Page 83 of Wicked Little Game
RUBY
Samuel is such a quiet sleeper that I have to check if he’s still breathing from time to time. I told him we should sleep in my bed because it’s bigger, which is true, but it also means that my bedsheets will smell like him.
A look at my clock confirms that it’s 3:33am, and whenever I wake up at that time, it means nothing good. Half an hour later, this theory is once again confirmed as I hear a car turn into the driveway.
From the way the gravel sounds under the wheels and the sound the door makes when it’s being closed, I can identify who it is.
It feels like someone has their hand around my throat, and not in a good way. I don’t want to wake Sam, so I lift his arm up and turn around until I’m snuggled so close to his chest that I can barely breathe.
His deep breaths help to calm me down, at least a bit. And I promised myself to cherish the time I have left with him, especially now that it’s probably over in a few hours.
I try not to cry because if I end this day in prison, I don’t want to look like shit on my mugshots.
When the first rays of sunshine peek through the blinds, I’m up. I pace around the room like a headless chicken and it’s only when Sam groggily asks me what’s wrong that I stop.
“My father is back. Heard his car last night,” I say more to myself than to him, biting the skin off of my lip. I’m slightly startled as huge arms wrap around me, trapping me in place. I’ll never get used to his ninja-like movements.
“Darling, don’t freak out now, please. You just need to keep your cool, remember?” He holds me close, his hands sliding underneath my shirt to stroke over my skin.
He is right. We talked all of this through. How I’m going to strike up a conversation with my father while Sam waits outside the room, just in case. How he’s going to record the whole thing with a concealed microphone he hid behind that stupid elephant tusk on the day we cleaned up the office.
I just need to get my father to drop the name of his business partner and then the thing is done.
And then the thing is done.
All of this admittedly seemed easier when it was still in the future. The guilt is back, louder than before, especially because my nervous antics are mostly rooted in the fact that I don’t know what’s going to happen between me and Sam after all of this.
Probably nothing.
Wouldn’t a normal person, a good daughter, be more fazed because she’s about to put a metaphorical dagger into her father's back?
Maybe, but right now is not the time to think about my messed up family, or what’s left of it. I get dressed, because if shit is really about to go down, I don’t want to stand there in my pajamas.
Carefully, I fold the shirt Sam gave me before I put it on my pillow. I fold it the way he taught me, and it admittedly looks way tidier than my method.
“Samuel,” I speak up as I put my hair in a ponytail. “No matter how this is going to end, I want you to know that—”
“Ruby, darling, please, calm down,” he says, sneaking up behind me again.
“Stop interrupting me, dumbass.” I let the back of my head fall against his chest. I look into his eyes through the mirror before I turn around, breathing in deeply while I hug him.
Tilting my head up, I smile for a second as I see how sleepy he looks. His hair is slightly tousled, his tattooed body on display. My eyes are immediately drawn to the tattoo over his heart, and it’s a shame that I didn’t have the chance to ask him about it.
I play with his dog tags, taking a deep breath while I wonder how dumb the thing I’m about to do is.
“I love you.”
And with that, I pull away and walk out of the door without giving him the time to say anything. I’m too afraid that he doesn’t feel the same, and in my warped logic, it’s better not to know instead of getting rejected.
Schrödinger’s declaration of love.
As I stand in front of my father’s office, I contemplate running off. It would take me a few seconds to reach the front door, and maybe a minute to get into a car and bolt off. If I’m quick enough, I could make it to the gate before he hears me, and if not, I could just drive through the goddamn thing. If I make it, fine, and if I don’t, well…
But this is no longer just about me.
My father’s voice comes through the door, sleazy as always, probably talking to someone on the phone. I would eavesdrop, should probably eavesdrop, but there’s a ringing in my ears, so loud as if I just came from a heavy metal concert.
I take a deep breath before I open the door, not bothering to knock. His eyes widen for a second as he sees me and hequickly ends his call, but the surprise on his face vanishes way sooner than I had expected.
