The Game Series (35 page)

“This weekend,” I drop my voice so it’s barely audible. “I can’t promise everything. I can only promise what is there to give.”

She blinks once, her hand twitching. She clenches her fist and puts it in her lap. “I’ve only ever had half of you. I’m sure I can wait a little longer for all of you.”

~

A night of fitful sleep, recurring nightmares and horror flashbacks aren’t how I wanted to start my day. Now, with the guys off to SF, Megan can get in and out of the house fairly unbothered. If anyone asks, she has a spare key to Braden’s room and left some books there. If anyone asks why she’s in my room, I borrowed one of the books. It’s hardly foolproof, but then again, no one here will care that much.

They all secretly want in her pants.

“You really wanna know?” I look at her across the room.

Her light blue eyes are wide and earnest as she meets my weary gaze. She pulls her knees to her chest and bites her thumbnail, nodding slowly. I sink onto the bed opposite her, the springs creaking under the heaviness of my body, and gaze out of the window.

“It’s not an easy thing to listen to,” I warn her.

“I want to be there for you,” she replies softly, shifting a little closer to me. “But I can’t be there if I don’t understand, not really. And I want to, Aston – I want to understand. I want to know all of you.”

I take a deep breath. It doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not anymore – it’s too late to back out. I have to tell her everything, tell her things I’ve never said out loud before. And somehow, when I look into her eyes, I find the strength within me to say the words.

“I have no idea who my father is. My mom got herself knocked up at seventeen to a guy whose name she didn’t even know.” My voice is hard, bitterness coating every word thickly. “She palmed me off on my Gramps whenever she could; she wasn’t cut out to be a mom – at least at seventeen. Gramps insists she suffered from post-partum depression, but she didn’t care. Not really. If she did, she would have seen a doctor instead of medicating herself with alcohol and the cheapest drug she could get ahold of.

“CPS kept in contact with us until I was sixteen and considered ‘stable’ by them. I stole my file once and read it. It says that ‘Mom’ moved us into a stingy little apartment when I was two, and although there were complaints from neighbors about hearing a child screaming and being left alone, whenever they visited everything was perfect. I was clean, the apartment was clean, and she was clean. They couldn’t do anything without proof.” The view from my room is a far cry from the dirty alleys of the Tenderloin district in San Francisco. “Despite the area we lived in she always managed to make it seem like we lived somewhere else whenever they showed up.

“I didn’t need to read the report much further. I have memories from when I was about four, spanning the next two years. ‘Stepdads’ that came and went repeatedly. All the same. All big, tattooed, and more stuck on drugs and alcohol than even she was. They all hated me with a passion.”

Dirty little son of a bitch. Fuckin’ runt. You piece of shit.

“They showed it whenever she went out to earn money – when she went to sell her body to some rich prick to fund the drug habit for herself and whichever poor bastard she was fucking at the time. That’s when it would start.”

“Mommy,” I had whimpered, cowering in the corner of the kitchen and hugging the smelly rabbit to my body. He leaned over me – I didn’t know his name. I never knew their names. They were never there long enough for me to know them.

“Your mommy can’t hear you,” he mocked. “She’s busy being a whore to get me the good shit. She’s good at that.”

“I want my mommy.” I pushed back further into the corner, the cable jack cutting into the bare skin on my back. Tears formed in my eyes and I curled up tighter, scared of the big man in front of me. The smell of alcohol on his breath fell over me and I covered my nose and hid my face.

It was pointless. I knew, even then, that he wouldn’t touch my face. They never did.

“Face hits were too obvious. A bruise on the back? On the legs? Even the stomach. They were safer for them. They weren’t questioned, and when they were, it was the same answer.”

“Oh, that?” Mom had gently stroked my back, her eyes steady on the social worker’s. “We went to the park a few days ago and the silly boy thought he could swing off the big monkey bars. I turned away for a second – a friend called me over – then he was on his back on the floor. He’s got no sense of danger. I’ve tried to explain, but he is only four. We came home and cleaned it up good, though. Didn’t we, little dude?”

Her blue-gray eyes found mine, a spark of fear in them. I nodded.

“Mommy made it all better.”

“I fell off the table. I tripped on a crack on the sidewalk. I slipped on the stairs outside the apartment. There was always an excuse. Never a hospital visit. Always my fault. Never theirs.”

