—5 years, 1 month, and 14 days ago—

Camden Records' Halloween party might be deadly dull. But the food can bring the dead back to life.

Mummy hot dogs, Dracula donuts, Frankenstein cupcakes. Drool pools in my mouth as I stare at the adorable, spooky eats on the buffet table in front of me. Which one should I try first?

Seeing there's only one green frosted cupcake left, I immediately reach for it. But as my fingers are about to touch the brown wrapper, my black-gloved hand bumps into a man's bloodstained, yellow-gloved one.

Startled, I yank my hand and jump backward, away from the well-built man. His hockey mask, dark olive work shirt, and black military boots tell me he's dressing up as Jason Voorhees—specifically, the one from Friday the 13th Part VI.

"Sorry." He reaches for the last Frankenstein cupcake and offers it to me. "Here. You can have it."

The chocolate sprinkles on top of the green monster's head make my mouth water. But a nagging voice of suspicion haunts my mind, preventing me from accepting Jason's kind offer.

Working at one of the biggest record companies in Los Angeles has been a dream come true. But it comes with a price. Three weeks in this city have made me a bit paranoid, and now, I can't help but question everyone's motive. What if he's only acting nice? What if he only wants to mock me behind my back like that racist witch?

My eyes dart to the chestnut-haired woman cackling like a witch with her minions near the drinks table: Nicole, the only female junior sound engineer at Camden Records who happens to be my #1 enemy.

Hmm. What if this is one of her evil schemes?

I can already think of 101 awful nicknames Nicole might come up with for me if I decide to accept this cupcake. And every one of them causes goosebumps to spring up all over my body.

Shifting my gaze back to the well-built man, I notice he has one of the kindest eyes I've ever seen. But I'm not going to take any risks. After all, Nicole seemed nice too before I accidentally drank her protein shake.

Although the last Frankenstein cupcake begs for me to eat it, I say to the man, "It's okay, you can have it. I'll wait for the next batch."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks." His captivating steel-blue eyes twinkle with delight. "Hey, I'm Ol—"

The buzzing of a phone interrupts him, and he pulls his phone from his right pocket. As he glances at the caller ID, a cloud of anxiety replaces the light in his eyes.

"Sorry, I gotta take this. It's nice to meet you, Ghostface." There's a genuine appreciation in his voice when he mentions my costume, and I smile at that.

"Nice to meet you too, Jason."

He shoots me a salute and turns around before he accepts the call. "Mrs. Clark, hi. Yeah, I know, I know. I'll wire the money by the end of the week. I promise—"

Not one to eavesdrop, I return my attention to the buffet table, where the cute Mummy hot dogs sing to me, "Eat us, Vanessa. Eat us . . ."

My stomach growls. Licking my lips, I grab the Mummy with the biggest candy eyes and remove my rubber white mask to eat it. As I bring the hot dog to my wide-open mouth, a stabbing glare from across the room freezes me.

"Look at that slut." Nicole's whiny voice resounds from near the drinks table. "She's so hideous."

"Yeah," a raspy voice, one I recognize as Amber the PR Monster's, croaks. "She belongs with that freak in the hockey mask."

I whip my head toward Nicole and her minions, who are dressed in super-tight, black-leather costumes that barely cover any of their skin.

This is a Halloween party, sweethearts. Not an S&M club.

As much as I want to say that out loud, I restrain myself and greet them with my biggest grin instead. Do not engage in a fight, Vanessa. It's not worth it.

I shift my gaze back to the Mummy in my hand and decapitate it with my bare teeth, imagining it's one of those mean women's heads I'm munching. I look hideous, they say. I'll have you know I ranked 13 out of 500 in Jack Johnson's ridiculous Who-to-Fuck list back in Sunnyville!

LA is nothing like my hometown. Everything is so pricey, not everyone is nice, and some people might even hate you for something as petty as mistaking their water bottle for yours. After three weeks in this city, I figure out the only way to survive is to develop skin as thick as an armadillo's.

Still, no matter how thick an armadillo's skin is, it's not bulletproof.

Even after I ignore Nicole and her minions, they keep sneering and jeering at me all night long. Worse, they manage to get more and more people to laugh at me and my costume. Tired of being the clown of the day, I fill my plates with Mummy hot dogs and Dracula donuts before heading to the back alley of the studio.

The alley is dark and quiet; the cricket's soft chirping is the only noise traveling through the cold air. Puddles of stagnant water lay here and there on the ground, and the smell of rain still wafts in the air even though it has stopped raining over two hours ago.

