James Games (9 page)

“You’ve been turning me on all goddamn night,” he grunts, squeezing my boobs like he’s searching for buried treasure and pushing me back on the bed, climbing over me and panting heavily. Ew. I realize that I have vastly overestimated Damien’s sexing abilities.

Still, I make a valiant effort, feeling up his abs. Normally just his body would stir me up, but instead he’s leaving me cold. He’s too muscular, too stocky. Nowhere near the lithe panther perfection of James Reid. I push him off me. “Sorry. Not in the mood anymore.”

He breathes through his nose like a bulldog. “What do you mean, not in the mood anymore?”

“That was really just me being nice,” I sniff. “I’m still in the mood, it’s just that you’re blatantly unsexy and you’re a shitty kisser.”

I have half a mind to go downstairs and give Calem a shot when he shoves me back down onto the bed.

“We’ve barely started. I can do better. Tell me what to do.”

I’ve never been so aggressively handled before, and it’s an immediate turn-off. “No thanks. We’re done.”

Instead of backing off like he should, he kisses my neck, hands manipulating my breasts again. I shove them away and they come right back. A thread of fear works its way up my spine. “Get. Off. Me.”

“You’ve been advertising yourself all night, don’t give me that.”

“
Advertising myself?”
That’s it. I try to slap him, but he pins me so I can’t move.

The thread of fear has grown into a rope, choking me. This isn’t happening. This happens to other people, always other people, like cancer and lightning strikes. I’m Fiona Arlett and I own myself. I own myself. But he doesn’t care about that. He combs over my body like it’s a piece of trash he picked up on the street.

No. This isn’t happening. I’m not that girl. This can’t become part of my world.

This is becoming my
whole
world.

I scream for help and he covers my mouth. I bite him, the taste of his blood imprinting itself in my memory for all time. I fight, clawing and scratching, reaching for his eyes like they tell you to do on the internet, they make it sound so easy—throat balls eyes—but I can’t get any of them, they’re out of my reach. Finally I slip out from underneath him and I’m about to jump naked from the window for the second time that night when James Reid kicks the door down.

He takes everything in. Me gasping and shaking on the floor, Damien still reaching for me, his hand extended. His eyes freeze over. A hailstorm. And then he strides across the room, picks Damien up by the collar and breaks his nose in an explosion of blood.

I’m frozen. There are tears on my cheeks. No. That’s not who I am. I’m laughter and easy confidence and wholeness. I don’t want to be this. A savagery splinters into me and I want James to break more parts of Damien, want to see it happen.

And I am. James is cold fury. He slams Damien against the wall, drives his fist into his stomach, his balls. Punches him in the mouth two times until he spits bloody teeth. Throws him against the floor and kicks him. Again. And again. And again.

It’s the dull thuds that finally break through my haze.

“Stop. James, stop,” I say through chattering teeth.

He doesn’t listen. I can’t tell if Damien’s conscious anymore. His face is too bloody for me to tell.

“James!” I stand up. His face is a mask of wrath, blacker and more alienating than the mask he wore the night we met. I don’t think he can hear me. His every muscle is roped, his jaw so taut it looks painful. He looks like he has no other desire in life than to inflict as much pain on Damien as possible.

Which isn’t a goal I’m necessarily opposed to, but if this continues, he really might kill him.

“
James
!” I scream, and when that doesn’t get through to him, I leap forward and lock my arms around his narrow waist, squeezing until I can feel every hard curve of him. I hit my forehead against the back of his spine. “Stop. Stop it. I’m okay. He didn’t do anything.”

He slows and then stops, his breathing ragged, Damien’s wet, mine choked. They’re the only three sounds in the room.

Finally, James comes down from whatever nightmare he was in. He touches my arms around his stomach, almost in awe. I let him and slide back to the ground, since my legs can no longer hold me up.

I don’t want to be naked anymore. I want to be miles deep in blankets, swaddled until no one can ever reach me again. James understands. He doesn’t have blankets, but he yanks his shirt off, putting it over my head with infinite tenderness. It goes almost to my knees. Our eyes meet and something deep and shared passes between us.

“I’m fine,” I manage, trying to recover the unshatterable confidence that forms the backbone of who I am, but I can’t quite grasp it. I feel unmoored and my breath comes faster.