The glass had hit the wall hard enough that it shattered. I screamed, slipping on a wet patch on the floor as I tried to escape to my room for an extra second of relief. I fell to my knees, fear pulsing through my body. I sobbed, cried, whimpered. I gulped desperately at air, my throat tight. I pulled myself along the floor, scrambling to escape the angry shadow approaching me.

The glass cut right through my palm, and I screamed again. Blood mixed with the clear alcohol on the floor, swirling in patterns, and someone banged on the door.

“Fucking nosey bastards,” the man grumbled, picking me up. I fought against his hold, and he lowered his mouth to my ear. “Don’t fuckin’ fight me, rat, or you’ll have my belt across your back.” I stilled. “Good boy.”

The door opened and the old woman across the hall was there with a worried look. “I heard a smash and a scream – is everything okay?”

“Fine. The boy knocked my glass off the side while I wasn’t in the room and tried cleaning it up – cut his hand a couple times. If you don’t mind, I need to clean him up.” He shut the door on his lies.

“Every time. She knew. She never cared enough. All she cared about was sticking another ounce of shit into her bloodstream or snorting another gram. All she gave a fuck about was the bottom of her glass.”

One day, maybe you’ll be useful and we can send you out to earn the money instead of your whore of a mother.

A fist. Another bruise.

That’s all she’s good for. Fucking. It’s all you’ll be good for one day.

A kick to the back.

No-one is ever gonna want you. Not when they find out how much of a fucking slut your mother is.

A bang of the head on a chair leg.

You’re only good for what she is. No-one will ever care about you.

“Stop,” a soft, pained voice whispers. Hands press tenderly against my cheeks, lips brush my forehead. “You can stop now.”

I open my eyes that must have closed while I was lost in my head. Megan’s blue eyes are brimming with tears.

“You can stop,” she repeats. “You’re safe here. You’re safe with me.” She strokes my cheek as a tear rolls down hers. “You’re safe.”

The fog begins to clear, the memories pushing back, and I see her clearly. The pain etched on her face is something I never want to see again. It’s something I put there. This is why I never wanted to tell her. This is why I never wanted to get this close to her.

“Don’t cry for me, baby.” I brush my thumb under her eye. “I’m not worth your tears.”

She nods. “You are. You’re worth every last tear in my body.”

“I’m not,” I argue, moving away from her. I shove off the bed and begin to pace the floor, the old words reopening the scars and reinforcing everything I’ve tried to push back. Reminding me of what I am. Reminding me of the worth of my life, of my body. “I’m not worth you. Don’t you get it? They were fucking right, Megs. I’m not worth anything. I’m too fucked up. Everything they ever said – every time they told me I wasn’t worth shit, every time they told me no-one would ever want me–”

“They were wrong,” she says in a small but strong voice. “They were
wrong.
All of it. It was all lies.”

I press my hands against the wall and clench my jaw. “Nah. They were right. Every fucking one of them. I’m fucked up. I’m broken, a bunch of mismatched pieces stuck together in a shit attempt at being fixed.”

The bed springs squeak and the floorboards creak. A soft hand touches my back, another wraps around my tightened bicep.

“They weren’t right. They were far from being right.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.” She wraps her hands around my arm and rests her head against me. She tightens her grip, resting the side of her face against my shoulder. “They were wrong, because I want you. I want all of you – even the broken parts and the mismatched parts.”

I find her eyes. “Why? Why? I can’t give you what you really want. I can’t give you sunshine and fucking rainbows. I can’t give you puppies and fluffy bunnies. I can’t give you the perfect you deserve.”

“I don’t want perfect, and if I want sunshine and rainbows, I’ll go to the local elementary school and visit the kindergarten class.”

I push off from the wall, her hands falling away. “It’ll always end up as sex. There’s nothing inside, baby. I’m fucking empty.”

“You’re lying and you know it.”

“Am I?” I turn, pinning her with my gaze. I am lying – but it’s better this way. “Am I lying? You think I feel anything when I take some girl back on a Saturday night? You think I feel anything other than sex?”

Silence stretches, and I fucking hate myself for this. I hate myself for pushing away the one person I want to pull into me.

“I know you don’t feel anything other than sex when you take a girl back to your room on a Saturday night.”