Sitting on the doorstep, I open my mouth and put one of the Draculas inside it. I'm about to plunge my fangs into Dracula's eyes when the sudden feeling of being watched halts me.

With extreme caution, I raise my head.

My eyes are met with a pair of desperate, hungry ones watching me from across the room. Standing on the edge of the dumpster a few feet away from me is a skinny kitten, about four or five months old, with dull black fur.

"You're hungry too, aren't you?" I tear off a piece of Dracula and inch toward the four-legged furball. But before I can get close to it, the kitten jumps off the dumpster and hides, frightened.

"Here, kitty." I crouch down beside the dumpster and stretch out my hand toward her, careful enough not to step on the water puddle.

The kitten's round, golden eyes shine in the darkness as it peeks from behind the bin. Even though it's fixing its gaze on the donut in my hand, fear and caution remain in its eyes.

"Don't be scared." I fish out a paper napkin from my bag and lay the piece of the donut on it. After I place them on the ground, I take a few steps back. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

As if understanding me, it steps out, tip-toeing on its paws.

A sense of joy washes over me as it eats the piece of donut. For the first time since I've set foot in LA, I've finally gained a new friend—my very first.

We continue eating the rest of the donuts until the slamming of the back door causes the kitten to jump and run away. Eerie horror music screeches in my head as Jason Voorhees steps out of the building carrying something shiny in his right hand.

A knife.

A freaking knife.

Terror shoots down my spine, and the hair on my nape stands on end. He's following me, isn't he? He wants to kill me, doesn't—

"Oh, fuck," he mutters, pulling the small roll of white paper in his left hand away from his mouth.

Huh? Is that . . . a cigarette?

He lifts his mask to rest it on top of his head and sticks the cigarette between his teeth. That's when I realize the shiny thing he's holding is merely a lighter. Oh, thank God. I guess he's not trying to kill me—wait. Was he trying to smoke with his mask on?

A bubble of amused laughter threatens to burst from my chest, but I clamp my mouth shut before any sound can come out.

Jason flicks his lighter a few times, clicking his tongue and muttering a few curses when only tiny sparks fly from the top. It takes him about ten tries before a small flame ignites from the silver lighter. He lights up the cigarette, leans back against the wall right next to the door, and starts to smoke, unaware that I'm crouching about five feet away from him.

Well, I am wearing an all-black cloak in the middle of a dark alley.

It's not until his fifth or sixth puff that the theme from Psycho blares from my phone, alerting him of my presence.

"Holy shit!" He jerks the cigarette from his mouth and coughs, waving his hand to clear the smoke in front of him. "Sorry, I didn't know you were there."

"Oh, thank you!" I flash a proud grin. Holding up my mask, I add, "I mean, how else am I supposed to be a good serial killer if I can't be stealthy, right?"

He snorts out a laugh, choking on his cigarette smoke once again.

Meanwhile, my ringtone keeps reverberating through the alley, giving me a headache. Ever since I moved to LA, my mom always calls me at nine to check if I'm alright. It's a little embarrassing to have my mom checking on me when I'm already twenty-two. So I reject the call and send her a text instead.

"Mind if I smoke?" Jason asks, holding up his cigarette.

"Oh, no, no. Not at all."

Muttering his thanks, he sticks the cigarette between his lips and continues smoking. Although I've never smoked a cigarette before, I've been surrounded by chain smokers my whole life. That's why the bitter smell of tobacco drifting in the air reminds me of home.

"So." Jason lowers his voice and mimics a distorted voice. "What's your favorite scary movie?"

I chortle at his awful impression of Ghostface. "Scream, of course. I've been dying to wear this costume ever since I found it in the dumpster last . . ." As I catch a glimpse of my mask, a tinge of pain appears out of nowhere, blowing my excitement away. "Week."

"She's so hideous." Nicole's voice echoes in my ears.

The memory of the insults everyone has been throwing at me all night long begins flooding my brain. Within seconds, that armadillo skin begins to crack open.

Maybe I should leave LA and go back to Sunnyville for good. It's not like I stand a chance in a big city like this.

"Hey." There's something soothing in Jason's voice that manages to fish me out of the darkness. "Welcome to the club, horror buddy."

Horror buddy? I chuckle. "Thanks."

Intentional or not, his words serve as a warm welcome to me—my very first welcome in LA.

