Good Game_A Gamer Romance Page 13

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Wow. Even in my room?”

  “Especially there.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “I mean I did kind of give it away by making out with you. And after that, I kept dreaming about you.”

  “Oh, thank God I wasn’t the only one.” He laughed. “Have we done everything you dreamed about?”

  “Oh, very far from it. That will take a while. But our very first activity of the night was a favorite.”

  He raised his eyebrows, then hugged her close. “Do you want some water?”

  “Yeah.”

  He reluctantly extracted himself from her and searched for his pants. There. He grabbed his phone and glanced at it as he padded to the kitchen.

  Another text from Mouse waited for him. Sorry to interrupt but I think Frank might have followed you. Out of the club. I saw him leave right after you guys. Thought you might want to know.

  Fuck. Had he seen the car? Followed them home? Maybe that had even been him beeping at them at that red light. He might have seen the car, but Jack would have to hope he hadn’t made it to the house. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have already confronted them?

  Nothing good could come of this.

  But he wasn’t going to let it ruin their time together. Who knew how long this would last? At any moment, she would come to her senses and say, That’s right, I forgot but I hate you, slacker. I’m out of here. Until then, he’d breathe in every last breath of her he could.

  Chapter 7

  “Where is that little fuck?”

  Hearing his father’s voice with the doorbell chime wasn’t exactly the way he’d hoped to wake up beside Violet for the first time, but he gasped awake at the sound. Fuck. Fuck.

  “Is that—” she whispered, sitting up, holding the comforter tight around her.

  “Mouse must have been right. God, what do they want? Sorry, Violet. You deserve better than this. Pancakes. Tea. Morning sex.”

  She smiled. “There’s still time for that after they leave.”

  He managed a small smile in return and pulled her back down against him. “Maybe if we just don’t answer, they’ll go away.” He breathed her in, still shocked at his luck, at the hungry way they’d fallen together last night that was so much more powerful than he could have ever guessed. Three times total they’d risen and fallen, and they needed to sleep about six more hours.

  He tried to relax and ignore the outside world, but part of him was on the defensive, tensely listening for whatever the fuck his dad was doing outside. The bell rang again.

  “I am going to show that little shit. Where do you think he got all this money?”

  “Where do you think he got it? Probably from you.” Frank’s voice.

  His body went rigid at the accusation, the unfairness of it. Violet’s hands massaged his shoulders. Of course, it must be hard to accept that the kid you thought was a slacker had a career and money of his own and just preferred not to mention it to you. It was probably easier to assume the slacker was a slacker and must have gotten it all some other way. But what other way? He had no easy way of stealing from his dad, nor did he want to. The trust fund set up when his mother had died as part of her will was untouched, and anyone could see that. And it was going to stay that way.

  He heard the mailbox open and close and groaned. “I’ll be right back. I think they’re stealing my mail.”

  Sure enough, from outside: “Yeah, look. Addressed to him.”

  “You’d think they’d know that’s a federal offense,” she whispered.

  “Are you really surprised?” he whispered back, pulling on his gym pants.

  She giggled and shook her head.

  She watched Jack pad out of the bedroom, dismayed, wondering how long his family would keep him and if he’d be pissed when he got back. This sucked for both of them. Although all that sucking last night had been a good thing…

  Sunlight poured into the room that had been dark last night. Indeed, it was lushly and elegantly decorated, and one corner served as some kind of office, filled with all sorts of computers but also other things she was less familiar with. Lights, microphones, rolled-up fabric. A camera standing on a tripod caught her eye.

  A chill shot through her. A red dot flashed. It flashed again.

  Oh my God. The whole night—had he been recording all of it?

  She remembered how he’d fiddled with his phone—to turn on the music, she’d thought. What if it had been… ?

  She stumbled out of the bed and toward the camera, pulling on her dress and then looking into the lens until she realized that was useless. She shook the mouse of the computer, willing it to wake and accidentally kicking the stand of the tripod on the way. The computer woke, but of course it had a password. Fuck. And she’d kicked the stand so she didn’t really know exactly which way it had been pointed. It seemed like just the far wall, but… there would still be audio.

  Her cheeks flushed hot. How many times had she shouted his name last night? Screamed it for the heavens to hear?

  For him, for the heavens, and not for anyone else.

  She inspected the camera until she found a display screen. There seemed to be no control panels anywhere. But the screen read 21:46, with REC flashing beside it. Recording for the last twenty-one hours?

  No, no, no. She ripped out the cable connecting the camera to the computer.

  Had he planned this all along? Had he set up the camera before he’d even come out last night? Was that the real reason he’d been late? Had he thought he could get her to go home with him? Maybe the whole contract had been a trap; maybe those seemingly caring texts had just been part of the trick. And she’d fallen for it. Of course. And now he had his footage.

  Fuck. This was just like Damon but a thousand times worse.

  Videos. Videos he made a lot of money from on the internet. Of course, how could she be so blind? There was one thing that always made money on the internet, but she hadn’t planned on adding to his corporate portfolio.

  She grabbed her boots and slid them back on.