That’s more painful than the physical kicks to the stomach I used to get. “So why are you still here?”

“Because I’m not just any girl,” she says with certainty, her eyes boring into mine. “Do you think I’m dumb, Aston? You just bared your soul to me – the deepest, darkest parts of it – and now you’re trying to push me away. Who are you really trying to protect, huh? Is it me or is it you? Do you feel nothing for me when you call me ‘baby’? Do you feel nothing when you hold me against you? Do you honestly feel nothing when we’re together? Go on. Tell me! Tell me that right now, with me looking into your eyes that you feel nothing, and I’ll walk out that damn door. Tell me you don’t care.”

I can’t.

“Tell me!”

And she knows it.

“Go on!”

“I can’t!” I yell. “I can’t fucking tell you that! And that’s the problem. You have to go. You have to walk away, because I can’t. You have to protect yourself from me, because I can’t walk away from you.”

“I don’t want you to!” She storms across the room. “I don’t want you to walk away from me!” She stops in front of me, her chest heaving, and continues in a quieter voice, “I don’t want you to walk away.”

No one will ever want you. No one will care. You’re not worth shit. Son of a bitch. Useless prick.

I grab her and pull her against me, burying my face in her hair. I’m shaking as I hold her. I need her – I don’t know what it is, but I need her more than I’ve ever needed anything. She’s all I can feel. She makes me want to rip apart the mismatched pieces of myself and put them back in the right places. She awakens something in me, a will to live, a will to
love.
With her arms wrapped around my waist, her hands spread against my back, and her head tucked into my neck, it feels like home.

Megan feels like home to me.

“Did she really never tell you about your dad?” I ask, drawing circles on Aston’s arm with my fingertip.

“No. Gramps told me a few years ago she went away for a friend’s birthday and a few weeks later found out she was pregnant. She swore there was only him but she couldn’t remember his name,” he replies. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I have my Gramps, and that’s what matters. He was there when no one else was.”

“He sounds like an amazing man,” I say, tilting my head back and staring into his gray eyes. “It makes it easy to understand where you get it from.”

He makes a noise of disbelief. “I’m not amazing, baby, far from it.”

“The beauty of being an outsider is that I can see what you can’t,” I argue. “You might not see it yet, you might never see it, but you are.” I raise my hand to his face, stroke my thumb down his cheek and across the faint stubble on his jaw. And I’m not lying – I can see everything he can’t. I can see the beauty of him hiding behind the ugly memories of his past. He just needs to let it shine through.

“If you say so.” He catches my hand in his and kisses each of my fingers softly.

“I’m sorry I made you remember those things,” I say in a small voice.

“I’m not,” he replies firmly. “I’m not sorry you did. You were right yesterday. You have to get lost in the dark to appreciate the light. My head is full of darkness, full of shadows and horrors, and then I look into your eyes. It’s like finding the light at the end of the tunnel – the light I never thought I’d find.”

I flatten my hand against his cheek, his resting atop mine, and move my face forward so our lips brush. “I like that. I love that I make you feel that way.”

“It’s true. Who else could I threaten about spanking across the kitchen table?” His lips twitch, a bit of the normal light returning to his eyes as the darkness recedes.

“I’m sure you could find someone.” I shrug a shoulder.

“I probably could, but I don’t want to find someone.” His face turns serious again, and his hand trails along my arm and rests on my back. “I have to tell you something else – but you have to promise me you won’t get mad and leave.”

“I’m. Not. Leaving.” I put extra emphasis on each word. “Okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

For a second I see a glimpse of the little boy he keeps inside flash in his eyes, and my heart breaks a little. A tiny crack forms for the pain he must feel.

“A few nights ago I went to this bar. It’s out the way, and I went there because I had to prove to myself I’m not like my mom was.” He closes his eyes, gathers himself, and opens them again. “I knew if I went in there and left with someone, I’d be no better than she was.”

I swallow, trying not to let my facial expression change as a little bile rises up my throat. Even as my whole body tightens, a part of me believes he didn’t. He’s stronger than that. A part of me has to believe that.

“And?”

Outside my voice is calm, deceptively so, but inside my body is raging. It’s raging that he’d try it, raging at the people who made him this way, raging at the words he must have heard so many times to make him believe he’s no better than his mom.

