Page 29 of Fake Game

My heart drops when I see the litany of texts from Rick, worry weaving its way through my veins that something else with the Deer Hunters has cropped up.

RICK:Are u okay?

RICK:Seriously??

RICK:The police said the swatting issue was dealt with but ur location shows u on the move at almost two?

RICK:R u safe? Do u need help??

RICK:I see ur at The System’s place – pls text me when u see this so I know ur fine

My heart calms when I see that it’s just him being concerned and has nothing to do with anything shitty.

ME:hey! sorry!!!!

ME:I’m crashing with the guys >.<

ME:my place doesn’t feel safe…

I bite my lip at the admission. I would never tell anyone else this, but Rick knows me, he cares about my security and my brand first. That’s why he is my main mod and basically a personal assistant at this point. Seriously, he’s the one who deals with everything—like my P.O. box nightmares. I don’t need to open another letter that contains a used condom.

RICK:thanks for letting me know

RICK:I’ll schedule accordingly. Need anything?

ME:I’m good for now – ty!

I click my phone off and pad over to slowly crack open Jackson’s door, keeping an ear out for any noise. The last thing I want right now is to come face-to-face with either Stevie or Aleks—I don’t want to have to explain myself or how I ended up here.

When silence greets me, I take a few tentative steps out into the hallway. I let my feet lead me into the main area of theapartment, squinting at the light flooding in from the floor to ceiling windows.

The System has a gorgeous penthouse. It’s an open layout, with the kitchen, living room, and dining room all bleeding into one another. There’s a door on the south wall that leads to a massive outdoor space complete with a faux firepit, and there’s an alcove built into the north wall that houses a ninety-inch TV connected to a bunch of gaming consoles. The apartment is minimalistic, decked out mostly in tasteful neon signs and video game memorabilia.

It's surprisingly neat for three guys.

I’m ninety percent sure they have a cleaning crew.

I trek across the cool black tiles to the kitchen in search of something to tide over my rumbling stomach when my eyes snag on a Post-it note stuck to the fridge. My name is written in loops and below it is a note instructing me that there are waffles inside and to heat them up for exactly two minutes.

I wouldn’t have pegged Jackson as a cursive man.

I pull open the fridge and pause, noting a bunch of Tupperware stacked up with premade meals. Sitting smack in the middle is a plate of what looks to be homemade blueberry waffles covered in plastic wrap.

I guess that’s what the sweet smell was when I woke up.

I place them in the microwave for one minute and fifty-five seconds before practically climbing onto the counter to grab a mug from the cupboard. I pop a pod into the espresso machine and then take way too long trying to locate the silverware drawer. By the time I sit my ass onto the chair and take a bite of the warm, sugary waffles, I’m exhausted all over again.

My body is definitely run into the ground, and my stomach gives up halfway through the first waffle, rejecting the idea of any more food in its dilapidated state.

I slip from the stool, dropping my plate into the dishwasher, and carry my bitter coffee outside.

The early spring breeze whips my hair in a flurry of pink around my face, but I relish the feeling of the world moving around me. My elbows dig into the top of the glass panels fencing in the patio as I slump forward and close my eyes, turning my face up to the sun. I take in the deepest breath imaginable, inhaling the cool air so it fills every crevice in my lungs.

I want to cry.

Reality and everything in between comes crashing down around me. The fear that sliced into my bones and threatened to flay me open when I received that call from the cops last night resurfaces. I finally accept that maybe,just maybe, things aren’t as peachy as I’m trying to gaslight myself into thinking they are.

But I don’t cry, despite the sharp sting behind my eyes.

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