Chapter 5: Possession in the Basement
The pulsing bass from Rylee’s basement was a physical thing, a vibration Lexi felt in her molars as she stood on the cracked sidewalk, hesitating. Bree bounced beside her, a whirl of glittery top and infectious energy.
“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Bree urged, linking her arm through Lexi’s. “You’ve been moping for days. You need to shake it off. Plus,” she leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, “Rylee specifically said I should bring you.”
Lexi adjusted the straps of her simple black top. She felt exposed, even in the dark. “I don’t really know anyone.”
“You know me. You know Rylee. That’s a start.” Bree’s smile was relentless. “And maybe a certain broody someone with a killer car will show up to glare at the walls.”
Lexi’s stomach flipped. She hadn’t seen Ace since the diner, just fleeting glimpses in the school hallways where he’d pass without a glance, his expression unreadable. His words—I’m not good for you—echoed in her quiet moments, battling the memory of his body pressing hers against the cold iron. Her sketchbook was filled with variations of that moment, each line an attempt to understand the contradiction.
“That’s not a selling point,” Lexi mumbled, but let Bree pull her towards the side entrance.
The noise hit them first—a wall of shouted conversations, thumping music, laughter. Then the smell: spilled beer, cheap cologne, sweat, and the underlying scent of dusty concrete. Rylee’s basement was a study in controlled chaos. A single, cracked disco ball spun lazily, throwing dizzying specks of light over a sea of bodies. Exposed brick walls were covered in faded band posters and crude graffiti. A pool table in the corner was surrounded by a cheering crowd, the clack of balls cutting through the music.
“Bree! Lexi! You made it!” Rylee emerged from the crowd, his blond hair tousled, a wide smile on his face. He had a natural ease, a warmth that made the overwhelming scene feel slightly safer. He immediately looped an arm around Bree’s shoulders, his touch casual but his eyes lingering on her. “Get you guys a drink?”
Bree beamed. “Yes, please!”
Lexi accepted a red plastic cup of something sweet and fizzy. She sipped it, letting the sugar coat her nerves. She scanned the room, her artist’s eye taking in the details: the way the light fractured over a laughing girl’s face, the tense line of a boy’s shoulder as he leaned in to hear his friend, the dark shadow of the staircase where the light from the main room didn’t reach.
And there, in that deepest shadow, leaning against the wall with the detached stillness of a predator, was Ace.
He was dressed in a dark henley and jeans, his leather jacket absent. His arms were crossed, his gaze fixed on the crowd—or more specifically, on her. Even across the room, she felt the intensity of that blue stare like a physical touch. He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He just watched.
A thrill, sharp and dangerous, shot through her veins.
“See?” Bree giggled, following her gaze. “I told you. He’s here. Now, come dance!”
Bree dragged her into a knot of moving bodies near the source of the music. The drink warmed Lexi’s limbs, loosening the tight coil of her anxiety. The music was loud, the beat primal. She let herself move, hesitantly at first, then with more abandon as Bree laughed and twirled beside her. She was aware of him watching the whole time. It made her skin feel too tight, her movements more conscious. She felt both exposed and powerful under his scrutiny.
She lost track of time, of the number of sweet, fizzy drinks Bree kept handing her. The room began to soften at the edges, the lights blurring into streaks of color. She was laughing at something Rylee said, her head tipped back, when she felt a large, damp hand settle on her lower back.
“Hey, new girl. You can really move.”
She turned. The guy was big, a football player she vaguely recognized from the halls. His eyes were glazed, his smile sloppy. “I’m Brad.”
“Lexi,” she said, trying to step back, but the crowd pressed in.
“Wanna get out of here? My truck’s outside. Quieter.” His hand slid lower, his fingers slipping just beneath the waistband of her jeans.
A cold shock cleared the fog from her brain. “No. Get your hand off me.” She tried to push his arm away, but he was solid, immovable.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he slurred, leaning in, his beer breath hot on her face. “You were giving everyone a show. Giving me a show.”
Panic, sharp and acidic, rose in her throat. She looked wildly for Bree, for Rylee, but they were lost in the swirl of bodies. Her vision tunneled. The music pounded. His grip tightened.
Then the hand was gone.
One second Brad was there, leering; the next, he was ripped away from her with brutal force. She saw a flash of dark hair, a furious profile. Ace moved with a terrifying, efficient violence. He didn’t shove Brad. He pivoted, his whole body behind the motion, and drove his fist into the center of Brad’s face.
The sound was a sickening, wet crunch. Brad staggered back, crashing into a group of people, holding his nose as blood streamed through his fingers.
Chaos erupted.
Someone shouted. A friend of Brad’s lunged at Ace. Ace ducked a wild swing and buried his fist in the guy’s solar plexus, dropping him to his knees with a whoosh of expelled air. But another guy grabbed Ace from behind, locking him in a bear hug. Ace drove his elbow back, hard, into the guy’s ribs. There was a grunt of pain, but the hold didn’t break.
Lexi stood frozen, her hands pressed to her mouth. The disco ball spun, casting insane, racing lights over the nightmare scene.
