Page 21 of Wicked Little Game
Ruby keeps her mouth shut for most of the drive home. I’m surprised because I feared that her special-order milkshakecreation which probably contains enough sugar for a week would turn her into an even more annoying little gremlin.
I still need to learn that Ruby usually does the opposite of what I expect, because she’s just sitting in the passenger seat, her head resting against the window. Her eyes fall shut from time to time, and her fingers are lax as I take her drink from her and put it in the cupholder.
I hate to admit it, but right now, so calm and silent, she looksalmostcute.
9
RUBY
My little power nap in the car was needed, and it also helped to ignore James’ horrible driving skills. As soon as we arrive back home, I take my bags out of the trunk and rush inside. James keeps on sitting in the car, probably waiting to park it until I’m far enough away that I don’t hear it when he rams one of the other cars in the process.
It’s not that I wouldn’t prefer it if James carried my stuff upstairs to my room, but he was surprisingly pliant today and I don’t want to test his patience any further. I put the muffins I bought for James on the kitchen counter, grab a few strawberries from the fridge and go upstairs to my room.
The weird feeling in my stomach didn’t vanish, not after my milkshake and also not after I had a few strawberries. I don’t want to accept what I fear it is, so I decide to keep a bit of distance from James for the rest of the day. That’s all Richards' fault, for even planting such a ridiculous idea in my head.
For the rest of the day I stay in my room, interrupted by James asking if everything is alright only twice. It’s probably just to check if I didn’t run off, but it’s still kind ofsweet.
With a frown, I realize I need to stop thinking about the things he does like that. It’s hisjobto look after me.
A little after midnight, I reach the point where not even the most boring documentary makes me fall asleep and I stop trying. I promised James something in return for going to the mall with me, so I put my hair in a ponytail and head down to the kitchen.
I hate cleaning up with a passion. Before the big fight between me and my father, back when he was still around most of the time, we had different housekeepers who took care of everything. But there’s no one living in one of the guest bedrooms apart from James anymore, and the only thing waiting for me down there is a ton of dishes in the sink.
I roll up my sleeves and get to work. Sandwiches and snacks don’t leave behind a lot of residue, so I have to give most of the dishes just a quick wash before I put them into the dishwasher. After I made my way through the mountain of plates in the sink, I spot a pan that looks like it was hidden underneath them.
Whatever had been in there must have burned for a good while and it takes me half a podcast and an almost broken nail to scrub it clean enough to get it dishwasher-ready.
After I’m done with the kitchen, I walk over to the living room area. I fluff up the pillows and fold my blanket while the host of my podcast talks about the new plants he bought.
I was never much of a podcast girl and preferred to listen to music most of the time, but during the last few months, I got the appeal. The house feels less empty when I hear someone talking.
A small part of me wants to do a good job cleaning up. Maybe James will be happy when he sees I kept my promise. Maybe he’ll even praise me. I realize that I’m horribly starved for positive attention. Any kind of attention, to be honest.
I want to make sure that he’s more than satisfied with myefforts, so I walk back upstairs, remembering that he told me to do his laundry. Since I’m already up and in cleaning mode, I want to cross this off my to-do list right. Now.
The washing machine is on the first floor, far enough away from our bedrooms so that it won’t annoy James while he’s sleeping.
Maybe it is a slightly dumb and invasive idea to sneak into his room to fetch his clothes to wash them, but my intentions are pure. Really.
His room is so clean that it doesn’t even look as if someone lives there. I know he has only been here for a week, but he seems to have some kind of tidiness fetish. He would probably die if he saw how hotel rooms look like after I had to pick out my first outfit for the night.
No clothes are strewn around, no candy wrappers are lying on the nightstand and no half empty water bottle rolls around on the floor. The only thing that stands around is an almost empty whiskey bottle right next to his bed. Even his worn stuff is neatly put together on the couch. I’ve never seen anybody fold their clothes like that, especially not clothes that belong in the laundry.
He shuffles in his bed, and I catch myself staring at his exposed back. He looks like a piece of art with the way the moonlight shines down on him through the window. His left hand is shoved underneath the pillow, his face mostly hidden by his biceps, the fluffy pillow, and his messy hair.
I sigh as a cloud ruins my good view of James, way too focused on being a creep so that I don’t hear the beeping that alerts me that my headphones run out of battery. A few moments later, my podcast blares at full volume in the pocket of my hoodie.
“Put your hands where I can see them,” James yells while pointing a gun at me.
“I just—”
“Hands up, now,” he bellows and I let the clothes I just picked up fall to the floor as I raise my shaking hands.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I yell back. “And why do you have a gun?”
I’m pretty sure that my last bodyguard did not sleep with a gun underneath his pillow. Somehow, questions are not what James wants to hear from me because soon we just scream nonsense at each other until none of us can understand a single word. My podcast is still blaring, adding to the cacophony of unpleasant sounds, and I finally get myself together enough to put my phone on silent.
But then we both hear another sound. And this one doesn’t come from one of us, instead from the first floor. James signals me to stay quiet, pointing at his bathroom as he walks towards the door, his gun still drawn.
