Page 87 of Brutal Game

Are you sure you don’t want to know about him, period?

It didn’t matter. Either way, I needed to know.

Before I could reconsider, I ripped my shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor and rising to my knees to face him. Even though it was dark in the room, I saw his nostrils flare. Whether it was because of my tits, or my scar, I didn’t know. I resisted covering myself. I was brave. I was strong. I could do this.

“If you tell me why you’re so fucked in the head?—”

He snorted. “That’s nice.”

“You’re not nice,” I volleyed back. “But if you tell mewhy, I’ll tell—I’ll tell you how I got this scar.”

His hand froze on the doorknob.

Got you.

For whatever reason, Jack needed to know everything about me. I was some mystery to him—how or why, I didn’t know—and for him, the scar was a puzzle piece.

For me, it was a last ditch attempt to get him to believe me, to understand why Asher was so important to me.

He turned around, leaning against the door and crossing his arms.

“Talk,” he said.

“You first.”

He shook his head. “Not how this works.”

I sighed. I hated it, but he was right. I couldn’t fight firewith fire, not this time. I had to put his out by pouring water over it, and the only way to do that was to expose my secret.

Exposure therapy was a good thing, right?

“I hate my scar,” I told him. “Because it’s a reminder of the night I failed.”

“What do you mean?”

I closed my eyes, picturing it. The blood, the guilt, the pain. I could do this. I could force myself relive the worst night of my life.

“Asher and I were ten years old,” I began.

26

Aviva, age 10

Ijerked awake in my princess bed, pulling at the frilly cover and sheets as I sat up. I loved the bed—the headboard was shaped like a castle, the sheets had little tiaras on them. Even though he never called me it, my mother would tease that I was my dad’s little princess.

Something had woken me up, and I wasn’t sure what.

I strained my ears. The old, creaking house was silent. Weirdly silent. It was like our always “settling” house (which is what mom would say when I got worried about ghosts) was holding its breath and waiting to see what came next.

I wanted to go back to bed, to hide under the covers and pretend nothing was wrong. But I knew.

It’s okay, Aviva, I told myself. You’ll just go check on your parents and Asher, make sure everything is fine, and go back to sleep.

Climbing out of bed, I opened the door slowly, creeping down the hardwood floors in my bare feet, ignoring how cold it was. My parents were always so, so careful with money, they turned theheat down low, even in harsh winters in upstate New York. They tried to hide we were struggling, but even at my age, I could tell.

When I reached the end of the hall, I paused. My parents’ bedroom door was closed, and I’d learned not to just burst inside. They loved each other, and I’d accidentally walked in on them before—it’s how I’d learned what sex was. I tried to force myself to knock, but something stopped me. Something small and scared.

If you go in there, you’ll never go back.

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