Page 89 of Ramsay

“End it. For good. It’s too risky. And every time we turn around, it’s another fucking issue,” Oliver says.

“C’mon, bro. Don’t be a dick,” Diem chimes in.

Am I the problem? With a sinking sensation, I mentally sigh because once again, I’m being punished for god knows what this time.

“Very well, starting Monday, the real game begins. There’s no going back this time,” Ramsay says in a dark voice, “no matter the pussy nor the tears.”

Shit. Rolling over, I squirm and pretend to wake, wiping my eyes dramatically. I'm disappointed this evening of frivolity has come to an end, but not surprised. I may never know why they included me in their little ritual, but I enjoyed the ceasefire, nonetheless.

“What?” I say brusquely when they all turn to stare at me.

Ramsay just smiles. “Enjoy your nap, love?”

Flushing under his knowing stare, I mutter, “Your couch sucks.”

This earns me a lip curl, but the dark promise behind his eyes makes me shiver because it’s game on, and I’m the fucking game. I just wish I understood the damn rules.

“I should go,” I say.

I’d like to say it doesn’t matter when no one protests, but it does because when I leave this place, I’ll go back to being invisible, and it’s a lonely fucking place to be.

Diem moves to stand, but I interject, “I can find my way out. Thanks, um, for whatever.”

Before any of them can react, I let myself out of the cottage and make my way back toward the house, finding a path that leads me to the front, and bypassing going through the mansion.

I’m almost to my car when voices in front of the house stop me, and I lean against the wall. I’ve no desire to see Ramsay’s parents, especially his creepy dad and I resolve to wait it out.

Why did I come here? I’ve now potentially exposed myself again. And with the easy afternoon of games and fun, what comes next will be that much harder to swallow. Who are these dicks with their mercurial moods?

Dropping my head wearily, I groan. I feel like I’m eighty years old. My body hurts, my heart hurts. My chest is on fire.

“Where are you going, Rich?” The tone is so cold it can only be Ramsay’s mother.

“Out,” Rich says briskly, and I recognize his voice from countless interactions with Jagger.

For a moment, I’m pulled under, and I glance at my hands, expecting to see the blood I can’t fucking forget.

Why am I remembering this now? Was Frank affiliated with this douche?

What does it mean for me if he remembers me? Nothing fucking good, that’s what.

“You can’t keep doing this. It’s too risky,” she insists.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he returns.

“Please, I know you’re going to pick up some whore and fuck her. What’s she have? Hm? Other than a disease and a drug habit.”

“Shit,” I gasp, covering my mouth too late but I don’t think they heard me because he snarls, impatiently, “They have a fucking soul.”

Ouch, score one for Mr. Yates. Except is he really about to pick up a girl knowing his wife knows? Gross. Double gross.

“Whatever, you asshole. You know eventually, you’re going to get caught. And then what? Have you seen the news? All those girls dead at the hands of some disgusting monster?”

There’s a protracted silence that raises the hair on my arms before Mr. Yates says heavily, “Yes, I’ve seen the news.”

The sharp report of a car door closing inspires me to lean my head around the side of the house to see Mr. Yates driving away in a fancy black sedan with tinted windows and pretty rims.

Mrs. Yates of the icy demeanor closes the door behind her with a bang, and I jump clean out of my skin when an amused voice says behind me, “Find out anything good?”

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