Page 209 of Primal

The guys at The Verge? They’re supposed to be fantasy. Anonymous, muscular, paid to ravish you in ethically sourced leather masks. That’s the whole appeal. No awkward run-ins while taking out the trash the next morning.

Which makes Kade completely off-limits.

Besides … he’s not my type.

Shy. Predictable. Safe. The kind you’d ask to water your plants. Or troubleshoot your router.

Kade’s idea of danger is using the same password for all your logins. Probably thinks foreplay is whispering, ‘Sudo access granted’ in your ear.

Doesn’t matter his hands look like they could pin me down without breaking a sweat. Or that the glimpse of his lightning bolt scar made my brain reboot like a corrupt file. Or that sometimes I wonder what he looks like without those glasses. Without the shirt.

Nope.

Guys like Kade are the human equivalent of unbuttered toast—technically nourishing, if you like bland men with stupid, unfair dimples.

Priorities, Payton.

I pour a generous glass of the wine and text the group.

What exactly should I expect tomorrow?

KRISTY

To forget the douche’s name by sunrise.

LANA

Running. Screaming. And when they catch you? Ohhh, baby. That’s when the REAL game starts.

LANA

Pro tip: The fun isn’t in escaping. It’s when you realize you won’t.

KRISTY

Or you don’t want to. LOL.

The wine burns going down. The Verge feels like stolen street signs. Like every bad idea that seems brilliant at first.

I toast the dark window—to the hunters, the monsters, whatever’s waiting in those woods. Bring it on.

Chapter Two

The screen door whines shut behind me, that same dying-hinge sound I’ve ignored for three years. The air reeks of bargain-bin vodka and the pumpkin spice air fresheners Mom got me to buy last week to ‘get in the spirit.’

She’s leaning against the kitchen doorway like last year’s discarded costume—that old pink robe she dug out of the closet after Robert disappeared.

“About time,” she slurs, her chipped ‘World’s Best Mom’ mug sloshing booze onto the floor. “Where’s the goddamn … for the little shits.”

I toss the Snickers on the counter. “King size. Like you demanded.”

Her hands scrabble at the bag, nails chipped and yellowed. “Good. They’ll remember this house.”

I almost laugh. Some part of her rotting brain still thinks it’s pre-Robert, back when Dad would carry her laughing to bed after too much spiked cider, when our porch was the one all the kids flocked to.

Last year, she called Mrs. Johnson’s daughter a slut and threw a pumpkin at the mailman. The year before, she told Max to invite his friends over, then scared them off playing Russian roulette with a Nerf gun, screaming, ‘Who wants to meet Daddy in Heaven?’ But sure. They’ll remember.

Here’s the fucked-up part. I still buy the good chocolate. Still half-ass some decorations. Still pretend not to notice how Max watches other kids’ houses from our porch, his hands shoved deep in pockets that always seem to collect candy he never gave out.