Page 6 of Wicked Little Game
We’re back at the house and he shoves me through the front door as if I’m his hostage. He is too calm and collected. This isn’t the first time he’s done this.
“Stupid asshole,” I repeat myself. “Bet you like shoving me around like this. Makes you feel better about your pathetic life, am I right? Fucking loser.” His grip on my arm tightens even more, and it feels like he’s close to ripping it off.
He stills for a second and I wonder if I crossed a line. Somehow, I hope I did. A huge fight would be almost as satisfying as feeding my ducks.
“You think you’re a tough little shit, huh? Let me tell you something, Ruby.” He spits out my name as if it’s a moldy piece of bread he wants to get out of his mouth as quickly as possible. With force, he continues to push me up the stairs.
“You’re a deplorable, spoiled kid who doesn’t have a fucking clue about how the world works. You live off of your daddy’s money, getting all snotty-nosed whenever something doesn’t go your way, am I right?”
I don’t bother answering his stupid rhetorical question, which is nothing more than an insult either way.
“Is there anything you can do apart from being annoying and partying? Because I sincerely doubt it.”
At least he bought my act.
His grip on my wrist loosens for the first time this evening as we arrive at my room. I roll my shoulders and rub over my reddened wrist, knowing that my arm will be goddamn sore tomorrow.
I’m used to people thinking about me like this. That’s why I’m confused about why his words hurt me, even if it’s just alittle. There was an undertone in his voice that I couldn’t read. It wasn’t like my father's obvious hatred or the jealous aggression I knew from Brian. It was robotic in a way.
Just weird, like the rest of him.
He’s already walking towards his own room when I lean out of my door frame.
“Hey, asshole,” I yell. “What’s your name? I want to know who’s trying to insult me like that.”
Silence. He must be a bit dense. Usually, it doesn’t take people longer than a few moments to remember their name.
“James,” he yells back and then he slams his door shut. He seems to be secure about the fact that I won’t try to run off again and I hate to admit that he’s right.
I switch my dress for pajamas and snuggle up in my bed. In a moment of weakness, I send Sarah another message even though the last five are still on read.
Just when I want to put my phone away, Dom texts me. He asks me if everything is alright and if he should wait for me. I tell him to drive home, that I suddenly got sick, hoping that he didn’t witness the embarrassing scene in the driveway.
4
SAMUEL
She called me a fucking Navy SEAL.
I wanted to give her a chance, tried not to judge a book by its cover, but how am I supposed to do this when one of the first things she says to me is an insult like that? Misbehaved brat.
I call Rockwell to tell him I’m done here, that I’m going to catch the next flight back home, and that he needs to find someone else for this stupid mission, but he doesn’t answer the phone. I wonder why.
So I try to call Max, and then Logan. None of them picks up the phone, and I suspect they all agreed to ignore me.
Traitors. Every single one of them.
I’m so pissed that I’m unable to fall asleep and just when I doze off, the first rays of sunshine peek through the beige curtains. As I get up to close the blinds, I look out of the window. The view is admittedly beautiful, and it would be kind of nice if I wasn’t shunted off here, accompanied by annoyance personified.
Yawning, I make my way down to the kitchen. The fridge is stocked, just like Mr. Barron had promised, and I grab a feweggs and a package of bacon. Everything goes smoothly and my eggs are almost done, but then I go searching for bread.
That was a mistake because as I turn back around, flames shoot up from the stove. I curse under my breath while I hold the pan with my burning omelet under running water to put out the fire.
My blood pressure skyrockets and I contemplate eating sad raw bacon, but instead, I throw the unopened package back in the fridge as I decide on a bowl of cornflakes for breakfast. I would have preferred something a bit more substantial, but I don’t want to risk another fire.
At around 11am, I get a bad gut feeling. Not because of the cornflakes, but because I didn’t hear a single sound coming from Ruby’s room so far. If she ran off again, I’m going to yell at her the entire way back to the house.
I rush up the stairs and knock on her door. Just when I press down on the handle, there’s a groaned “What?” coming from inside her room, as if I had just woken her up.
