His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (24 page)

“What are you doing?” I shriek.

But neither of them appear to hear me.
Garrett recovers quickly, scrambling to his feet and launching
himself at Calder. Calder catches him around the shoulders, but
Garrett is quick. His fists connect with Calder's side as the two
wrestle against each other.

“Stop!” I say. “What the hell are you doing?
Stop, now!”

They ignore my pleas.

“This is ridiculous!” I say. “Stop it!”

But the two continue to batter each other.
Calder takes another swing at Garrett's face, while Garrett jabs
his knee upward, hitting Calder in the gut.

I don't know what to do. There's no way I'm
getting in the middle of those flying punches. Should I go get
Martin? Find my cell and call the police?

I turn and bolt up the stone steps. How the
hell did this all blow up so fast?

“Wait—Lily.”

I'm at the top step. When I turn, Calder has
Garrett pinned to the ground. Blood drips from Garrett's nose down
a cheek that's already starting to swell. Calder doesn't look much
better. He has a split lip and his shirt is torn. Both of them are
covered in mud.

Calder holds Garrett down by the upper arms.
My ex's eyes are wild, furious—and I know that he'll throw another
punch as soon as Calder releases him. I hurry back down the
steps.

“You’re insane,” I say. “Both of you. Does
anyone actually have any idea what the hell is going on?”

“He was screaming at you,” Calder says. “Not
to mention trespassing on my property. That's all I need to know.”
He tightens his grip, and Garrett curses.

“Why the hell are you listening to him?”
Garrett tries unsuccessfully to twist out of Calder's grasp. “He's
a liar. I don't know what the fuck is going on here, but I
guarantee it's not what you think.”

I wait for Calder to rebut the accusation,
but instead he only gives his opponent another shake. His face is
full of storm clouds.

My stomach twists as I step closer. “What's
going on?”

“He's a liar,” Garrett says again. “The whole
family's broke.”

“Shut
up
,” Calder says. He looks ready
to take another swing, so I rush forward and grab his arm, forcing
him to turn and look at me. His gaze softens slightly, but not
enough—and I know I'm not going to like what he has to say.

“What's going on?” I ask again.

“You better tell her,” Garrett says. “If you
won't, then I'll—”

“Stay out of this, Garrett,” I snap.

I turn back to Calder. His eyes are pleading
with me, and I know I'm about to have the rug ripped out from
beneath me.

“Tell me,” I say, so softly I can hardly hear
it above Garrett's ragged breathing.

Calder's gaze darts away, and he lets out a
long breath.

“Lily…”

“Tell me.”

He tenses under my hand, and I can feel his
pulse beating rapidly beneath the thin skin of his inner elbow.

“I inherited some financial difficulties,” he
says finally.

I stare at him for a long moment, trying to
process everything that this means.

“Is that why you broke your father's pledge
to the Center?” I ask.

His dark eyes bore into me, begging me for
understanding.

“It wasn't just the pledge,” he says. “I've
broken a number of other contracts, too, and I've started
selling—”

“Does this mean you never intended to give us
the money? That all those promises and all those games were—were
what? Just a ruse? Just enough incentive to get me to… to…”

I glance down at Garrett, who's near purple
with fury.

“What the hell happened here?” he says,
struggling again against Calder's hold. “What the fuck did he
do?”

I don't respond. I feel as if someone has
dunked me in cold water.

“Lily,” Calder pleads. “If you would let me
explain…”

“No,” I say, releasing his arm. “No. I'm
done. With both of you.” I turn and bolt up the steps before either
can stop me. Someone calls my name, but I don't care who. I can't
bear to look at either of them right now.

I know my way to my room at this point. I
grab my things and fumble in my purse for my keys. I refuse to stay
here a moment longer. I can't believe I allowed myself to be so
easily fooled, that I believed Calder's lies even for a minute.

When I return outside, Calder is halfway up
the stairs. Garrett is dragging himself to his feet behind him.

“Lily,” Calder says, “if you'd just let—”

“No.” I push past him. “If Garrett made it up
here, then the road must be clear by now. I'm leaving.”

