Page 9 of Fake Game

“I’m not happy about this,” she hisses as he drops her by the door.

“I know you care, and I love you for that, but I just need some space. Please.”

Her eyes soften and the pity swimming in them makes me feel guilty all over again.

“Call me in the morning, okay?”

“Okay.”

She pulls me into a hug, and I squeeze her back, letting her know that I really do appreciate everything she’s done. When I release her, Sydney takes her place and pulls me close.

“Call us if anything feels off.”

“I will.”

She lets me go, and Parker gives my hand a squeeze and throws me one of his classic winks before leaving with her.

Jackson starts to silently follow them out, but he pauses right after he crosses the threshold. I freeze as he looks at me over his shoulder.

“Don’t be a hero.”

And then he’s gone.

I shut my door, locking it and then double-checking that the lock is sturdy by twisting the knob an unnecessary number of times. Even then, it still doesn’t feel safe enough.

I brace my legs and shove my armchair across the floorboards until it comes to sit flush with the door. That’s a little better.

Numbly, I walk back into my bedroom and stare at the disarray of clothes and shoes on the floor that I can’t be bothered to deal with right now. I barely even have the energy to make it into my bathroom to throw my hair up in a shitty bun.

I bug my eyes wide in the mirror and use my knuckles to remove my bright blue contact lenses. My natural hazel eyes stare back at me as I take the time to double cleanse and remove my layers of makeup before painstakingly cleaning my lash extensions. The monotony of my routine seems to calm the buzzing hive in my chest by a fraction.

Trudging into my walk-in closet, I peel off my signature pink dress and hang it up before grabbing an oversized T-shirt to throw on.

I stare at myself in the mirror and let out a self-deprecating laugh. If my hair was its natural strawberry-blonde color, you wouldn’t even recognize me—but that’s the point.

The wind howls outside, screaming into the silence, and I crawl into bed and draw my sheets tightly around myself.

I squeeze my eyes shut and will my mind to think calm, happy thoughts: my parents, video games, a fresh set of nails, those little Snorlax-shaped doughnuts from the shop downtown.

But no matter how hard I try, the tension never leaves. I just end up tossing and turning until my sheets become a tangled mess around my hot body. It takes another two hours before I admit defeat and slip from bed to grab my gaming laptop. Armed with a cup of warmed honey milk, I create a fortress under my sheets and load up a life sim, losing myself in a game where I cancontrol the lives of others so I don’t have to think about the lack of stability in my own.

THREE

JACKSON

God-fucking-dammit.

I eye the waifish woman with thinly veiled annoyance as she slides into the booth across from me and tosses me a shy smile.

“I take it my grandmother is not coming.”

Her smile falters briefly, but she’s quick to school it with a strained giggle. “It seems we’ve been set up.”

I’ve been set up.

Her? I doubt it.

“I’m Jessica.”

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