vibration I can already feel thrumming through my entire body.
Cooper swings his leg over the bike behind me, and the moment he settles into place, I feel the solid weight of his chest against my back. His thighs bracket my hips, firm and warm even through our jeans. His arms come around my waist to hold on, and suddenly I'm surrounded by him.
This is more physical contact than we've had since... well, since ever, if you don't count our little encounter in the maintenance closet. And that was different—angry, confrontational, charged with two years of built-up hostility.
This feels deliberate.
"Ready?" His voice is muffled by the helmet.
"Yeah." My voice comes out raspy. "Hold on."
I kick the bike into gear and pull out of the parking lot. Behind us, buses are loading up with the rest of the group, but I barely notice. All my attention is focused on the way Cooper's body moves with mine as we lean into the first turn.
For the first few minutes, everything seems normal. Cooper just holds on, following my movements as we navigate through the suburban streets toward the outskirts of town where the haunted house waits. His grip is firm but not possessive, his body warm but not distractingly so.
I start to relax. Maybe I was overthinking things. Maybe this is just a normal ride with a normal passenger who happens to be someone I've spent two years trying not to think about in inappropriate ways.
We stop at a red light, and that's when Cooper's hands shift.
His palms, which had been clasped loosely around my waist, flatten against my stomach through my shirt. The warmth of his touch burns through the cotton like a brand, and my abs tense automatically under his hands.
The light turns green, and I accelerate maybe a little too quickly, but Cooper's hands don't move back to their neutral position. Instead, his palms start to move in small, slow circles against my abdomen.
It's subtle enough that I could convince myself it's just the vibration of the bike. Except the movements are too deliberate, too purposeful. Too fucking intentional.