“I couldn’t. I was in there for maybe five minutes, tops, and I had to leave. I had to run. It wasn’t me.” He looks steadily into my eyes. “And you’re the reason I left. Hell, you’re the reason I went. I told myself that if I went and left alone, I was good enough for you. If I left alone, I cared, I had feelings. If I left alone, I wasn’t hollow inside.”

“You’re not hollow inside.” I prop myself up on my elbow and look down at him, running my fingers through his hair. “You do feel – you must have felt to go in the first place. And as for being good enough for me …” I shake my head. “Who dictates that? Society? A TV show? A romance novel? No. Not even Braden can dictate that, Aston. The only person who decides if someone is good enough for me, is me, and I say you are most definitely good enough for me.”

He tucks my hair behind my ear. “How do you know?”

I smile a little. “Well, you’re no Mr. Darcy, but you know …”

His fingers move against my side, tickling me, and I fall backwards onto the bed, laughing. He leans over me, his leg slipping between mine and his hips pinning me down. His hand leaves my side and travels up my body to my hand where he links our fingers.

“‘You have bewitched me, body and soul,’” he murmurs, looking down into my eyes. “I forgot the accent, but I’m sure that’ll do. That’s all I can remember of the book when I look at you.”

“One of my favorite lines.” I smile. “Do I make you forget things often?”

“All the time.” He lowers his lips, moving them softly across mine for a long, lingering moment.

“I can’t believe you actually know some Jane Austen,” I muse, moving his hair from his face.

How many guys know Jane Austen? Every day he surprises me a little more.

“It was the first classic novel my Gramps made me read. I was eight.” He props his head on his hand. “He said that although Darcy was a pompous ass in the beginning, if I grew up and loved a woman the way he loved Elizabeth in the end, then he’d done his job at raising me.” He trails a finger down the side of my face.

“He gave you the book to teach you to respect women,” I say in awe. “He wanted you to take Darcy’s journey of respecting and loving Elizabeth and apply it to real life. Your Gramps is a genius.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.” He grins.

“I’ll tell him myself if I ever get to meet him.”

“You can. If you want to.”

“Really?”

Aston nods. “I’ve already told you the worst. Gramps … Well, he’ll probably be happy to have someone to talk to who actually enjoys discussing literature’s greatest love stories. Hell, I don’t have much patience for that shit.”

“I would love to meet him,” I say honestly. “And discuss literature’s greatest love stories.”

“Tomorrow?” Aston questions, the little boy showing in his eyes again, and I realize he’s letting me in.

By taking me to meet his Gramps, he’s giving me more of himself. He’s letting me meet the one person who really knows him … The one person that knows the little boy inside.

I run the pad of my thumb along his bottom lip. “Tomorrow. I’ll be sure to bring Mr. Darcy.”

“No need.” He drops his face to mine again, taking my bottom lip between his and sucking lightly. “I’ll be a real life Mr. Darcy.”

“You don’t have the top hat and tails,” I protest, clasping my hands behind his head.

“Who needs them? They’d end up on the floor anyway.”

I giggle as he kisses me again, his body pressing into mine. “You’re probably right.”

~

I feel like I’m fifteen and sneaking back into my room after breaking curfew.

I never intended to stay at the frat house last night – it just happened. After Aston told me everything, I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t walk away, leaving him with the memories I made him drag out.

So that’s why I’m creeping out in yesterday’s clothes to change quickly before he takes me to meet his Gramps.

Hoping everyone else is still in bed or doing what they normally do on a Sunday morning, I silently pad my way down the stairs. Kyle’s deep voice makes me pause.

“A blonde girl?” he asks.

“Yeah. I didn’t see who it was, though. As far as I know she was still in his room last night.”

“You mean Aston didn’t come down and pull some chick?”

Fuck.

I press my hand over my mouth to stifle the stream of curse words. I glance at the front door. If I turn the corner right now, whoever is outside will see me and know
I
was the girl in his room.

“Megan?” a voice asks, and I bite my tongue.

“Nah. Braden would kill him.”

That’s it.

I take my pumps off and skip up the stairs on tip toes. My hands shake as I fumble for Braden’s key in the pocket of my jeans and slip it in the lock. I sneak into his room, and take one of my books from his desk.

