His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (26 page)

I smile. It's a little too soon to say for
certain, but it looks like we might dig ourselves out of our hole
in the near future. I’m sure there will be plenty of kinks to work
out over the coming months, but we’ve bought ourselves time, and
that’s the most important thing right now.

“You should go home and get some sleep,” he
tells me. “You've been overworking yourself these last few
days.”

I hate to admit it, but he's right. I'm
exhausted, and I'm running on adrenaline fumes right now. Last
night I didn’t even bother going home. I just curled up on the old
sofa in my dad’s office.

“Go on,” he urges, and I know from his
expression that he won’t accept any excuses.

I grab my bag from the office and head
outside to my car. Party guests are already starting to trickle in,
and I wave as I make my way across the parking lot. For the first
time in a long time, I feel at peace. Exhausted, but at peace.

And then I see who's leaning against the side
of my Honda.

“Garrett?”

He glances up when he hears my voice.

“What are you doing here?” I say.

“Some welcome,” he replies, straightening. “I
just came by to see how you're doing.”

“Garrett, I—”

“Don't do this. You've been ignoring my
calls, so I wanted to give you some space, but I'm not going to let
you cut me off again.”

I cross my arms. “I'm not having this
conversation with you right now. Get out of my way.”

Instead of moving, he leans back against the
car, blocking my path to the driver's seat.

“You mean a lot to me, Lils, you know that.
I'm just trying to look out for you.”

“I don't need you to look out for me. Now
move or I'm calling the police.”

“Did Cunningham tell you he had me arrested?
I was just trying to make sure he wasn't taking advantage of you,
and somehow I was the one who ended up in jail overnight. You don't
still speak to that fucker, do you?”

I'm trying to control my anger, but I can't
help myself.

“Whether I talk to Calder or not is none of
your business,” I say. “And it's your own fault for ending up in
jail. You shouldn't have been there.”

His eyes darken.

“I can't believe you're defending him,” he
says, stepping toward me. “He's no good, Lils. You need to stay
away from him.”

“Again, that's none of your business.” I
fumble in my purse for my cell. “Get out of here, Garrett, or I
swear I'll—”

He leaps toward me and grabs my arms, pulling
me toward him.

“Please, Lily,” he begs, the anger suddenly
gone from his voice. “Please. Let’s just go somewhere and talk for
a while. I know I’ve made some mistakes. I know I’ve hurt you. But
things are different now. Please, just come with me.”

I try to twist out of his grip. “Let me
go.”

“No,” he says, pulling me closer. “I’m not
letting you go until you agree to give me another chance. After
everything we’ve been through together, I think you owe me
that.”

“I don’t owe you anything!”

His grip on my arms tightens to the point of
pain. He shakes me.

“Don’t do this to me, Lily. I love you. I
always have. And you love me, too.”

“No,” I say, and then I slam my heel onto his
foot. He loosens his hands, and I take the opportunity to escape
from his grip.

“Stay away from me,” I say. “I don’t love
you, and I don’t want you in my life anymore.”

His eyes flash. He’s angry now.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,”
he says.

“I do. Now get out of my way.”

“No.” He lunges for me again, and this time I
swing my purse at him, knocking him in the head.

“What the fuck, Lily?!” he cries.

“Get the hell away from me,” I say. “If you
come near me again, if you try to call or contact me in any way,
then I swear I'll have you arrested. We're over.”

I push past him and dive into the driver's
seat of my car, but he reaches after me and tries to drag me back
outside.

“Let me go!” I try to swing my purse at him
again, but it’s too cramped. He has me halfway onto the pavement
before I manage to jab my elbow up and hit him in the nose. He
yowls and releases me, and I leap back into the car and slam the
door behind me.

He’s still screaming at me, even as I pull
out of the parking spot.

“Fuck you, Lily!” he says. “I saved you from
that guy! I fucking saved you!”

I turn on my radio and crank it up, drowning
out his words.

