Page 30 of Wicked Little Game
Apart from that, she’ll think I lash out at her because of the bracelets and I won’t give her that reaction, knowing that she’s probably waiting for me to freak out.
Rejection, that’s the better option.
“Why do you think I’d want to wear that?”
“Thought we’refriendsnow.”
Her words are mocking me on so many levels that I’m impressed. I don’t want to be her friend. I can’t stand her, at least that’s what I tell myself when not even the booze is enough to make me sleep soundly.
And even worse, friends don’t do the things we do. Friends don’t do the things Iwantto do to her. Friends don’t tease you like that, friends don’t just grab your cock while you’re watching TV. At least mine usually don’t do that.
“You don’t like it?” She asks as she puts the one with the letter S on her wrist, adding insult to injury.
I’ll never agree to wearing that, for two reasons. Firstly, because it would mean that she won another round in this stupid little game between us and secondly, because it would mean that I kind of agree to whatever this shit is supposed to be.
“I’m not wearing that,” I say, knowing deep down that she probably won’t accept no for an answer. But she does, surprisingly.
“Fine, I’ll wear it for you until you change your mind.” She smiles, taking the bracelet out of my hand.
“You’ll have to wait a damn long time for that to happen.”
I look back at the TV to avoid having to watch her put the damn bracelet on her wrist. She’s still grinning, as if she expected this to go down exactly like that.
She leans her head against my shoulder and I let her, because I don’t have the energy to shove her away.
I’m fighting a war inside my head. I want to deny my attraction towards her, I really do. She’s nothing more than an annoying liability, an irrelevant part of a bigger mission that I just have to endure for the time being. A distraction, at best.
But that lie gets harder to repeat with every passing day I have to put up with her.
13
RUBY
During the last few days, Samuel and I established some kind of routine. I cook for the both of us and he agreed to clean the kitchen up after me. It’s honestly a win for both of us and I admittedly also enjoy spending time with him.
I still have to get used to him sneaking into the kitchen for a pre-snack because he acts like he’s close to starving. Sometimes I allow him to stick around, as long as he keeps his gorilla-sized ass on one of the bar stools and stops standing in my way.
This kitchen may be spacious, but there’s not enough room for two people in it. I’d honestly feel crowded even in an industrial kitchen, so it’s not really his fault.
What is his fault though, are the faint hints of touches. Subtle enough to make me question them, obvious enough that they make my heart race.
His hand on my waist when he walks past me, guarding edges when I turn around so that I don’t run into pieces of furniture. Or maybe I’m just reading something into it.
He seems to like pasta dishes just as much as I do, which isgood because I could live solely off of pasta and potatoes if I’d need to.
We basically have the routine of a couple that has been married for fifty years and I don’t find it as horrible as I would have expected it if someone told me this would be my life two years ago. We eat together, interrupted by brief discussions about the remote privilege, before we end up on the couch to watch TV together.
If he has a good day, I’m allowed to touch one part of him for half an hour. We came to that agreement after I completely obliterated him at Uno. I cheated, but he doesn’t need to know that.
One of us, usually me, would fall asleep on the couch, resulting in the other, usually Samuel, kicking me awake.
I really like spending time with him, but I also don’t like that I like it so much. This starts to feel less like a game and more like a crush. The opposite of what I want it to be.
He’s busy with his laptop again, sitting on the far end of the couch hunched over that thing like he’s working on creating the next big social media platform, but I know better than to ask what he’s doing. It’s a miracle he’s even sitting here with his laptop open. He always mumbles something about private stuff when I ask about it, closing the thing before I can take a proper look on the screen.
I pull out my phone to scroll through my social media apps when something, or rather someone, catches my eye.
A blurry video of Brian, smiling at the camera until the view wanders over to a bottle of vodka that’s being carried to the table. I would rather see a literal piece of shit on my feed instead of his face, hence why I blocked him everywhere since we broke up. I couldn’t stand his fake whining in my inbox any longer and didn't want to read through countless paragraphs that explained how he wouldreallychange this time.
