Lovegame

by Tracy Wolff

  “I’m your mother. It’s my job to know all about your successes—and to remind you of them often.”

  Her voice holds an unmistakable note of pride, but there’s tension there, too. It’s the tension that has my shoulders tightening and my eyes narrowing with suspicion as I try to figure out just what is up. “You know, right, that I’m not so insecure in myself or my career that I need you to quote my stats back to me. I’m good.”

  “Can’t a mother be proud of her son?” she answers lightly.

  But it only takes a few seconds for that lightness to become something darker and more twisted. Silence stretches between us and I want to break it, want to do something that will restore my mother’s earlier happy mood. But I’m years in the past now and trying to think of anything to say that will make those truths better is close to impossible.

  And so I wait, feeling like shit and wondering when the hell all my psychological training will finally give me a leg up with my own past. I’m getting tired of always feeling like the asshole in any given situation.

  My mother eventually breaks the silence with an awkward clearing of her throat that tells me I’m right to be suspicious. Because I am, I finally ask, “What’s up, Mom? What’s going on?”

  She clears her throat again and I can hear her take a deep breath before sighing it out. “I saw Jason today,” she finally says.

  Which is just…What. The. Fuck? What the actual fuck?

  Of all the things she could have said, of all the things I was prepared to hear, that is definitely the most unexpected. And the most problematic for everyone involved.

  “You saw…Jason?”

  I strive to keep my voice neutral, but it must not work very well because she comes back with, “You don’t get to judge me on this. I’m still your mother and I have to do what I think is right!”

  No one could ever possibly think that her seeing Jason is okay. Not after all the times he’s manipulated her, lied to her, hurt her. Still, I try to pick my words carefully, not wanting to spook her or make her regret telling me. The last thing any of us need is Jason running around unchecked in my mother’s head. “I thought, after what happened last time, we agreed that you weren’t going to see him anymore.”

  “I wasn’t. But then he wrote me and…” She sounds broken and defensive and I figure I’m not the only one in the family to give her a hard time about this. Not when my father was so adamant about keeping the two of them apart. About not letting my mother have anything to do with him anymore.

  “You know he’s just pulling you back in, right? That he doesn’t actually care about you.” The words are hard for her to hear and just as hard for me to say. But my brother is what he is. When my mom hides from that, when she tries to pretend that he’s capable of changing, he isn’t the one who gets hurt. She is.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Actually, I do know it. I have a bunch of degrees and a couple fancy titles that say I do.” Fuck, that sounded flip and that’s the last impression I want to give her right now. She gets enough shit from Jason and my dad. She doesn’t need to get it from me, too. “Look, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for—”

  “He wants to see you.”

  “Me? That’s a new one.” Again, what the actual fuck is going on here? Jason never wants to see me, never has anything to say to me because he doesn’t like what I have to say to him. Likes even less the fact that I see his bullshit, and him, for what it is.

  “I think you should go, let him explain.”

  “You know that’s not going to happen, right? At this point, there’s nothing he has to say that I want to hear. Things are what they are and him trying to spin it with a thousand new lies isn’t going to make me view the past any differently.”

  “He disagrees. The least you can do is hear him out.”

  “Now, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” I snap as I shove a frustrated hand through my hair. “Because I’m pretty sure the least I can do is pretend that we’ve never met.”

  She gasps. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I mean exactly that, and you know it.”

  “You’re so unyielding about this, just like your father.”

  “Somebody has to be, especially when you keep buying all the bullshit he’s selling.” I’m full on pacing now, practically wearing a path in the hotel room carpet with how fast—and how many times—I’m walking back and forth between the two farthest walls.

  “You help so many other people. I don’t understand why you won’t even think about helping him. You won’t even give him a chance to explain—”

  “Because I can’t help him—and more, I won’t. There’s nothing for him to explain, no justification he can use that will negate the fact that—” My phone alarm goes off, signaling that it’s time for me to get ready for Veronica’s party. I don’t know if I should be annoyed or if I should give thanks that it’s getting me out of this very sticky situation.

  I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Look, Mom, I love you, but you know this subject isn’t open for discussion. I’m not going to see him, I’m not going to talk to him or listen to any arguments you have about this—”

  “You’re being unreasonable!”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in this conversation who is being reasonable. Have you talked to Dad? What does he say?”

  She makes a dismissive sound. “You know your father. He’s completely unyielding about Jason.”

