The Player Next Door

“So, you bought everything.” Popcorn, licorice, three types of candy bars, and a box of Hot Tamales.

“Basically.”

Seriously, I’m going to be sick. But I smile and say thanks because he’s being so sweet and thoughtful.

Shane fumbles with a lever and the trunk releases. He’s gone and back again within moments, this time with an arm full of blankets.

“Do you always travel with those?” Not that I’m unappreciative. The fall evenings have grown chilly. But that wary voice in the back of my mind whispers questions. How many times has he done this exact thing with a date? How many women have curled up in this exact spot with those exact blankets?

“I told you, I planned this whole night out.” He pauses long enough to flash me a dimpled smile before rearranging our snack bucket on the floor.

And where exactly does the night end for us? Has he planned that far out too?

“It’s perfect,” I say instead of asking, because sometimes you have to shush those suspicious little voices and just let things you want to happen, happen.

Tonight feels like one of those nights where anything can happen between us.

“I was thinking of taking the truck tonight but the great thing about these old cars”—he slides over to the center of the bench seat, smoothing the layer of blankets over us, covering our bodies from the waist down for warmth—“is that we can sit like this.” He stretches his arm along the back of the seat and then beckons, “Come here.”

I shimmy over until I’m next to him, thigh to thigh, my shoulder wedged in against his side, his arm curling around my body.

Careful, Scarlet.

Bott’s warning lingers in my mind.

“Is this a good idea? Us, out here in the open, I mean?” I’ve already dwelled on all the reasons why this might not be a good reason in general, and yet, here we are.

“It’s dark and no one’s paying attention. And we’re all the way back here.” He nods at the Honda at least ten feet away from us. “You think those two care about anything but the psycho who sets death traps to murder people?”

“So that’s what this movie is about.” Hesitating for only a beat, I burrow in closer, reveling in the heat from Shane’s hard body. I covertly inhale his cologne for the hundredth time.

“See? Just two friends, hanging out, watching a scary movie.”

“Is that all this is?” I mean it to be flippant.

An index finger catches my chin and guides my face toward his, only inches away. Even in the dark, thanks to the movie screen ahead, I can see the warm amber of his eyes. Another wave of nostalgia hits me, calling back to a younger version of the man sitting next to me, to a younger, more enamored version of myself. “I want more than that with you.” His gaze drops to my lips. “You know that.”

An electric current hangs in the air. Perhaps I’m no less enamored by Shane Beckett now than I was at seventeen. My stomach flutters as I wait expectantly for him to close those last few inches and kiss me.

But instead, he turns back toward the screen and cranks the volume on the radio channel frequency that plays the audio for the movie. He shifts in his seat, splaying his legs as if he’s getting comfortable to watch. “Just so you know, this is a really fucked-up movie.”

My dramatic sigh fills the car’s interior, a mask for the intense physical frustration I’m feeling. “Fantastic.”

“Oh my God!” I cringe and bury my face in Shane’s neck as the woman with the bear trap affixed to her head repeatedly stabs the man. “Why did you pick this?”

He chuckles as he dims the volume, minimizing the sound of the violent and grisly death. “Not like I had options. It’s the only one playing tonight.”

“Well, you really know how to woo your dates,” I say dryly.

My nose catches a hint of cherry licorice as he bites off a chunk, seemingly unbothered by the gore. “I don’t know. I’d say I have you right where I want you.”

And I’m right where I want to be, my nose grazing the crook of his neck where it connects with his shoulder, my lips a hairbreadth away from tasting his skin. At some point, I kicked off my shoes and tucked my legs beneath me on the seat. Since then, I’ve been slowly inching closer to him. My hand has now found a permanent spot settled against his chest.

“You smell really good.”

“Yeah?”

I pull away just enough to survey our dark surroundings. The occupants of the Honda are glued to the movie screen as Shane predicted, and we’re too far back for anyone else to see us. There aren’t any staff wandering through the lot, monitoring behavior. There never was when I worked here either. Mr. Duncan, the seventy-year-old owner, told us that as long as no one was overtly breaking the law and causing a disturbance, we were to leave the patrons alone. This is the same man who proudly admitted to fathering two of his sons in the back seat of his Buick during double-header Clint Eastwood nights, “Back in the heyday of drive-ins.” I wonder if he’s still alive.