Garrett grins at my announcement. He thinks
he's won.

“Come on,” he says, taking my arm. “Let's get
out of here.”

I jerk away from him. “Don't touch me. I
don't want to talk to you, either.”

“Lils, I didn't—”

“ENOUGH.” I shove him aside and march down
the driveway. If either one of them comes after me, I swear, I'll
punch him in the face.

When I get to the gates, I find them locked.
Garrett must have climbed over them like I did. I can’t believe
that one stupid, reckless decision turned out like this. My ex’s
Jeep is parked beside mine, and I give his front tire a kick before
diving into my own car.

And that’s when I lose it. As soon as I crank
the gas, the tears begin to spill over.

I keep replaying the entire thing in my head:
the argument I had with Calder in the garden, Garrett's unexpected
arrival, the subsequent fight. The realization that Calder has been
lying to me this entire time.

It's a disaster, this whole situation. How
the hell do I attract such assholes?

But no, that's not fair—I brought all of this
upon myself. I called Garrett when I knew I shouldn't have. I gave
into my attraction when I knew Calder was no good for me. I can’t
blame them for being themselves.

The worst part is that there's no hope for
the Center now.

My tears are coming so hard that I have
trouble seeing the road. I force myself to slow down. The last
thing I need is to crash my car out here and rely on one of those
idiots to save my ass.

When I get to the place where the road
crosses the river, I nearly lose it again. On either side of the
bridge, the road is completely underwater. I estimate it’s still a
foot deep in some places. Garrett was fine in his Jeep, but I'm not
sure my crappy old Honda can survive that much water. She's on her
last legs already, and I certainly don't have the money for
repairs. I don't have money for a tow, either, or to call a cab all
the way out here. I pull over, park, and lay my head against the
steering wheel, nearly hyperventilating.

I feel so… empty. Like I sold my soul and
have nothing to show for it. I dig my nails into the vinyl of the
steering wheel and force myself to count down from ten. By the time
I reach one, I've managed to breathe normally again.

This is just a setback
, I tell myself.
There's still plenty you can do for the Center. Don't let one
bad weekend destroy all of your hope.

Easier said than done. All the hope in the
world won’t make me feel any less horrible about these last few
days. I can’t believe that I fell for Calder’s lines, or that I
thought I could handle Garrett in my life again, even in some small
capacity. I’m an idiot all around. I need to get as far away from
these dipshits as possible before I’ll even be able to think
straight again.

I look at the water in the road.

“What do you think?” I ask my Honda. “Up for
the challenge?”

I give her an encouraging pat on the dash,
and then I crank her into gear.

<<>>

Three days later, I'm helping out in one of
the Center’s art classes. Marie, who usually leads the children's
programs, is out sick. I suspect we'll lose her to another job in
the near future anyway.

I lean over the shoulder of one of our
regulars, an enthusiastic seven-year-old named Erin. We're working
with watercolors today, and she holds up her work-in-progress.

“It's a garden, Miss Lily,” she says. “Like
the one in my book.”

“It's beautiful. You've been practicing,
haven't you?”

She beams at the compliment.

“Look, those are the roses,” she says,
pointing them out. “And these are the daisies and these are the
tulips. And here's the cat. He likes to sit next to the
fountain.”

I smile at her, trying to ignore the pang I
feel in my stomach. I was in a garden like this only a few days
ago—minus the cat, admittedly—and I'd thought it was one of the
most beautiful places I'd ever seen.

But I'm not supposed to be thinking of that.
Or him.

“It's beautiful,” I tell her again.

She grins and picks up her brush once more,
and I turn to the boy sitting at the table next to her.

“And what are you painting, Ben?”

He shows me his artwork, which features a
T-rex attacking a fighter plane. I smile.

“That's awesome!” I say. I give him a high
five.

I remember when Ben first started attending
classes with us. Both of his parents work late, so they signed him
up for our after-school program. For the first several sessions, he
refused to take part in the activities. He said art was dumb and
“for girls.”