Thank you, Braden, for your constant need to copy my English notes.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I put my pumps back on. I know I look on the rough side of human – hey, it is a Saturday – but I walk casually down the stairs anyway. Kyle and the other guy, Mark, both look at me as I appear in their line of view.

“Morning.” I smile and wave slightly.

“Uh,” Kyle says awkwardly. “You’re here early.”

I lift the book. “Braden had my notes again. It’s exactly why I have a key for his room.”

“Seriously?” Mark narrows his eyes, looking at me suspiciously.

“The book is in my hand, isn’t it? Want me to take you up and show you how many of my damn books he has sitting on his desk?” I offer, pointing to the stairs more calmly than I feel. “It’s no big deal.”

“Nah, you’re alright,” he replies, relaxing.

“Great.” I fake a smile. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a paper to write. See ya.”

“Bye, Megs.” Kyle waves as I turn and leave the frat house.

All the air rushes from my lungs when the door shuts behind me, and I force myself to walk instead of run.
Shit.
That was close – too fucking close – and I’ve exhausted my number one excuse for being at the frat house when Braden or the girls aren’t.

“Where the fuck were you last night?”

Kay’s voice sends a bolt of panic through me. Hell. Can I get a break today?

“Why do you need to know?” I ask, letting myself into the dorm block.

“Because I came round here to bring your ass to a party – not with those dicks at Braden’s house – and you weren’t here. Where were you?”

I put my hand on my doorframe, grinning, and decide to play it coy. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She smirks. “Fucking right I’d like to know. Did you finally get some?”

I shove the door open. “A lady never reveals her secrets!” And slam it shut before she can question me further.

“You bitch!” she yells, banging on the door. “I’m not letting this go!”

“I know!” But at least now I have time to come up with an excuse.

I exhale, a long, tortured sigh, and rest my forehead on the door. Who thought a secret relationship was a good idea?

Oh, yeah, me.

That was before the secret relationship became something complex, more than just a boy and a girl. Now it’s entwined deeply in a past filled with horrors I can’t even imagine, voices I’ll never hear, and memories I’ll never see fully. It’s not just a passing college fling, something to pass the time.

It’s real.

It’s as real as a relationship could ever be.

I straighten and chuck the book on my bed, not caring when it slips to the floor, and strip as I head to the shower. A quick hot shower should sort me out and relax me from this morning’s close calls. Too many in such a short space of time. There’s only so many excuses I can come up with before the truth will have to come out, and I know that moment will be so explosive that even the Chinese New Year won’t be able to touch it with their fireworks.

I step from the shower and run through the motions of getting ready, standing in front of my closet for longer than necessary. I mean, this is the equivalent of the “Meet the Parents” moment, right? So a good impression – literature aside – is necessary. But what the hell do you wear to meet someone’s grandfather?

The gray sky outside makes me rethink my skirt idea. I pull out a pair of jeans instead and couple them with a colorful shirt and wrap-around sweater. I blast my hair with the hairdryer, clipping it away from my face with a flower pin, and smudge on some make up.

My cell buzzes and a message from Aston pops up.
Ready when you are.

Give me five.

Convinced that it’ll be sunny I grab a light jacket and sunglasses, and leave the dorm room. The sky has darkened only a little. It won’t rain. Yet.

The walk downtown doesn’t take long, and I find Aston parked exactly where he said he’d be. I knock on the window, smiling, and he leans over to open the door. I get in and he leans over the gearstick to kiss me soundly.

“Risky,” I mutter.

“And being seen in a car with you isn’t?” he shoots back, amused.

I produce my glasses from under my jacket and slip them on. “See? I’m in disguise.”

“You still look like you.” He grins as he pulls out. “We’re not passing campus, anyway. It’s still early, so I doubt many people will be about.”

“You say that. If I was Pinocchio, my nose would be about ten foot long I’ve told so many lies this morning.”

“Who to?” He glances at me.

“Kyle and Mark, then Kay,” I grumble. “Kyle and Mark think I’d slipped in to grab a book from Braden’s room, and Kay thinks I was with a guy all night.”

“Which is right. But she doesn’t know?”

“No. She doesn’t know. I slammed my door in her face.”

“She won’t let that go.”

“I know. But I have time to make a decent excuse as to why I can’t tell her who I was with.”