The Game Series (32 page)

“We were. It’s a wonder our parents hadn’t killed us by age ten.”

“Shaving the cat … Climbing trees … Flushing your cousin’s diaper down the toilet …”

“That was you!” I poke his arm across the table. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“It absolutely fucking stunk, Meggy!”

I’ll give him that. Ever smelt a diaper done by a ten month old? They’re not pretty.

“Thinking back I don’t think Mom was as bothered about the toilet being blocked as she was about the mess on the sofa.” I look at him pointedly.

“Damn,” he mutters. “I was eight. How was I supposed to know the kid would pee everywhere? I could control that shit. I thought I always could – I didn’t realize it was like a specialized skill.”

The worst thing here is he’s telling the truth. He genuinely didn’t know my cousin would pee everywhere without a diaper on.

“I’m surprised she let you in the house again after.”

“I didn’t pee on the sofa.” He grins. “I’m house trained.”

“Oh, gee, I’ll be sure to let Maddie know.”

“You’re cocky, Meggy.”

“I learnt from the best.” I smile sweetly at him as we get up.

Braden laughs, wrapping an arm around my shoulders again and squeezing me. “I miss being kids. It was so damn easy.”

Me too. No work, no future to worry about, no feelings to hurt.

No lies to tell.

“Remember where you’ve been to see how far you’ve come,” I mumble to myself, pushing the psych paper aside. “Yeah alright, Gramps. Fuckin’ helps if you’ve actually got somewhere, though, doesn’t it?”

I push the heels of my hands into my eyes, rubbing harshly. Hear something enough and it’ll be burned into your body, scarring your skin and tattooing itself in your mind. It doesn’t matter how long ago the words were said. It just matters that they were.

Thirteen years and I don’t feel like I’ve got anywhere. So what if I’m not the scared little boy in the corner anymore? He’s still inside. He’s still afraid, still shivering. He’s still bruised, he’s still broken, and he’s still beaten.

Just because I appear not to give a fuck doesn’t mean I actually don’t. Not everyone is what they seem, and I’m one of those people. I don’t even know who I am, because I spend so much time fighting against who I don’t want to be. I have no time to be who I want to be. I have no time to be who I could be.

I spend too much time fighting against the memories that are buried deep down. But it doesn’t always work – occasionally they creep up on me faster than I realize and consume me, taking me back to the place I hate more than anything. It’s always voices – always whispers lingering on the edge of my consciousness. Sometimes a whisper is worse than a scream.

Just like her … No good for anything … Worthless …

I shove away from the desk, my chair getting caught on the carpet. It tips backwards as I stand. I ignore it, slip my feet into my sneakers and grab my wallet.

I need to prove them wrong. I need to prove myself wrong.

I ignore everyone on my way out of the house. If I speak to anyone, if I stop, if I think for even a second, I’ll be back in my room still swirling in the same pool of fucking self-doubt.

My engine whirs to life, and I pull away from the frat house. There’s a bar just outside the city, set away from the roads leading to the interstate, and it only takes one glance at the bar to know it’s a run down, no ID, shabby place.

The kind of place my mom would have worked at. The kind of place she would have been picked up at. The kind of place her dead body was found at.

I push on through the city traffic full of perfect people driving back to their perfect families in their perfect little goddamn houses.

You’re not worth anything.

I flick the radio to “on” and
Trapt
blares out, the beat of
Headstrong
fueling the feelings running rife through my body. A mixture of anger, determination, frustration, and a sliver of helplessness.

Because they still control my life. No matter what I do or where I go, the bastards that controlled my early childhood control me even now.

I take the turn off to the small road that will lead me to the bar. The road is deserted, no cars, nothing, until the bar comes into view. The parking lot outside is half full with rusted, run down cars that need more than a fresh coat of paint. My car looks out of place here.

I look out of place here.

I
am
out of place here. Mom wouldn’t have been; this would have been her idea of heaven. Here is where she could have arranged a meeting with a rich guy – the guy that would probably pay over the odds and then some, all because of the privacy.