  She could confront him. That probably made sense, but her heart was aching. What could she say that would possibly be coherent? She’d thought for once she’d been wrong, that the king of the assholes actually wasn’t an asshole at all, just awkward or misunderstood—

  But no. He was worse than she’d thought. She should have known, from his family.

  She could hear him downstairs arguing. God, she wished she could go down there and join him. Tell them to fuck off with him.

  No fucking way. She needed to tell him to fuck off.

  Images from the night before whirled through her mind, the pure tenderness and honesty that had seemed to be in every touch, every gentle kiss and nip, every glorious and perfect thrust. How could it all have been a lie?

  Tears hit her cheeks before she’d even realized they were on their way.

  She couldn’t confront him. Not like this. She wanted to shake her fist at him, not cry on his shoulder. And that’s how she’d end up. In this state, she couldn’t stay. She’d go home, cry her eyes out all day, and when she was finished, she could confront him about the tape. Or however he’d recorded them. And what he planned to do with it.

  But even thinking about it made the tears gush harder. She had to get out of here while she still could, while he was still occupied with his family.

  She stole down the stairs, out a back door, and through a gate in the back fence. She slipped out and walked down the street. She didn’t have a coat, and her cheeks froze, sprinkled with tears. But fuck it. She couldn’t face another failed dream at the moment. She’d rather freeze to death.

  Jack shrugged into his dark-blue robe, clomped downstairs, and paused for a moment, his hand on the doorknob. The three of them were murmuring to each other outside. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He could still taste Violet, he realized. God, why did they have to show up now, of all mornings?

  He braced himself for the wave of fri
gid air that was about to hit him, then unlocked the door and yanked it open.

  They all turned to face him as he squeezed out, letting as little warmth out as possible.

  Lawrence gave him his best stern frown. “What the fuck is going on here, young man?”

  “Give me my mail, Dad.” He held out a hand, waiting. He wasn’t playing his father’s game until he had his belongings in his hands.

  “This is your house?” Lawrence said slowly.

  “You have a house?” Frank echoed.

  Jack held out his hand a little further, waiting.

  “Are you selling drugs?” Janet said, not even attempting to fake concern.

  He winced and forced down the knot in his throat with brutal force. She should really know better. Surely his dad must have explained what had happened by now. Why did people always think he was dealing drugs?

  “Drug dealing is actually not terribly lucrative,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Is that a no?” she said, doing her own imitation of stern stepmother.

  “No, I am not dealing drugs. And I don’t see what that has do with the federal offense of mail theft that is taking place right about now.”

  Lawrence gave him an annoyed look, then tossed the stack of envelopes at him, scattering them across the snowy porch.

  Jack stared at the white envelopes of various sizes and logos against the white snow. Like hell he was going to bend down and pick them all up at Lawrence’s feet while they watched.

  He grabbed a rake he should have put away four months ago and raked the snowy mail into an awful pile at his feet. He wasn’t having it. Not after last night. Not after he’d seen a ray of actual happiness on the horizon. He’d sweep the snow with it inside the house if he had to.

  “Who the hell is Sentinel Media, and why are they sending you so much crap?”

  Jack shook his head, then ran a hand down his face. Showed how much attention his dad paid.

  “That’s the to address, not the return address, honey,” Janet muttered.

  “If you stole this money from me—” his father started, pointing a finger at his chest.

  “Not everything is about you, Lawrence,” he snapped.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “How the fuck would I have stolen this from you?”

  “With the credit card I gave you last week. Or some other way. I don’t know.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Newsflash, it takes more than a week to buy a house. And you can’t put them on credit.”

  “You own this place?”

  “I have a mortgage.”

  “Why in God’s name wouldn’t you tell us about this?” Janet said, folding her arms across her chest in her best betrayed voice.

  “You stay out of this. You’re not part of this family yet. And why would I? You use everything against me.”

  “Don’t talk to your stepmother like that, young man,” Lawrence cut in at Janet’s shocked expression.

  “She’s not my stepmother yet,” Jack said under his breath.

  “This is seriously dysfunctional, dude,” Frank muttered, hovering behind Lawrence. “How could you—”

  “Oh, don’t you even talk to me.” Jack glared at him, tightening his hold on the rake.

  “I’m concerned for your mental health, sweetheart,” said Janet. She put on a concerned frown. “You should talk to someone about this. Right away. This isn’t normal.”

  She might be right on that part. Leave it to her to be subtler about being a complete asshole.

  His father was still giving him that stern, give-you-a-talking-to look that he’d used since Jack was a kid, and he opened his mouth now to speak. Much as Jack knew logically that whatever was about to come out was pure garbage, it still sent a shot of unease through him. Maybe someday he’d be able to hear the words without actually caring about them. For now, he could only steel himself and pretend they had no effect. “You know, your refusal to get your MBA was disappointing. Your refusal to even finish your degree was… well, maddeningly stupid. But this is… I mean, this… This is just weird. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “What can I say? I’m damned creative at letting you down.”