"I'm Oliver, by the way. Oliver Morrison."

Surprise and curiosity swirl through me.

Oliver Morrison is one of the few people at Camden Records who don't treat me like I'm human garbage. Unlike some ungrateful jerks who accuse me of poisoning them with—I quote—dirt mixed with a cat's poop, Oliver always thanks me whenever I serve him coffee.

Still, although he's one of the rare decent guys in the studio, he's the last person I expect to show up as Jason Voorhees at the recreation of a strip club inside the building.

Suppressing my curiosity, I reply, "I'm Vanessa."

"Oh! The new runner, right?" The excitement in his voice sends a spasm of anxiety through my system.

Two weeks ago, Nicole and her minions spread a rumor that I got my job by sleeping with one of the executives. It was a lie, of course. I was hired because I graduated with a 4.0 GPA from Sunnyville University, not by selling my body.

Still, no one seems to care about the truth around here.

The rumor keeps getting worse and worse. And over the past five days, I've been getting prank calls every night, asking if I'm up for a good time.

He's not one of those guys, is he?

A nervous chuckle escapes me. "Seems like I'm pretty popular around here, huh?"

He takes another puff on his cigarette and exhales. "You know, when I first started working here, people kept calling my phone and asked me to show up at their bachelorette parties."

"Huh?" What is he talking about? Is he trying to hit on me? Or is he trying to empathize with me?

"Someone photoshopped my head and put it on a brochure for a local strip club."

An image of Oliver's normal-sized head photoshopped on top of Channing Tatum's buff body pops into my mind, eliciting a snort of mirth from somewhere between my throat and my nose. But guilt soon slaps me in the face for laughing at other people's misfortune. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. I swear—"

"Nah, it's fine. It was kind of funny. Plus, they picked a super ripped guy as my body double. So you won't hear me complaining about that."

I giggle as the image in my head becomes raunchier. "So is that why you're not dressing up as Magic Mike tonight? To prevent the unwanted calls?"

"Oh, no, no. Let's just face it. It's not Halloween unless you go as this." He gestures at his costume before pointing at my mask. "Or that." Before I can open my mouth, he adds, "Well, the calls are pretty annoying too."

Laughter explodes from my chest, erasing the suspicion at the back of my mind.

The next thing I know, we sit side by side on the doorstep, talking on and on about our love for horror movies. In such a short time, he manages to bring the real me—one that was hidden underneath this newfound paranoia—back to the surface.

Somehow, we just . . . click.

At a certain point in our conversation, I realize I was wrong. If I want to survive in LA, having armadillo-like skin won't be enough.

I need a friend. A good one. And Oliver Morrison might just be the right person to fill that space.

Maybe I should give LA a second chance.

"I'm telling you," Oliver mumbles, his mouth filled with food. "Jason could just cut Freddy's head off without breaking a sweat. Game over."

"That is if he could pull himself and Freddy from the dream world. And that's a huge if." My hand roams the plate for another piece of Mummy, but I can't find any. Hmm? I don't think I've eaten that much. Where'd—

"Sorry. I took the last one." Oliver gives me the most adorable apologetic smile, and all of a sudden, I feel a funny flutter in my chest.

Shoot.

A loud warning blares inside my brain. Don't screw this up, Vanessa. Do not be one of those girls who fall in love with their friends in those rom-coms.

As I try to get myself under control, he stretches his hand for the plate. "Let me get some more. You wanna try some of those Frankenstein cupcakes too? I'm sure they've already refilled it by now."

"S-sure." I hand over the plate to him, fighting the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl.

A guy's kindness has always been my weak spot. And I have a strong feeling Oliver is one of the kindest people I've ever met.

This is impossible. I can't be friends with a guy as perfect as him without—

"Where's my mask?" Oliver snaps his head from side to side. "Where's my mask?" Checking his pockets, he repeats with sheer panic in his voice, "Where the hell is my mask?"

My jaw goes slack, and the silly butterflies in my chest vanish into thin air.

"Oliver?" I wiggle a finger up and down on top of my head, pressing my lips together into a tight line to hold back a laugh.

"Right." He puts his mask back on and opens the door to the studio. "I'll be right back."

The second he closes the door, I break into a guffaw. I guess this isn't impossible after all.

Author's Note:

What do you think of the night Vanessa and Oliver first met?

We'll fast forward to the present in the next chapter.

I hope you enjoy this quick flashback. Thanks for reading!