Page 84 of The Game

“Thanks. This is Alice.”

The man—Doctor Corey (he refused to be called by his last name)—grins so beamingly at me, stepping forward with arms open wide before he smashes me into the tightest bear hug I’ve ever felt, the familiar scent of weed instantly calming me as Jameson’s eyes blaze in possessive fury.

“So fuckin’ good to meet you,” he says, patting my back before holding my shoulders and boring his eyes deeply into mine. Sincerity swirls in those depths, but also a playfulness that reminds me of Teddy and Tristan. Smiling despite the awkward first impression, I nod.

“It’s good to meet you, too.”

“Shit, let’s get to it. I need to know your story, sis. Ellie shared some but fuck,” he says, stepping back with a shake of his head. “I can’t fuckin’ imagine.”

Instantly calmed, my eyes swish to Jameson’s, who looks confused as fuck. But as soon as he sees my grin, his face morphs into a look of peace, his brows and jaw relaxing. Footsteps echo from the hall, the music suddenly dissipating, and Tristan stands with a towel slung over his broad shoulders, his torso glistening with a sheen of sweat, his eyes locked on mine as a flush creeps up my cheeks.

I haven’t seem them fully nude in so long, and this little tease is doing things to me, but I shake that loose and instead focus on Corey, ready to get started—actually excited now that I am not going to be with some stuffy stiff collar doctor who is out of touch with reality.

“Thisis the doctor?” Tristan says, confused as hell. Before anyone can speak, Jameson turns and pats his shoulder, speaking lowly in Russian, and with a frown, they both leave. When Corey’s eyes fall back to me, his grin grows anew.

“I can see why you need therapy.”

His comment is so off the wall that I snort and then giggle so hard it makes all this tenseness in my body ooze away, and I nod with a roll of my eyes.

“They’re a little…less cultured? I’m doing my best though, I swear.”

He snorts, wandering into the kitchen, popping open the fridge, and rejoicing when he finds a beer. Prying the top off, my eyes flit to the time on the microwave—ten in the morning. On a Monday. God, him and Teddy would be best friends if they met. Taking a deep swig, he leans against the counter and raises his beer to me.

“They can take it out of my paycheck.”

Shaking my head, I say, “You deserve all the beer you want for putting up with us.”

He takes another swig and grins with his mouth full before he swallows.

“At least you have beer. The stick up Nick’s ass isn’t coming out anytime soon, but to each their own,” he says, raising his hands in slight surrender. “Sit wherever you feel most comfortable, or stand, I don’t give a fuck.”

Laughing softly, I pull out a barstool and settle onto it, catching on quickly to his methods. He wants me to feel comfortable, is striving to be as non-threatening as possible, and it’s working. Tilting my head to the side, I study him, trying to figure him out.

“What—”

“Made me a psychologist?”

Snorting, I nod, bringing my hands together. He crosses his arms, staring off into the living room as he considers.

“First, because I wanted to fuckin’ prescribe myself my own meds. Doctors can be fuckin’ stupid, had me on a cocktail of death when I was only in high school. After my third suicide attempt, I figured if I really wanted to do this whole ‘life thing,’” he says, making air quotes, “then I’d have to fuckin’ figure out my purpose myself. And now I’m here.”

His admission stuns me, but it also soothes me; he’s coming from a place of understanding, not one of superiority, and it calls to this new side of myself. I’ve found I have trouble being in such a huge home now, can’t even drive the Range Rover my twins bought me for my graduation present. It’s all too much, and I yearn for simplicity, but I also can’t stand rubbing my privilege in other people’s faces anymore. I never knew I was doing it before, but now that I see myself differently, it’s hard to go right back to all the fancy things.

Taking another swig, he jerks his chin in my direction.

“And what brought you here?”

Sighing, I knit my fingers so tightly together they blanche, the black polish I still wear only accentuating how much color I’ve lost. Being stuck in an underground circus during daylight hours will do that to you.

“I…well, my mom and step-dad died when I was sixteen. I…uhh…just found out it wasn’t an accident. Someone—my grandfather—killed them. I lived with my aunt for a year before she died of cancer, and then they picked me up…” I say, biting my bottom lip, eyes flicking to his. How much do I divulge? Does he…know?

His eyes soften, but then he smirks.

“No secrets, sis. If you want this to work, you be honest.”

Sighing again, I nod.

“We…developed an intimate relationship.”

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