* * *

I don't go home. I go straight to the
courthouse and apply for a restraining order. It won’t be official
until we’re in front of a judge, but I’m hoping that being served
with the paperwork will be enough to scare Garrett away in the
meantime.

Afterward I'm still too jumpy to go to my
apartment, so I drive around for a while. This is when I really
wish I had a couple of good female friends in town. I’ve been too
focused on the Center these last couple of years to have much of a
social life. I could call up one of the women who works at the
Center with me, but I don’t want this getting back to Dad. I don’t
want to worry him or distract him from making sure everything runs
smoothly at the party tonight.

Eventually I pull into a fast food
restaurant. I order myself a value meal and sit eating it in the
parking lot.

I'm halfway through my cheeseburger before I
lose my resolve and pull out my phone. I can't help it—I need to
tell someone about what just happened. I know I’m breaking every
rule I set for myself, but I want to talk to Calder. I should be
stronger than this, but I crave the reassurance that I did the
right thing, that I'm not at fault for Garrett's insanity.

A call is too personal. Instead, I text.

You were right about Garrett. I applied for
a restraining order.

I pause for a minute. There's so much I want
to say to him, but I don't know how to say it. I don't know, after
all this time, whether he wants to hear it at all.

Finally, I take a deep breath and add:

Forgive me for not respecting your decision
about the pledge. I hope you and your sister are doing well.

I send it off before I can change my
mind.

My cheeseburger is cold by the time I pick it
up again. I munch on it absentmindedly. I move to the fries next,
though they're soggy at this point. Only when I finish those and
there’s still no reply to my text do I accept that I probably won't
be hearing back from Calder anytime soon.

It doesn't matter
, I tell myself.
I
said what I needed to say.

But did I? I’ve been thinking more about our
argument in the garden. He told me I was using the Center as an
excuse, and I realize now that he was right. I told myself that I
engaged in his little games for the sake of the Center, but if I’m
being honest, that’s not the truth at all. I played along because I
wanted to. Because I wanted him.

But that’s too much to convey in a text
message. And I’m not sure he’d want to hear it at this point
anyway.

I take a deep breath and crumple up the food
wrappers. I don’t blame him, truly I don’t. He has bigger things to
deal with than our non-relationship. I only wish that thought made
me feel better.

* * *

It's 11 PM when my phone goes off. I've been
in bed for an hour, but as usual I'm having trouble falling asleep.
When I hear the text message tone, I roll over and grab my cell off
the nightstand.

The message is from Calder.

I almost delete it without reading it.
Texting him this afternoon was a mistake. There's no reason to
torture myself by trying to analyze his response. It won't change
anything between us; it will only prolong this pathetic state I'm
in.

But I cave to the temptation, of course. I
open the text.

Are you okay?

I stare at it for a long time, trying to
decide how I should respond—or even if I should respond at all—but
my text tone goes off again before I've made my decision.

I've been worried about you.

I’m not sure if he’s being genuine, or just
polite, but I respond anyway.

I’m fine now,
I text.

His reply comes quickly.

What happened? Do I need to come over
there?

My heart stutters at the offer. I want to say
yes. I want him to come over and make me feel safe again. I want to
look him in the eyes and apologize for my insensitivity. I want to
share the Center’s success with him, and I want him to share his
pain with me. And then I want him to take me in his arms and make
me forget about everything else for a little while.

But I know it’s a bad idea.

I’m okay
, I text.

His response is immediate:
Are you
sure?

Yes.
I reply, and leave it at that.
It’s better this way.

He doesn’t answer, and I sigh and put the
phone back on my nightstand. I’m just drifting off to sleep again
when his next message comes through.

Come out to the estate tomorrow.

What?

I sit up in bed and flip on the light. I read
the text three more times before I accept the fact that yes, that
is what he’s asking. He wants me to come back to his house, back to
the scene of the weekend I've been trying my damnedest to
forget.