I pull a cap onto my head and get out of the car, staring at the exterior of the bar. The sign is slightly broken, one of the lights flickering pathetically against the darkening of the sky behind it. Eighties music hums from inside, and a woman’s voice screeches. A scratchily written sign proclaims a karaoke night.

I push open the door and get hit by the smell of stale smoke and beer. A woman in a barely there outfit passes in front of me, a tray raised above her head as she weaves her way through the patrons gathered about the bar. It’s far from busy, but everyone is focused on the thirty-something woman trying to sing in the corner of the bar.

I adjust my cap and order a beer. I was right. This place doesn’t care about ID. A beer is put in front of me and I hand over the cash. No-one gives me a second look apart from the waitress cleaning glasses at the opposite end of the bar.

Her eyes flick up and down me and she runs her tongue across her lips. Her clothes barely cover any skin, leaving her body on show.

It’s all you’ll be good for.

Her bleach blonde hair is flicked over her shoulder as she bends over to put glasses away, causing every man at the bar to look at her ass.

You’re just like she is.

She straightens, sending me a suggestive smile. She’s not much older than me, maybe one or two years. I drink some of the flat beer as she meanders across to me.

“What’s a guy like you doing in this bar?” She leans forward, resting her elbows against the sticky wood. Her tits squeeze together, almost popping from her top.

You’re nothing, just like her. It’s all you’re good for. You’re worthless. Useless. A pile of shit. You’re just the son of a whore, born to be a whore.

There’s no stirring in my dick, no attraction toward this waitress flaunting herself right in front me. There’s no desire at all, except the one to get the hell out of here.

“You know what?” I push the glass toward her and stand. “I have no fuckin’ idea.”

I don’t wait for her reaction, instead I turn and leave the bar within minutes of my arrival. No-one notices me getting out except her. I was invisible.

My car is comforting. I rest my head against the steering wheel, fighting against the constant voices swirling in my head.

“I’m not,” I say quietly. “I’m not like her. I’m
not
like her!”

And I’m not.

If I was, I’d be waiting for that girl to finish her shift so I could fuck the shit out of her. That’s what my mom would have done, except she would have sold her body for money or drugs. She wouldn’t have thought about what she was doing or how it was affecting those around her.

But I am thinking. And I’m not waiting for the waitress.

I’m driving away from the seedy, run-down bar full of everything that’s bad.

I’m heading back to Megan. To something good.

~

Seeing her face, even if it is across a crowded hallway, makes the day brighter. Seeing the guy next to her, making her laugh, makes the day turn darker than the dead of night.

It drives me fucking crazy. I should be the one walking beside her, making her laugh and wrapping my arm around her shoulders. Not that fucking asshole.

I lean against the wall, waiting and watching as they come closer. She shrugs his arm off, adjusts her books and rests them against her hip. The hip that’s between them. She tucks some hair behind her ear, making her face more visible to me.

Her blue eyes collide with mine for a second, but her facial expression doesn’t change, and neither does mine. Any twitch of lip, any blink of an eye, any movement of our bodies is all it would take to out us. We both know that.

The stakes of this game are high.

They’re too high, and it makes me wonder if it’s worth it. If it’s worth the lying and sneaking around. Then I look at her. I get a glimpse into her eyes and a twitch of a smile from her, and I know there’s no chance I can stop playing this fucked up game.

She drops her gaze as she walks past, and I drop mine to her ass. Her jeans hug it tightly, and I remember what it’s like to hold it as she moves against me.

The more time I spend around her or thinking of her, the more I need her – the more I need the peace she can bring me. The more I need the complete and utter silence she brings me when she’s tucked tight in my arms. The more I need to prove that I’m not my mom, that I’m more than a whore’s son, born to be a whore myself. The more I need to prove to myself that I’m more than that – just like I did last night.

I’m not good enough for Megan. I know that. I’ll never be enough for her, and it’s best for her if she packs her bags and runs in the opposite direction screaming for her life. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to let her in the way she wants. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell her all of me, let her know all of my past. I don’t know if the shaking little boy inside, stuck in a hall of horrifying memories will ever be able to break free from that and let me be with her completely.

