Page 47 of Primal

“Jessica’s dead.”

“Okay, you sure you ain’t been microdosing?”

“Please … I’m not kidding.”

Vanessa’s bubblegum grin slips. Then she laughs again. “Alright, Red. Let’s say I believe you. There’s a real killer out here, yeah? And he’s dressed like Ghostface?”

“Yes!”

She grins at the camera. “Fam. Y’all hearin’ this?” Back to me: “So, what’s the move? We find him and pull the mask off? Maybe get a lil POV action while we’re at it?”

“Are you insane?”

“Look. I paid eight hundred for scares, sweat, and scandal. You think I’m gonna pass up the chance to unmask the main event?”

Un-fucking-believable. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

A pink bubble pops. “Besides, even if I believed you—and girl, I don’t—I couldn’t call nobody. Tried goin’ live earlier when that horned freak got all up in my grill, but guess what? No bars. No Wi-Fi. Nada.”

My breath saws in and out. “Do you know which way the base camp is? The entrance, whatever. Where we checked in?”

“Mmm. That way.” She points into the trees. “Unless they moved shit for aesthetic.”

I grab her wrist. “Come with me.”

She peels my fingers off, one glossy nail at a time. “And miss my main character moment? Hell no.” Her phone screen reflects my panic as she backs away. “You go tattle to the clipboard crew. I got a Ghostface to fuck—or fight. Depends on his dick energy.”

“Vanessa—”

“Relax.” She blows me a kiss. “Mama didn’t buy this ass just to run from the dick parade.”

Then she’s strutting into the dark, hips swaying. “Gonna get me a selfie with Ghost Daddy. He can stab me while I ride his face.”

I stay frozen until her laughter fades.

A scream shreds the night—or maybe it’s still her cackling.

I don’t wait to find out.

Chapter Nine

Something’s off. The forest feels empty. No, not empty. Watched. A dozen hidden eyes.

Wind’s gone. Whimpers, too. Just the hum of a generator somewhere beyond the trees and my knuckles cracking.

This is a mistake.

Should’ve kept the tape on her wrists. Left the gag in.

But no.

I let Payton see me.

Fuck.

Her body straining against the tree, my name breaking from her in a way that had nothing to do with fear. The way she arched into my hands, not away—like she’d been waiting for this. For me. And then—

Her fingers tracing my scar. As if the worst part of me was worth knowing.