  “If your mother were here to—”

  “Don’t you dare bring her into this. She has nothing to do with this.” And everything to do with it.

  Lawrence placed a hand flat on his chest, voice quiet. “I just can’t believe you’ve been lying to us all this time.” As if he actually had feelings or cared about anyone but himself.

  “I haven’t lied to anyone. I just let you believe what you wanted to believe.”

  “All this time—”

  “You chose to imagine the worst in me.”

  “Jack—”

  “Now get off my property.”

  The words felt good. Last night flashed through his mind, he and Violet staring down Frank as he scampered away, her compact clicking in her purse.

  “Go, or I’m calling the police,” he added into the awkward silence. “Or my gun-toting girlfriend upstairs.”

  “Ah, I get it. Crazytown is perfect for you ’cause you’re a damn nutjob yourself. I should’ve called that sooner.” Frank glowered from the yard, kicking a porch light and knocking it off kilter.

  “Go to hell, Frank. Or anywhere else but here.”

  “You sure know how to pick ’em,” said Frank. “She does have a gun, though, Dad. He’s not joking about that.”

  Now he took the rake with both hands and shook it, at Frank in particular. “I said, get off my property. And don’t come back. And I don’t know if I’m coming to the wedding.”

  “Jack!” Janet cried, as if that were the worst affront.

  “Or if I’m talking to any of you ever again. Now. Get. Out.”

  His dad gave him one long, withering look, deep disappointment that his son wasn’t someone else, doing something else, acting some other way.

  Janet sighed, turned, and strode away, wrapping her white peacoat closer around her. His father followed. Frank curled his lip in one last glower, kicked a second light, and strode after them.

  Huh. Just like that, they were gone. He didn’t have to see them ever again if he didn’t want to. Violet was right. He should just draw the line, cut them off, protect himself.

  He had given them this opening. Every opening. He hadn’t had to answer the door or go to the party or talk to Olivia. He’d given them the power to make his life miserable by dutifully doing what they asked most of the time, if not all of it. More often than he should have. All in the name of duty.

  He told the rest of the world to go fuck itself, but when they asked him to compromise, he gave it a try. Why? Why did he keep letting them in, giving them openings? It was his fault for putting up with their shit.

  Oh, most definitely, fuck that.

  The car doors slammed closed. Their black Mercedes drove away. He squatted down and brushed off the envelopes and papers, piling them up with as little snow as possible. He headed back in the house and slammed the door, locking it with relish.

  “Violet?” he called. “They’re gone. Want some coffee?”

  There was no response. Could she have fallen back asleep?

  “Tea, maybe? Violet?”

  Nothing.

  He dropped the damp mail on the floor by the door and dashed up the stairs. The bedroom was empty, the bathroom too. Every room. His heart lurched in his chest.

  The whole house had never felt so fucking empty.

  Oh, God.

  He leapt down the stairs two at a time, headed for the kitchen.

  The back door stood open, just an inch. That son of a bitch was always hard to close properly; it took a special twist of the handle. He flung the door open and strode out onto the back porch. Boot prints led out the back path, through his back gate, and down the street.

  Should he follow her? She didn’t even have a coat. It was too fucking cold for that. What the hell had happened?

  “
Vi?” he shouted down the street. What did he really think that was going to accomplish?

  “Vi?” he shouted in the other direction. “Violet!”

  The cold wind bit at him, sweeping the snow around him in a flurry. He should go back inside, but he stood, frozen, dazed. He had expected to get hurt sooner or later. But now? And why? Did she regret last night? Did she have somewhere to be? He could drive her anywhere faster than she could walk. What could possibly have happened to make her leave so suddenly?

  Maybe it was his family. Maybe she’d listened and thought better of getting involved with anyone with so much damn baggage, such assholes permanently duct-taped to his life. And he couldn’t fault her for that. But she’d known how they were before this morning. Nothing they’d said had been particularly terrible, if she had even heard it.

  Confusion mixed with aching. Another gust of wind blew his robe open. God, if he was this cold, how was she coping? He hoped she’d made it to a bus already or something. No, he didn’t. He hoped it was something silly, and she was on her way back here right now. But he knew she wasn’t. Somehow, in some totally unexpected way, he’d managed to fuck everything up. Just like he’d thought he would. But why? He deserved to know at least that much.

  He dashed back inside, up the stairs, and found his phone.

  Violet, what happened? Why’d you leave?

  No answer came. He typed frantically.

  Please, Violet. Please answer. That was one of the best nights of my life.

  What else could he say to get her to come back? He struggled to think through the panic.

  Please at least give me a chance to know what I did.

  Suddenly, the end table vibrated as though his phone were there. But of course it wasn’t. He glanced up.

  Oh, no.

  Her phone lay on the end table, forgotten.

  She wouldn’t see his texts, she wouldn’t know when the busses were coming, she wouldn’t be able to call for a ride—

  She would have to come back and get it.

  He wasn’t sure if he was delighted or horrified. Certainly she’d wanted to leave without talking to him. She’d wanted to sneak out while he’d been outside. But why? She’d giggled when he’d left the room.