Rylee barreled into the fray then, not to fight, but to separate. “Enough! Get off him!” He grabbed the guy holding Ace, using his own considerable strength to wrench him away. “Party’s over!” he roared, his voice cutting through the music, which someone finally killed. “Everyone out! Now!”
The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by harsh breathing and moans of pain. Brad and his friends, clutching their injuries, were ushered out by a furious Rylee, who herded the stunned partygoers up the stairs with a torrent of curses and commands.
In moments, the basement was nearly empty, the air thick with the smell of sweat and iron-tinged blood.
Lexi stood alone amidst the discarded cups and demolished furniture. Ace was a few feet away, bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. A cut on his knuckles dripped red onto the concrete floor. He straightened slowly, turning to face her.
His eyes were black with fury, his lip split and swelling. He looked feral, unhinged. He crossed the space between them in three long strides, not stopping until she was backed against the cool, gritty brick wall.
He didn’t touch her. He planted his bloodied hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in just as he had on the bridge. His body radiated a fierce, violent heat. His breath came in ragged pulls, his chest heaving.
She stared up at him, her own breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t afraid. The panic was gone, replaced by a rushing, deafening clarity.
His gaze burned into hers, searching, demanding. He leaned closer, until she could see the flecks of darker blue in his irises, feel the heat of his skin. The scent of him—leather, night air, and now, copper—filled her senses.
His voice was a raw, guttural scrape, low and possessive, meant only for her.
“Mine.”
The word wasn’t a question. It was a declaration, a primal claiming that vibrated in the hollows of her bones. It should have terrified her. It should have sent her running.
Instead, a slow, defiant heat bloomed in her chest. She lifted her chin, meeting his stormy gaze without flinching. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum answering his call.
Footsteps clattered on the stairs. “Ace, man, they’re gone. I called a couple guys to help clean up—” Rylee’s voice cut off as he reached the bottom step and took in the scene: Ace pinning Lexi to the wall, the word hanging in the charged air between them.
Ace didn’t look away from Lexi. He held her gaze for one more endless second, a silent conversation passing between them. Then, with a final, sharp exhalation, he pushed off the wall. He turned to Rylee, his expression shuttering closed, the mask sliding back into place.
“I’m out,” he said, his voice flat.
“Your hand—” Rylee started.
“It’s fine.” Ace didn’t look back at Lexi as he strode towards the stairs, his movements stiff with controlled tension. He took the steps two at a time and vanished.
The basement felt cavernous and cold without his presence. Lexi slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, her legs unable to hold her.
Rylee walked over, sitting heavily beside her. He handed her a bottle of water. “You okay?”
She nodded, unscrewing the cap with trembling hands. She took a long drink. “Is he?”
Rylee sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That’s a complicated question.” He glanced at her. “He’s got a lot going on. Stuff he doesn’t talk about. But what he just did… that wasn’t about any of that. That was about you.”
Lexi looked at the smudge of blood on the brick where his hand had been. “He said I was his.”
“Yeah,” Rylee said quietly. “He did.” He stood up, offering her a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you home. Bree’s upstairs, freaking out.”
As Lexi let Rylee pull her to her feet, her mind was a whirlwind. The feel of Brad’s hand. The crack of Ace’s fist. The heat in his eyes. The raw, claimed feeling that word had left inside her.
Mine.
Across town, David Thompson sat in his silent, dark living room, a glass of whiskey untouched on the table beside him. He’d driven past Dede’s house three times. The light in her bedroom window was on. He could picture her there, waiting, the sheets cool.
He thought of his daughter, coming home late from a party, smelling of night air and possibility. He thought of the blank document on his computer, the empty future it represented.
He picked up his phone. Her text from earlier glowed on the screen: I’ll cook. You bring the wine.
His finger hovered over the keypad. He typed a single word.
Okay.
He sent it before he could think. Before the shame could outweigh the desperate, clawing need. The need to feel something, anything, other than this hollow quiet. Even if it was wrong. Especially because it was wrong.
He stood, grabbed his car keys, and walked out into the night, leaving the blank page and all its implications behind.
In the quiet of his own house, Ace stood at his bathroom sink, the water running pink as he rinsed the blood from his split knuckles. The adrenaline had faded, leaving a cold, sick emptiness. He saw Lexi’s face, the wide green eyes looking up at him not with fear, but with a shocking, quiet understanding.
He had lost control. Completely. The moment he saw that guy’s hand on her, something in him had snapped. A red, blinding haze. He’d wanted to destroy him. The violence had felt good, righteous.
Then he’d looked at her, backed against the wall, and the word had torn out of him from a place he didn’t even know he had. A place that was dark, and possessive, and scared.
He was his stepfather in that moment. The thought made his stomach turn. The same rage. The same need to control, to claim. He slammed his fist down on the porcelain edge of the sink, welcoming the fresh burst of pain.
He couldn’t be that. He wouldn’t.
But as he stared at his reflection, the bloodied, bruised face of a fighter, he knew with a sinking certainty that he wanted her more than he hated his own darkness. And that was the most dangerous truth of all.