The Lover's Game (6 page)

Baby, I’m done at work and will be back at the hotel in 10 min. Can’t wait to see you.

He sounded so innocent, it was ridiculous. Be back at the hotel? He had been there all along. What a liar!

Staring at the screen, I checked the timestamp, my hands gripping the phone so hard I feared it would break. The message had been sent half an hour after Thalia had picked me up, which meant Jett had probably spent the entire day with Tiffany—plenty of time for them to have a little fun in their private hotel room, probably laughing at my stupidity.

I smiled bitterly as I scanned the next message, sent an hour after the first.

Have you forgotten our date? WHERE are you? Let me know so I can pick you up.

My pulse raced at the obvious annoyance seeping from between the lines. Who the hell did he think he was? Did he really believe I would wait for him in a room all day while he enjoyed himself with someone else? Slowly, all the conflicting emotions that had been building up throughout the day erupted at once. The cold breeze turned into a raging storm. Not only was he a cheater and a liar; he was also trying to make
me
feel bad about not obeying his commands. The thought that he sought control over me made me so angry, I grabbed my pillow and threw it against the wall.

Forgotten our date? As if. For once, I wished that had been the case. Before I realized what I was doing, my fingers quickly typed up a reply message.

I want you to fuck off and get out of my life. I trusted your word, and you betrayed me. Don’t deny it. I saw you with her. How could you hurt me like that?

My fingers lingered over the send button, hesitating. It would be the only message Jett would receive before I blocked his number forever. What was holding me back from sending it? In the end, I realized as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t yet ready to admit to him the extent of my hurt feelings. Besides, what would be the point of letting him known how hurt I was? Or telling him I saw him with her? He’d only deny it and then he’d probably start calling, attempting to sway me over, and that I couldn’t afford. Or, worst-case scenario, Jett would shrug it all off with no care that he had hurt me, telling me it was his right to kiss whoever he wanted.

My stomach did a flip. That would really be the tip of the iceberg. We weren’t married; I had no claim on him. But even though I could admit that to myself, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hear those words coming from his mouth. Ultimately, I pressed delete in the hope that my refusal to talk to him and listen to any more lies would grant me the energy to stay strong and move on. I figured, as long as I didn’t hear his voice or see him in person, the list of arguments I had put together would help me stay out of his path. And maybe, in time, my feelings for him would fade away. Come to think of it, now would be a good time to have Sylvie close by. But until she got back—

A soft knock jerked me out of my thoughts. I strained to listen, unsure whether it had been my imagination, when the key turned in the lock. A well of release rose inside me.

Sylvie was back.

It was about time.

I couldn’t wait to pour out my heart and soul, and bitch about Jett. If anyone could help me—if only by listening and being overly annoying—it was Sylvie. She was the only one who knew how to distract me.

The doorknob jiggled before there was another frustrated
thud
, followed by a knock.

“I’m coming!” I shouted, figuring the door was stuck again. It happened often, particularly when Sylvie was so drunk that it took her a while to turn the key at just the right angle. Not her fault though. We had an old lock; the kind that had to be jiggled a few times. Sometimes, when it was really stuck, we had to kick the door hard, until the bolt released. We had been meaning to get it fixed for ages, but money was always tight and Sylvie too busy with more pressing issues than calling a locksmith.

As I hurried down the hall, I already felt better in the knowledge that I’d soon be able to share my misery with someone who cared.

“Just leave it. I got it,” I said and pulled the door open.

No one there.

My breath caught in my throat, and my smile froze in place. As my glance swept over the empty hall, a sense of dread traveled down my spine. There were only two other doors in the corridor, and both were closed, but I knew someone had been there, because I was sure I had heard a key turning in the lock. The fact that the lights were switched on was proof that I hadn’t just imagined it.

“Sylvie?” I asked quietly as I stepped into the narrow hall. Had she forgotten something in her car and headed back downstairs to get it?

Frowning, I bent over the railing and scanned the illuminated levels below, but there was no sign of her.

No sign of anyone.

“Sylvie?” I whispered again, unable to stop the trembling in my voice even though I
knew
it had to be her.

Why wouldn’t she reply when I called her name? My mind began to make up logical explanations. Maybe she was entrenched in her thoughts. Maybe she was making out with her date that instant, completely filled with lust and oblivious to everything around her. Still, why would she head back downstairs and not bring him up to the apartment like she had done with previous dates?

What if...?

No. I pressed my hands against my chest in fear and scanned the staircase again, suddenly aware of the faint sound of footsteps, then breathing. My head snapped in that direction. Without a doubt, the sounds carried up from somewhere below, near the stairs on the first floor.

My heart pounded hard against my ribs as the scene from earlier that day flashed through my mind: the strange movement, accompanied by the unsettling feeling of being watched. What if someone had followed me inside the building? But how was that possible, unless they had a key? Maybe I was being paranoid or, worse yet, developing a severe case of schizophrenia that was making me imagine things.

It’d certainly make sense.

Really?

God. Self-denial was bliss.

Then I heard it again—breathing and more shuffling. Listening intently, I held my breath. There was no mistaking he fact that someone was there that very instant, in the corridor below, listening to me, maybe even watching me, knowing I was scared out of my mind. A voice inside my brain urged me to move, but my legs wouldn’t budge from the spot as my eyes scanned frantically for any signs, waiting for the predator to show himself.