And then I’m in his arms. He’s picking me up, all of me fitting neatly in his arms. I don’t feel playfully small—I feel like a broken toy. I hate it.

Without sparing a single glance to the bloodied and groaning Damien on the floor, he leaves the room and walks down the stairs. The party comes to a screeching halt for the third time that night. Everyone’s staring at me, but not because I’m naked and brave. Because there are tear tracks on my face and I’m wearing James Reid’s shirt.

Iris leaps toward me, horrified, but Sigrid cuts in first, fake concern painted all over her. “Is she all right? What happened?” she coos at James, not actually looking at me.

He doesn’t answer, just steps over a beer bottle on the floor and heads for the door. I get the sense he’s as eager to escape that room as I am.

“Leave her here!” Sigrid nearly trips over herself chasing us. “We’ll take care of her.”

“I’m taking her home,” he says without turning around, and then we’re outside, the moonlight shining and the grass as wet as ever.

I should demand to be released. I should challenge him again. I should hop down and laugh, because I’m fine, I’m always fine. Sigrid will take off my head for this. I can see her over my shoulder, behind the screen door, rage beating her fake concern into submission. I should go back.

But I can’t seem to separate myself from these arms.

~9~

The first thing he asks is, “Do you need the hospital?”

I press my forehead to the window. The coolness is comforting. I almost feel like I could melt into the glass, the night. “No.”

“Police station? I’ll be your witness.”

His voice is as cool and detached and James-like as ever, but there’s a terrifying energy humming beneath his skin. With one hand, he’s clutching the wheel like it’s Damien’s neck. He’s driving shirtless and his body is hard with tension.

“I can’t think about that right now.” I reach out and lay a hand on his arm. “Calm down, okay? He didn’t have time to do anything to me. You don’t need to worry.”

“You’re comforting me?” Finally, a sliver of emotion breaks into his voice. It’s incredulity. He gives a raspy laugh and presses the back of his free hand to his forehead. “You’re crazier than I thought you were.”

I can’t respond. I sit back and stare at him, this man I’ve slept with twice and disliked since I heard his name. But did I really dislike him, or just the idea of him? I don’t really know who he is, so I can’t dislike him, can I?

And it’s hard to hate someone who just saved you.

“I’ll take you back to your dorm,” he says, and I nod, but the idea of that, of lying there waiting for Iris to get back, of having to explain everything, makes me feel like the car roof is crumbling.

He spares a glance at me and once again displays the uncanny ability to tell exactly what I’m thinking without a word passing between us. “Never mind. I’m taking you to my apartment.”

Immediately I’ve never wanted to be anywhere more than his apartment. Not because I want sex, but because I can’t think of a safer place to be. Which is intriguing.

The Fiona of an hour ago would have demanded to be taken there faster. But the Fiona of now stumbles. “Are you s—sure? I don’t want to be a burden.”

“That’s selfish of you, don’t you think?” he says to the windshield. I blink and he continues. “Maybe I want you to be a burden. Maybe I love burdens. You shouldn’t assume things.”

He’s trying to make a joke. I snort despite myself. Apparently sheltered rich actor boys don’t have the best social skills.

He lives off campus, in a beautiful penthouse by the water, surrounded by palm trees. He opens the door for me. I sense he does it out of tenderness and not habit. For a second I think he’s going to try to carry me inside again, but my legs have returned to working order, even if they are trembling a little.

He leads me through the glossy white-upholstered apartment and to the kitchen, where he seats me on a stool and puts a pot of water on to boil. “Nice place. Did you murder a gang boss leader for it?” I quip, but my voice cracks.

He puts his tea canister down and faces me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Oh, yes, great, never better!” I want to chirp. What actually happens is that I start crying. He lets out a small breath and suddenly I’m enfolded in his arms again, my face pressed into his still-bare chest. I’ve apparently discovered the only circumstance in which I can be around a shirtless James Reid without jumping him.

“I’m sorry,” I say tearily into his skin. “I’m getting you all wet.”

“Don’t be sorry.” His arms tighten. “Never be sorry.”

“I thought you were supposed to be a jerk.” I half-laugh, half-sob.

“I am a jerk,” he says quietly.

“You’re kind of disproving that one at the moment.”