How do I reply to his offer?

I set my phone down on the nightstand and lie
back on my pillow. I want to see him. But I also know, deep down,
that I'm only dragging out the heartbreak. How, at the end of the
day, do I really expect this to end?

I flip off my light without responding. Let
him sweat for a while. Maybe in the morning I'll see things a
little more clearly.

In the end, though, this new development only
makes it harder to fall asleep. And when I do eventually drift off,
I find that I dream only of him.

<<>>

I wake to a knock at my door.

I roll over and rub my eyes. Isn't it a
little early for visitors? My cell reads 9:13 AM, far earlier than
I'd like to get up on a Saturday morning after a night of restless
sleep.

The knock sounds again, and I groan.

“Go away!” I yell at the unwanted guest. This
crappy apartment is tiny enough—and the walls thin enough—that I
have no doubt he or she hears me.

It's only then that I remember the events of
yesterday and the encounter with Garrett in the parking lot. I flip
open my phone.

“You better get out of here,” I say. “I'm
calling the police.”

But it's not Garrett's voice that answers
me—it's Calder's.

“Lily. Can I talk to you?”

I scramble out of bed. What’s he doing
here?

“Just a minute!” I say. I look frantically
around the room for something—anything—that isn't the ratty T-shirt
I'm currently wearing. I can’t believe he would just show up at my
apartment. Doesn’t he have bigger things to worry about? I haven’t
heard from him in two months. Did my texts last night really
trigger some change of heart?

I should probably send him away. I’m not sure
I’m ready for this conversation yet. I’m not even sure what I want
to happen, what I want him to say. I was just starting to resign
myself to the idea that I’d never see or hear from him again. He
can’t just show up like this. Not without giving me the chance to
mentally prepare.

I find a pair of jeans draped over a chair
and tug them on. I pull off my T-shirt, then grab a black tank top
out of my top drawer and put that on in its place. But where's my
brush? I scrabble around on my desk for something to pull through
my hair, but in the end I just tug the tangled strands back and tie
them in a ponytail.

By the time I make it to the door, I'm
breathless and flushed.

“Good morning,” I say with more energy than I
feel. I look up at the man who's caused me so much angst over the
last few months.

Damn
. I don't know how it's possible,
but he's even sexier than I remember. He's let his hair get a
little longer, the scruff a little thicker, and it's a good look
for him. His eyes seem both darker and brighter all at once, and I
feel that familiar tugging in my belly. I reach out and prop my
hand on the doorframe, trying to look more confident and steadier
than I feel.

“Lily,” he says. His voice is smooth as silk
and thick as velvet, and I imagine that I can feel it on my very
skin.

“Yes?” My own voice is high and thin.

“May I come in?”

I move wordlessly aside. He steps inside,
brushing against me as I pass. My heart flutters in my chest. I
can't believe that after all these months I still react so strongly
and so suddenly to his nearness.

My apartment only has two rooms: the
kitchen/living room and the bedroom. I know better than to lead him
into my bedroom, so I usher him into the kitchen.

“Would you like anything? Coffee?” I begin
fiddling with my crappy coffeemaker. My hands are shaking as I peel
off a new filter. I feel Calder's eyes on my back the entire
time.

“Is it all right that I'm here?” he says
quietly.

I look up in surprise.

“I mean, you didn't answer my text,” he says.
“I don't want to intrude. If you don't want me here, just say the
word, and I'll leave.”

I stare at him for a long moment, shocked by
the genuine concern I see in his features.

“You're not intruding.” I ram a few buttons
on the coffeemaker. “But I would like to know why you're here in
the first place.”

He runs his hand through his hair. “I just…”
He sighs. “I just wanted to explain.”

The coffeemaker starts burbling, and I turn
to face him. I'm not sure whether I should sit or stand, so I lean
against the back of the chair.

“What do you need to explain?”

His gaze on me is dark, intense.
“Everything.”