  “Because he needs to be. That should tell you something, Mom. If neither Dad nor I think you should have anything to do with him, then maybe you should really think about why that is.”

  “You don’t know him anymore. He’s changed—”

  “He’s incapable of changing! He’s a narcissist and he totally lacks a conscience. All the sweet talk in the world isn’t going to change those two facts.”

  “I’m not saying he’s perfect. I’m saying that after all this time, he wants to mend fences. He’s hoping for a relationship with us—”

  “Bullshit. He’s reaching out to you because he wants something. I don’t know or care what it is, but I guarantee you, that’s what this is about. And this isn’t just your son talking, either. This is my professional opinion. You need to stay away from him.”

  “You don’t know that—”

  “I do know it.” A quick glance at the clock tells me I’m cutting things close. “Look, Mom, I love you but I have to go. I have somewhere I need to be in an hour.”

  “There’s something more important than this discussion?” For the first time she sounds as frustrated as I am. And I know I should soothe her. Hell, I even know how I can soothe her—by making some noncommittal noises about how maybe I could think about talking to Jason.

  But I don’t want to lie to her. Giving her false hope now isn’t going to help her, or anyone, in the long run. It will just make me look like more of an asshole than I already am. Plus, she’s gotten enough of that from him through the years, so I work very hard to be as transparent with her—with everyone in my life, really—as I possibly can. The last thing I ever want is someone comparing us and thinking we are even remotely alike. Particularly since I spend so much of my time trying not to compare myself to him.

  Just thinking about it has me pissed off and fucked up, which is why I’m more harsh than I mean to be when I tell her, “There are a million things more important to me than talking about Jason. I’m sorry if that hurts you or upsets you or makes you think badly of me, but that’s how it is. He’s got no place in my life, and if I’m honest, Mom, I’ll own up to the fact that I wish he had no place in yours, either. I understand why you don’t want to cut ties with him, but the fact of the matter is, as long as you let him, he’s going to keep using you. And hurting you.”

  “If you would just see him, you’d understand that he’s really changed.”

  “I don’t need to see him to know—”

  “Please, Ian. Please. Just hear him out. For me. Please.”<
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  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  She’s crying now. Not crying like she’s trying to guilt me into something, but crying like her heart is breaking all over again. And this time I’m the one who broke it.

  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

  The words are right there on the tip of my tongue. A promise that I’ll talk to Jason when I get back from L.A. What’s a couple hours of my time anyway, right? If it makes my mom happy, makes her stop crying? She’s done enough crying over him to last three lifetimes. The last thing I want is to make her cry over me, too.

  In the end, though, I bite the words back. Because this is just one more of his famous manipulation tactics, one more way he’s using her as a weapon against me. I won’t give him that power, won’t give him what he wants. Even if it ends up breaking me wide open, too.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t. But I’ll call you tomorrow, to check on you. I love you.”

  I don’t wait for her to respond, too afraid that I’ll capitulate if she says anything else. Instead I hang up the phone. Put it safely on the dresser. Head toward the bathroom to take a quick shower.

  I only make it halfway there before I lose it completely, the fury and the grief welling up inside me until all I can do is lash out. I grab a water bottle off the counter in the kitchen area, send it flying across the room. It slams against the wall with an unsatisfying thump and then I’m sweeping my hand across the counter, sending nearly everything on it crashing to the ground.

  Papers fly everywhere, but still it’s not enough. Still I’m burning with fury, with the desire to tear my brother apart with my bare hands. There’s one thing left on the counter—the bottle of tequila I was drinking from last night. With a cry of rage, I send it soaring across the room as hard as I can.

  I watch in sick satisfaction as it slams against the glass door to the balcony. It explodes on impact, sending glass and tequila raining in all directions even as a long, jagged crack appears in the door. The crack spreads out in various directions, turning the whole door into a giant spiderweb of smaller cracks and fissures. One more hit and the whole thing will come crashing down.

  It’s tempting, so tempting, especially considering that I already have to pay to have the door replaced. I want to hear it break, want to watch the destruction as it shatters into a million tiny pieces. Everything else is broken. Why the fuck shouldn’t that goddamn door be, too?

  My hands are trembling with the need to give in, my whole body shaking with the soul-deep rage I’ve spent so many years trying to outrun. Trying to lock away. It would be so easy to give in, so easy to just let it all come pouring out of me and cross the lines I’ve spent most my life making sure to stay on the right side of.

