Page 166 of The Casualty of Us
“See you soon.”
“Ophelia.” He laughs openly. “Calm—”
“Text me when you land too,” I rush out before pulling the phone away from my ear and practically shouting, “Night.”
I end the call before he can unintentionally have me confessing anything else like the crime board I’m currently staring at with a picture of him on it. That would just be the cherry on top at this point.
Did I really just—
Fuck. I totally did, or almost did, I guess.
It has my brows falling, knowing that just because it slipped out like a habit doesn’t make it any less true. That I’ve known for a while now, but the practical side of me has been pushing to let it sit for a bit longer. Let it settle and deal with the stalker mess first before addressing it.
Fuck.
I scowl at the back of the bookshelf, lifting my phone to snap several pictures of things that I can work on more when I get back to school. Only a few weeks left until Christmas break now, which is why I push the bookshelf back into place, the fact that half my books are back at school making it possible. The timeline of things drives me to walk back over to my vanity and pick up the pen I left there earlier, staring down at the pretty stationery with my initials embossed on it that was a gift from my mother. One that she would definitely not approve of my current use for, but I thought it provided a nice touch. Especially since he seems to be set on making the tone of his sick game a romantic one.
But which “him” ishetalking about, though?
And does it even really matter when it comes down to it? The threat there is implicit without being explicit, but it’s still completely unacceptable in both of their cases.
I run through the responses I’ve been debating all day one last time before going with the one my gut told me first. The most important thing here. Because no matter what the game is, I can’t outplay him without knowing the rules. I have to figure out how to twist them to suit my needs instead and hope he’s just psycho enough to consider them binding. How he reacts whenhe finds out I’m not exactly abiding by whatever they’re going to be, though…that’s unpredictable.
It all is, really. I don’t know enough about him yet. And this…as risky as it is, it makes sense. It gives me the peek I need into his head.
So I blow out a slow breath, writing my response carefully and making sure my pointed writing is prettier than usual as well.
Show me it’s a game worthy of my time if you want my attention.
PS. I’ll need some rules because, as you know…I play to win.
Putting the earnest back on him and challenging him all at once. Hypothesizing that some part of his obsession was probably triggered by a need to prove himself and then fed by the elevation of my status in the media circus that followed the kidnapping. I can’t see any other reason for making this a game. It might have even played a part in what led to the kidnapping to begin with but that would mean that the entire original motivation for it needs to be reassessed.
But it’s that fascination I’m counting on, because it will trigger that need in him to prove himself regardless of the fucked-up circumstances. A play before doing so would essentially be an emasculation of himself in a sense, and I’m guessing his ego won’t allow that. Especially considering the weird courtship aspect of all this.
He’ll want to see himself as worthy whenever it all comes to a head and the game has been played to the end.
I sign the note with a little flourish and pick it up, blinking down at it once before tucking it neatly into the matching envelope. Scrawling the address for the PO box across the front and sealing it shut. Pressing the stamp down in the upper right corner in preparation for dropping it in whatever random mailbox I happen to come across first tomorrow and tucking it into the pocket of my jacket.
I swallow hard before flicking the lock on my door and heading straight across the hall to Ollie’s room, only to find him still drowsing in that post-Thanksgiving coma. All laid up in his bed with his mouth open and practically asking to be messed with. A grin pulls at my lips, and I sprint the rest of the way to his bed before launching myself onto it. His eyes fly open as I land on him with a laugh and the breath rushes out of him loud enough to fill the air.
“Goddammit,” he grumbles, rolling me off none too gently onto the mattress next to him before closing his eyes again. “Go to sleep, pest.”
“Wake up.” I reach over and flick his nose, waiting until his eyes crack to grin. “Want to go see if we can smuggle a bottle of wine and finish off Thanksgiving properly?”
“And to think”—his eyes open a little more—“people would assume I’m the bad influence.”
I scoff. “Don’t think I don’t remember being the distraction for your little mimosa expedition during the parade this morning.”
His crooked grin spreads. “Yeah, thanks for that.”
“Come on.” I roll my eyes, grabbing for the pillow behind me and smacking him in the face with it. “Bet we can steal some pie too, and then it’ll really be a party.”
“Fine,” he mumbles from underneath the pillow. “But only for the pie.”
That’s how my mom finds us an hour later too, making weak attempts to hide our wine in coffee mugs outside and half of a pecan pie left between us with Ollie spraying whipped cream into his mouth as I snort a laugh that has me choking on the cabernet.
She steps through the back door with a big white bag at her side, immediately lifting a brow at the sight of us and assessing the situation before shaking her head. I try to quell my giggles as Ollie swallows down the whipped cream ridiculously, and she walks the rest of the way over to us, setting the bag on the table next to the pie before looking at me.