He’s silent. I take advantage of that silence to cry myself out on his chest for a little while. Our relationship is already weird enough that I guess it won’t make much of a difference.

Then there’s a knock on the door. I freeze. The idea of putting on a normal human interaction face is beyond exhausting at the moment. James gently pulls back. “I’ll see who it is and if you don’t want them inside, I won’t answer the door.”

“Maybe it’s Amy Poehler, come to counsel me in my time of need,” I sniff. There! See? I can still make jokes. I’m still at least a little bit Fiona.

He leaves me in his kitchen to go look through the eyehole. After a moment, he sticks his head back in. “It’s Brooklyn.”

Brooklyn knows where James lives? “Uh, yeah. I mean, she’s the head of my sorority. Let her in.”

Moments later, I hear the door click open. And then Brooklyn is striding into the kitchen, still in her party clothes. Her face is wan, but her eyes are kind as she approaches me and places one hand on my knee. “Fiona. Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I say, taken aback. “I’m okay.”

She nods once, and having checked on the status of her wildest wolf pup, turns to James. Her gaze grows flinty. “What happened? Damien’s in the hospital. I’m betting you put him there, unless our Fiona here is secretly a five-foot martial arts master.”

James takes a third mug from the cupboard and sets it on the counter. “He tried to rape her.”

I flinch at that word. It’s too raw, too real. It burns in my ears.

Brooklyn grinds her teeth, and suddenly I’m aware of what an athlete’s body she has. She could probably beat Damien up too. “That bastard. He should know better than to screw with a Phi Delta Chi girl. He’ll regret it.” She gives my elbow a squeeze. “He’ll be off this campus by tomorrow. You’ll never see him again.”

What? “How?”

“Sigrid’s the dean’s daughter. All she has to do is go to him with a sob story and he’ll ban Damien from ever setting foot inside a UCSD building again.” She shakes her head tightly. “There’s a reason people don’t fuck with Phi Delta girls. We protect our own.”

“You really think Sigrid would do that for me?” I say, treading carefully. The way she looked at me when James was carrying me to his car, I’d say she’s more likely to poison my next latte.

“Maybe not for you, but she’d do it for me.”

James silently pours three mugs of tea. There’s a familiarity in the way he slides one to Brooklyn. She doesn’t touch it. The concerned slant to her eyes doesn’t disappear when she looks at him. What kind of relationship do they have?

He pushes a mug to me and I drink deeply. It’s delicious, gingery and minty and dark. My nausea disappears after the first sip.

Brooklyn rubs my shoulder. “What about the police? Do you want to involve them? I’ll stand behind you if you do.”

I picture calling Aunt Caroline, telling her what happened. I picture recounting everything to some faceless officer. I picture court dates and lawyers and legal fees. “My aunt would drag me home from college in an instant if she found out. It’s exactly what she was afraid of. I think…I would rather not.”

Brooklyn nods. “Okay. That’s up to you.”

Meanwhile, James has rounded the table to stand beside me as he drinks his tea, close enough that I could touch him. His presence is somehow incredibly comforting. When my hand shakes and I splash tea on my leg, he dabs it up with a napkin immediately. When I rub the gooseflesh on my arms, he retrieves a jacket hanging on a nearby hook and wraps it around my shoulders. This protectiveness, this caring nature—this isn’t what I expected from the infamous James Reid.

Brooklyn doesn’t miss it. She stands, her tea still undrunk. “Come on, Fiona. I’ll take you home.”

“She’s staying with me tonight,” says James calmly.

She raises an eyebrow. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

“We won’t do anything,” I say in a rush. “I promise. I’m just not ready to go home yet.”

She looks at me, at the way I’m leaning unconsciously toward him. “All right. Against my better judgment.” She frowns at James. “You better not bother her or you’ll answer to me. Give her breathing room.”

“Do you think I’m the kind of asshole to take advantage of a situation like this?” he growls.

Brooklyn smiles. “No, I guess you’re not
that
kind of asshole. I’ll be leaving, then. I’ve got damage control to do. Take care of her. It’s not often I leave one of my baby chicks in the wolf’s den.”

I resent the first comparison, but the latter is surprisingly appropriate. Brooklyn takes off. James sticks her mug in the fridge before turning to me again.