Page 61 of Wicked Games

When he was done, he tossed the tissues on the table and collapsed next to me, still breathing heavily. I stared up at the ceiling with wide eyes, not knowing what to say or do.

“That was, uhh… unexpected,” I finally murmured.

“No shit,” came Maverick’s muttered response.

“I always thought you—” I faltered midsentence and began again. “You hate me. You’ve hated me ever since we met.”

He didn’t respond.

“Are you ever going to tell me why?” I went on. “Or are you just going to keep hating me?”

“Carey…”

“No, seriously.” I propped myself up on one elbow and looked at him. “I’ve been driving myself crazy for weeks wondering about this. Why do you hate me so much? Is it really just because I crashed into your car?”

Maverick averted his eyes and rubbed the side of his face. “I don’t think this is the right time for this discussion.”

“Sorry, but I think you owe me an answer,” I said hotly, sitting up straighter. “You’ve tormented me for weeks over a fucking car, and I—”

He cut me off. “It wasn’t just a fucking car!” he snapped.

My eyes widened, and I drew back. “What do you mean?”

“Long story,” he muttered.

“Well, we’ve got a while until curfew, so I’m more than happy to listen to every word,” I replied. “You know I’m right. I deserve an answer.”

“Fine.” He sighed heavily and sat up straight, eyes still not meeting mine. “You remember my question in the Truth or Die game?”

“About your brother?” I asked, brows knitting.

“Yeah. Julian.”

“You said it was your fault he died.”

His jaw tightened. “It was.”

“What do you mean?”

Maverick was silent for a long moment before he began to explain.

“He was going through some shit for a really long time,” he said. “Mental stuff, I mean. He was really down, and nothing seemed to help. I couldn’t do anything, even though I tried. We all tried.”

I nodded slowly and stayed quiet, giving him time to formulate his next words.

“One day he suddenly seemed fine again. He was in a good mood, acting all happy and friendly to everyone. It lasted a few days, so I thought he was back to his old self and everything was fine,” he said. “Then one day he came and asked me if I knew the code to my parents’ safe. He said he wanted to borrow a piece from Mom’s jewelry collection to lend to a girl he was taking to prom. Something about it matching her dress. So I told him the code. I saw it ages ago when Mom was typing it in. But he didn’t really want a piece of jewelry.”

My stomach lurched. “What did he take?”

“My dad’s gun was stored in the safe as well,” Maverick replied. “He used it to…”

His voice turned hoarse as he trailed off, and he turned his head so I could no longer see his face.

“That’s how he died?” I asked, softening my voice.

“Yeah. Turns out, when someone has severe depression and suddenly starts acting happy again, it’s not a good sign. It can mean they’ve totally given up and accepted the fact that they’re going to end it.” Maverick swallowed thickly and went on. “Apparently it’s pretty common with suicides.”

I reached over and squeezed his hand. “God, Mav, I’m so sorry. But you couldn’t have known. You were only fifteen or sixteen when it happened, right?”

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