Page 58 of Wicked Games

Mr. Morrison got another job, although not one that pays well, and they stay afloat.

Somehow.

Barely.

“Your father is working late.” Liam’s mom places a pot of soup in the center of the table. “If you could pause the game, boys, we’ll eat.”

We each get our own oval loaf of bread to carve out, and then we dump the tomato bisque into the bread bowls. The love that went into this meal makes me uncomfortable. I eat with Eli’s family most nights, but they have a chef who prepares most of the food.

This was… There’s more flour on Liam’s mom’s cheek from the breadmaking. Not the loaves in front of us, but I suspect more dough for a future meal similar to this one.

Colby looks up and notices, his eyes softening. Liam worries about his brother, but as long as he’s treating his mom okay…

I should know. It’s the golden benchmark nowadays.

I’m lucky Margo doesn’t know how I treat my mother—and hers.

Colby leans over and brushes the remnants of flour from her cheek.

She smiles, touching the back of his hand for a brief moment.

I shift in my seat. Affection is something that’s been a little sparse in my life… except Margo. I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone care as much as she does, even if she tries not to. Even if she pretends otherwise. Even if she’s fuckingpissedat me.

That’s one thing I’ll continue to be jealous about: Liam has a mom who gives a shit.

“The soup is delicious,” I tell her.

“Thank you, dear. Old family recipe.”

She asks Liam and Colby about school and sports. Colby goes on a rant about some offense one of his football teammates committed, while Liam snickers into his soup and his mother nods along sympathetically.

When he’s finished, and Liam brushes off the subject, she turns her attention on me. I answer her questions the best I can—how I’m getting on and dealing with school and whatever. Every answer, I’m mindful of the bruises across my stomach and the bracelet on my wrist.

“Sorry about the interrogation.” Liam says after dinner, back in his room. He picks up a roll of white tape—for his hockey sticks—and tosses it from one hand to the other.

“It’s nice that someone cares,” I mumble. “I gotta go.”

My phone has three missed calls—one from my mother and two from Uncle David.

Once I’m in the car, I call him back.

“My house. Now.”

I sigh. “I was invited to dinner by my friend’s mom. I’d already accepted by the time Mother called to ask?—”

“It’s perfectly acceptable to tell them that your presence has been requested?—”

“Request makes it sound like a choice,” I interrupt. “If it was an order, it should’ve been delivered as such from the outlet. Not sending Mom to ask nicely.

“Let me remind you who your legal guardian is until you’re eighteen,” he growls. “Do not make me?—”

I hang up on him and finish the drive to Margo’s house in silence. Riley’s car is out front, but neither Lenora’s nor Robert’s cars are in the driveway.

If they don’t try to teach Margo to drive soon, I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands. Not that I want to give her more independence, but… well, she should know how.

I park down the street, where hopefully my car will go unnoticed by Riley when she leaves, and slip across the front lawn. I scale the trellis up to the second floor. After the day I’ve had, every muscle is sore. But I keep going until I peek into her window. The light is off in her bedroom, but the window unlocked. Almost like she’s expecting me.

I pull my leg through just as the front porch light flickers on and girls’ voices drift toward me. Talk about good timing.

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