Now, though, he's often the first one diving
into our supplies for the day. A couple of times his mom has had to
literally drag him away from the table at the end of the
session.

I look around the room. Ben's story isn't
unusual around here. The Frazer Center has impacted the life of
every child in this room—and hundreds of others of all ages
besides. What will happen when this place is gone?

It's not that I believe they won't explore
other hobbies, or find equally productive uses of their time—but
how can I not bemoan the loss of these smiles, this enthusiasm?

I return to the front of the room and sit
down to watch the children work. I'm exhausted. I've spent every
night since my return tossing and turning, trying to brainstorm
some magic solution to our monetary problem. I've been here every
morning at seven, and I've taken to the phones as early as it’s
socially acceptable, calling every contact I could find. I've tried
begging, I've tried offering incentives—everything I can think of.
But people are either unwilling to give or have already given as
much as they can. In this economy, I'm grateful for everything we
can get, but it's just not enough.

I sigh. There's no way around it. I know Dad
is hesitant to even consider it, but I think we're going to have to
cut back significantly on our program offerings if we're going to
hold on. We've done our fair share of fundraisers, but no single
event save Arts & Hearts has ever come close to matching the
pledge we would have received from the Cunninghams. And fundraisers
require manpower and many hours of planning and preparation, but
we're low on those, too.

I nibble on my nail. At least focusing on the
Center's problems keeps my mind from straying to this past weekend.
Garrett's called several times since I left him back at the
Cunningham estate, but I let all of them go to voicemail. Calder
hasn't tried to contact me at all.

But why do I care if he contacts me, anyway?
We were just fucking. Nothing more. He lied to me and he used me,
and that's not something I can forgive easily.

His accusations still haunt me.
The Center
is just an excuse. You’ve buried yourself in this little mission of
yours so you don’t have to think about how you really feel or what
you really want.

Is that true? I’ve sacrificed a lot for this
place—a social life, a decent income, and no small amount of
sanity—but I have genuine personal stakes in its fate. And an even
deeper interest in the emotional well-being of my dad. True, I’ve
thrown myself even deeper into the Center’s affairs since Garrett
and I broke up, but it seemed like a healthy thing to do at the
time. It gave me a distraction, a purpose, an emotional anchor.
It’s my passion, but that doesn’t mean I can’t emotionally invest
in other things, too.

Except when it comes to Calder. How could I
even consider it when he was actively responsible for the Center’s
current situation? I think that’s a fair reason to hold back from
him.

But I’m not supposed to be thinking about
him. I need to focus on the Center right now.

“Lily?”

When I glance up, my dad is standing in the
doorway.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, pulling up a
chair beside me. “You've seemed a little preoccupied since you've
been back.”

I force a smile. “I'm fine, Dad. Just trying
to figure out a way to get us out of this.”

He watches me for a moment. “No. I think it's
something else.”

I look down at my lap. He was always really
good at reading me. It must be some super-parent sense or
something. I’ve been rather closed-mouthed since my return. When I
confessed to him that I hadn’t been able to secure any more money,
he was so completely crestfallen that I couldn’t bear telling him
the rest of the truth.

I mean, what was I supposed to say?
Oh, by
the way, Dad, I lied to you about where I was going this weekend. I
went to see Calder Cunningham, even though you asked me not to. And
oh yeah, I slept with him a few times. Oh, and while I'm making
confessions, I don't think Garrett will be helping us out after
all.

I’m ashamed even now of my behavior. Just
seeing the hope and trust in my dad’s eyes makes me sick to my
stomach.

“What's going on?” he prompts. “You can tell
me.”

That's just it, though. I'm not sure I can.
There's no way I'm telling my dad about everything that went on
this weekend. There is one thing I can talk to him about,
though.

“Dad, I don't want Garrett helping us. I know
he found us some money, and I’m grateful for that, but I can’t do
it. And I promise I’m not being petty. If it were just old feelings
I’d suck it up for the sake of the Center. But he’s…”
How much
can I say without worrying him?
“He’s done some things this
past week that have made me very uncomfortable.”