Suddenly, the lights switched off, and everything went dark. I remained rooted to the spot, a pang of panic shooting through my body, crippling me. I turned my head sharply toward the weak light coming from the kitchen of our apartment. My heart pounded harder as my mind began to conjure up images of someone creeping up the stairs, ready to kill me. What if it was Jett’s crazy brother? Out of all the people who had ever meant to hurt me, he was the most obvious choice, given the circumstances.

Getting inside and locking up was the only coherent thought I could form. As fast as my legs could carry me, I sprinted back to our apartment and slammed the door. My legs were trembling with so much force that I had to lean against the wall to stop them from giving out on me. My breathing was labored and as loud as a whistling train, and my mind kept obsessing over the identity of the person outside.

Could it have been Jett?

It had to be. I wouldn’t have been surprised. He had always been sort of dominant, never taking “no” for an answer. The last time I had failed to answer his calls or texts, he tracked me down. I settled on him as the most obvious explanation; any other possibility would scare me too much.

Taking another sip, I leaned back against the cushions and pressed the cold glass of water against my throbbing temple. My eyelids felt heavily and I let them fall, the disturbing images of Jett with another woman drifting at the back of my mind and cruelly dancing there as I fell asleep.

***

F
rom the periphery of my mind, I heard the muffled sound of a key turning in a lock and a door jiggling. Confused and disoriented, my head snapped in the direction of the noise. One quick glance at the clock revealed that I had dozed off for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes since someone had knocked at the door. Was it possible that whoever had been outside had hung around that long?

I jumped out of the bed, straining to listen for any more noises over my unnaturally loud puffs of breath. Finally, feet shuffled somewhere, and my heart began to hammer hard against my chest.

A door opened slowly and closed.

Not just any door. The door to our apartment.

Fear grabbed a hold of me as the realization kicked in that whoever had been inside the building might have entered the apartment. All it’d take was the knowledge to pick a lock.

Retrieving the baseball bat Sylvie had once given me as a joke, in case we were ever burgled, I hid behind the door, mentally preparing myself to do whatever it took to protect myself and my child. My steps were slow and measured as I inched forward and raised the bat high, at head level, ready to bash. Eventually, the door to my room opened slowly.

“Brooke? Are you here?” Sylvie’s blonde head popped into my line of vision. Her eyes widened with shock when she caught a glimpse of me. “Oh, my God, Brooke.” She pressed a manicured hand against her chest and took a step back, her eyes filled with surprise and fear. “You scared the living shit out of me. I saw the lights switched on in your room, and I thought someone broke in. I almost called the cops, but then I let myself in and saw your shoes and handbag. Why didn’t you just—” She stopped abruptly. A deep frown crossed her features as she eyed my face and then the baseball bat in my hand. “Are you okay?”

No, I wasn’t okay, but where would I even begin?

It was all too much to deal with. My frayed nerves caused my hands and knees to tremble. I dropped to the floor, back pressed against the wall. All the tension I thought was gone, returned in an instant and stronger than before. I didn’t even know where to begin. After all the crying and the self-blaming, I felt like an empty shell of myself.

“Brooke?” She inched closer and gently took the baseball bat out of my hands before she sat down next to me. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug.

For a while, we sat there in the stillness, her warmth and touch the only thing that felt real. It was only after my limbs stopped shaking that I told her everything: the bad, the worse, and the blackest moment in my life. Recounting my memories almost ripped a hole in my chest, and yet, while the pain was all consuming, I didn’t cry—because all the tears I had for him were gone.

––––––––

B
y the time I finished talking, Sylvie had almost emptied an entire bottle. When I insisted that she pour me a glass—not to drink it but to stop her from polishing it off—she adamantly refused.

“You can’t drink in your condition.” She patted my hand gently, her eyes blazing with anger. In all my life, I had never seen her so upset, especially when it should have been me who was full of fury. Sylvie wasn’t the crier in our friendship. That was all me. Or at least had been upon finding out that Jett was cheating on me. Now my tears were depleted, and anger and humiliation had taken their place.

“Why are
you
crying?” I asked stunned.

“I’m not.” She wiped a hand over her eyes to get rid of the telltale moisture at the corners.

“You’re lying.”

“Really, I’m not. It’s just...” A muffled sob escaped her chest.

“Please don’t,” I said with enough determination to get her attention, afraid that her breakdown might tug at my own emotions.

“It just hurts me so much to see you in pain.”

I had no reply for that. “It’s okay. I’m fine. I got a job, and it pays well,” I said at last, changing the subject.

“It’s not okay, Brooke.” She looked up at me sternly. “Don’t do that. Don’t just brush it all under the rug and pretend it’s not there.” She pulled a tissue from a Kleenex box and began to crumple it. “How could he cheat on you? You’re perfect, Brooke. What the fuck is he doing with her when you’re carrying his child? He was supposed to propose and marry you, not fuck the next girl. That isn’t just a low blow.” She inhaled a sharp breath, her eyes shimmering with the fury of a scorned woman. “It’s the lowest thing any man could do. This is so fucking upsetting I feel like hurting him.”

I smiled, touched by her loyalty. Luckily for the both of us, Sylvie was all talk, but not exactly a believer in violence. It was just the wine speaking. I could hear the liquid courage in the slur of her voice.

“Shit happens, Sylvie. You know that.” I stroked her back in a soothing manner, but was only rewarded with a few tears trickling down her face.

“But you don’t deserve it.”

“I know,” I murmured. “No one ever does.” Seeing her crying and caring so much about me, even when drunk, made me realize just how much I had missed her in the weeks since I moved out. I could almost feel the intensity of her pain—as though she was more hurt than me. My vision blurred, but I didn’t want to cry. My head was already throbbing so hard I was afraid it might burst.