Blind Man's Buff

By L.B. Gregg

A game of Capture the Flag turns deadly inside an abandoned shopping mall, ruining Tommy’s big plan to make a move on best friend, Jonah Theroux. But he and his friends aren’t alone inside the shopping mall—there’s a madman on the prowl, and he’s very interested in playing games with them, too.

**Previously published in Footsteps in the Dark--An M/M Mystery-Romance Anthology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.B. Gregg
• Release date: Jan 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781732572843

Book preview

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

Blind Man’s Buff

Copyright © L.B. Gregg, LLC (January 23, 2020)

Edited by Keren Reed

Copyedited by Dianne Thies

Cover Art by L.C. Chase Design

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact L.B. Gregg, LLC PO Box 7, Bantam CT 06750. www.lbgregg.com

ISBN: 978-1-7325728-3-6

Also available in: Footsteps in the Dark: An M/M Mystery Romance Anthology

Copyright © JustJoshin Publishing, Inc. May 31, 2019

ISBN: 978-1-9458028-4-3

About Blind Man’s Buff

Enter

Run

Hide

Fight

Exit

Acknowledgments

Also by L.B. Gregg

About the Author

A game of Capture the Flag turns deadly inside an abandoned shopping mall, ruining Tommy’s big plan to make a move on best friend, Jonah Theroux. But he and his friends aren’t alone inside the mall—there’s a madman on the prowl, and he’s interested in playing games with them, too.

We waited, the six of us, at a service entrance behind Parkway Mall as Dougie pried the effing door open with a crowbar.

The process of entering usually took mere seconds—bing, bang, done—but precious minutes had ticked by since he’d started, and anyone else would have read this as an omen.

Not me.

I focused on the positive. We were completely hidden by shadow. The rain had stopped, leaving a checkerboard of shallow puddles across the torn asphalt, and on the far side of the barren parking lot, well out of sight from both the access road and the old highway, not a single vehicle had driven by.

Most importantly, Jonah Theroux, friend, coworker, crush, had arrived for this evening’s adventure wearing actual aftershave.

He never wore aftershave.

I aimed for casual, but between the thrill of his presence, the peppery scent of his cologne, and the prospect of a night game in an abandoned shopping mall, I rocked on my toes, childishly striking that balance of attentive, cheerful, and way, way too eager. Currently living up to my moniker Tommy instead of Tom.

I sneaked a peek at the object of my desire.

Hood up, hands stuffed in the front pocket of a drab sweatshirt, Jonah was decked in the unofficial uniform of the urban ninja. We all were. Mud-colored, camo athletic wear—which blended into the shadows far better than black—and worn running shoes. He stared pointedly at the door, watching Dougie. You think we might get in sometime tonight, Chief?

Vinnie swung his backpack by the strap. I second that question. He held the first-aid kit and, knowing Vinnie, he also had some kind of horrible fruit-scented juice for vaping and a delicious snack to parcel for everyone later. My money was on Pop-Tarts, for both. Humor laced his voice, and he grinned at me. If no, I vote for tacos. Taco Tuesday.

I reminded him, It’s Friday, Vin.

Taco Friday, then. Taco any day. Taco every day.

Litter-strewn and damply lit, the ramshackle cement path circled an island of decay and neglect—better known as Parkway Mall. Tonight marked our very first foray inside, but the volume of paint-ball stains covering the exterior said plenty of others had come before us.

As a dead mall, some people thought Parkway was haunted, or unlucky, or cursed. Some said it held a history of murder, meth labs, and hobos, but people say a lot of things, about a variety of topics, and I’m fairly certain urban legends exist just to keep private property private.

Fact was, the place was empty. And had been for a long time because Parkway had never thrived. Not even when the shiny, unblemished doors first opened in the ’70s, and not for the three decades it managed to hang on after that. From what I remembered, when the mall finally croaked, no amount of money changing hands could have pumped life into its bloated corpse.

What remained? Boarded glass and padlocked doors and not a soul to be found except for us. So if there had been a credible haunting—and I scoffed simply stringing that sentence together—the lot would be crawling with people determined to prove the existence of paranormal activity. It wasn’t.

Parkway had been yet another victim of the statewide retail apocalypse.

Water dripped from broken downspouts. Towering weeds reclaimed the cracked pavement, creeping along walls plastered with NO TRESPASSING warnings, KEEP OUT signs, assorted graffiti, and, just in case you missed one, about a thousand FOR SALE or LEASE posters.

Lonely. Bleak. Isolated. Earthy. Empty. And fucking perfect.

I cast another sideward glance at Jonah, and this time, I caught him watching me. He smiled and swiftly looked away.

Okay.

He’d asked me twice today if I was coming. As if I, boy gamer, would miss. First, he texted this morning when we were technically in class and theoretically teaching—completely off-book for Mr. Theroux. And later, he swung by the computer lab at 2:35, as the last bell rang, knocking on my door and smiling cautiously. The students cut him a wide berth as they passed because Jonah ran a tight ship over on the academic hallway, and things were a little more loosey-goosey on our wing. It was a real surprise to see him.

But when I arrived tonight, he’d been stone quiet as he relieved me of my cell phone, locking mine with all the others in the trunk of his Jetta. We’d left our cars hidden in the desolate parking garage to the west of the mall. He’d given me a weird, terse, unreadable nod, and a tight-lipped smile that fell somewhere between nervous and cautiously optimistic and nothing like the eager smile he’d worn earlier.

He smelled damn good, though, and I fumbled my hello, wishing I could be smooth and confident in this arena of my life, but I was plain awkward. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like we weren’t friends. Just lately, he seemed more everything to me, and finally, when natural charm counted, I’d turned into a tongue-tied dork.

Fortunately, Piper dove into a thick conversation about Fortnite and salvaged the moment.

Vinnie waged his campaign for El Toro. Nachos and tequila. Just up the road.

Not to mention dysentery and regret, I added cheerfully, and a smatter of chuckling followed. Let’s give him a minute.

Dougie strained, leveraging the way inside. All. Most. There. The door yielded a teeny, tiny metallic moan and about a millimeter of give before snapping closed. Tight bitch. Maybe the hinge broke. The metal is definitely rusted. Although, I snipped the chain earlier and had zero problems getting inside.

Hey, man. No judgment here, Vinnie lied. Uh…couldn’t you remove the pin?

Negative. This is a secure door.

The youngest of our group, baby-faced Chris, piped in expertly, What you need is WD-40.

Dougie countered, Maybe, as Tommy suggested, you could give me a sec?

Not to mention, no one had any. We were empty-handed—first-aid kit notwithstanding—packed light, and ready to run. Everything I personally carried fit into one pocket and could be categorized as essential nonessentials. I had ChapStick, because supple lips seemed important for some reason, and a key fob that included a Nano Light and a titanium whistle, a weenie pocketknife, and a mini Bic lighter.

Carrying more seemed like cheating, and