But I still won’t use her the way I’ve used girls for so long.

I would rather lose her entirely than use her for my own selfish needs.

The halls are almost empty when the dick walking with her disappears into his class and leaves her standing alone. I grab my cell from my pocket.

You have class?

I watch her as she takes her own from her bag.
No,
she sends back instantly, leaning against the wall. I shove the phone back into my jeans and walk in her direction.

“Football field,” I mutter. “Five minutes.”

I can’t look back to see if she responds no matter how much I want to. I just have to hope she’ll get that pretty little ass down there.

I push open the double doors and almost walk into Ryan.

“Took your fuckin’ time,” he mutters.

“Don’t start your girly shit with me today, man,” I warn him. “I never said what time I’d be done.”

“What? Didn’t bag a girl in class to scratch your itch?”

“Why would I? You know I only pull that shit at weekends. You aren’t the only one with grades to keep.”

“You mean you actually have grades?”

“You’re a dick, Ryan.” I shake my head. “And yeah, if you must know, I graduated high school with a GPA of 3.8, so fuck you.”

“Shit! That’s higher than mine!” he exclaims. “I barely scraped a 3.4 to get in here from out of state! How the hell did you manage that?”

“My gramps was probably a better teacher than the poor shits that got stuck with your ass,” I reply. “That’s how I managed it.”

“Did you not go to school at all?”

“I went the last two years, and that’s it. It was easy as hell. I’d already learned most of it, so I spent it fucking about and surprising the hell out of my teachers with near perfect scores on most tests.”

“I never knew that.” He pushes the door open and we step into the house.

“Why would you? You all assume my brain is in my dick. Hey,” I pause and shove my book in his direction. “Take these.”

“The fuck?”

“I left something in class rushing to meet you. I’ll be back in a minute.” I spin and leave the house. All I can focus on is getting to the football field – and if I’d stayed two seconds longer Ryan would have kept me there.

When I’m out the view of the house I break into a jog, detouring around the campus buildings instead of going through them. Fucking hell, why does the damn field have to be on the other side of this place?

There’s some guys running around on the field, but I can’t see Megan anywhere until I scan the bleachers. She’s standing under them, looking between the seats on to the field.

I smirk and silently jog to her, placing my hands on her sides. I touch my lips to the side of her neck, and she turns her face into me.

“You know,” she whispers, “I feel like I’m back in high school.” She spins in my hold and looks up at me.

“Who were you meeting under the bleachers in high school?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Only every guy I’ve ever dated. And apparently you’re no exception.”

“So we’re dating?”

She slips her hands up my chest and clasps them around my neck, her face coming close to mine. “Unless you’re in the habit of creeping through girl’s windows, I’d say so.”

My lips twitch on both sides. “No habit here.”

Apart from her. Megan Harper is my habit and she’s one I stand no chance of breaking. I have yet to decide if it’s good or bad.

“Why are we here?” she asks and pauses. She smiles. “Oh. I get it. You’ve got a case of the caveman.”

“Bullshit,” I fire back, pulling her body closer to mine and kissing her. “I wanted to see you without us bitching at each other. You complaining?”

“No.” She kisses me again. “But admit it, Aston. You saw Tom with his arm over my shoulders and got pissed off. That’s why you text me.”

Her eyebrows are arched over her amused blue eyes, her lips half-pursed and half-smiling. I stare at her for a moment and give in.

“A little,” I admit. “I fucking hated seeing that prick with his hands on you.”

Megan brings her hand to my head and touches my cheek. “A lot,” she corrects me. “You looked like you were ready to drag me out of there by my ear just to get me away from him. I hate to say it but you’ll have to get used to it.”

“Fuck that,” I mutter. “If that happens much more I’m gonna stand in front of Braden and gladly take his shit for being with you. I can’t fucking deal with seeing that all the time.”

“You have two choices. You can see me with them and know I’m with you, or you can see me with them and wonder which one I want.”

Fuck that for a laugh. I take a deep breath and lean my forehead against hers. “Fine. I’ll deal with it. But I don’t damn well like it, Megs.”