  I already crossed a bunch of them with Veronica last night. What’s a few more? So what if those lines are the only things standing between me and utter destruction? So what if there’s no way back once I cross them?

  My entire adult life, it’s been Jason who’s the destructive one.

  Jason who has fucked up everything and everyone he’s ever touched.

  Jason who breaks things, who breaks people, just to watch them fall apart.

  I’ve spent my whole life fighting against that birthright, fighting against the nature and the nurture that made him the way he is. And, in the end, all it took to push me over was my unquenchable desire for Veronica Romero.

  Blindly, I reach for the coffee mug on the next counter over. It only takes a second for my hands to connect with the handle and then I’m holding it, weighing it, wondering which spot to aim for to cause the maximum amount of damage.

  But just as I pull my arm back, just as I prepare to send the cup hurtling across the room, shattering both the door and the life I’ve worked so hard to build, a picture of Veronica as she was this morning flashes through my head. Face pale, body hunched in on itself, skin marked up to hell and back. She put on a brave face—even a seductive one—but I could see the truth in her eyes. I could see how badly I’d hurt her. How badly I’d abused the trust she put in me.

  I tied her to the bed. Spanked her. Bruised her. And I then I kicked her out without so much as thanking her for sharing herself with me, all because I couldn’t stand to look at the evidence of what I’d done. To her and to myself.

  My breathing is ragged, my heart beating way too fast. Once again, I think how easy it would be to self-destruct, how easy to say to hell with everything and just give in to the rage. But I can’t do that. Not now, when I don’t even know if she’s really okay.

  Very carefully, I set the cup back on the counter behind me. I look around the room, at the mess I’ve made and the destruction I’ve caused. And tell myself this whole thing is just a small lapse, just a small price to pay when it could have been so much worse.

  I’m good enough at lying to myself that by the time I step into the shower five minutes later, I almost believe it.

  Chapter 18

  I’m in the middle of a toast to my mother when he walks into the black-and-silver bedecked ballroom where I’m hosting my mother’s birthday celebration.

  It’s awkward timing considering everyone at the party is watching me and all I can do is watch him. It’s hard not to, when he’s dressed in a gorgeous blue Tom Ford suit that shows off his long, lean body to perfection even as it makes his eyes look impossibly dark. And warm, so warm that I swear I’m starting to sweat as he looks at me across the crowded ballroom.

  Though my words haven’t faltered, people are beginning to notice my preoccupation. I pull my gaze away just as a few start to turn to look, and force myself to stay relaxed and engaging as I tell the last of the jokes I’d planned. Then, with a smile I’m suddenly far from feeling, I finish with a lift of my glass and a heartfelt, “Happy Birthday to the most beautiful woman I know. You don’t look a day over forty, Mom.”

  She laughs and gives her head a small, self-deprecating shake as everyone around us smiles in good-natured agreement. And while forty might be a little bit of a stretch for a woman who has now turned fifty seven times, it’s not completely out of the realm of possibility. She does look good, really good.

  Of course, I would have preferred to end the toast with something about who she is rather than what she looks like, but my mother—the woman who will probably still be “fifty” when she’s actually seventy—would kill me. Staying young is pretty much a religion for her. Then again, that’s nothing new in this town where ninety-five percent of the people I associate with feel exactly the same way.

  Once everyone has clapped, I step down from the stage so the DJ I hired for the night can resume the music. The first thing I do when I’m no longer the center of attention is to down my glass of champagne in one long swallow. It’s my second of the night, and though I vowed to keep all my wits about me tonight—with everything that’s happened I feel like I need to—I can’t help wanting another. Especially when Ian’s melted chocolate gaze snags mine and refuses to relinquish its hold.

  Or maybe it’s me who refuses to look away—at this point, I just don’t know. All I do know is that he’s heading straight for me, the crowd between us parting like so much seafoam as he cuts a path through them.

  Who does he see? I wonder as I decide to hell with it and grab another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. When he looks at me right now, does he see me? Or does he see her? The Belladonna? Not for the first time since I found the gown my mother selected for me waiting in my room—a gown that bears a marked resemblance to one I wore as the Belladonna—I regret agreeing to let her dress me. Especially since I still don’t know how I want to handle this meeting after the way we left things this morning. I wanted to be armored when I saw him again, but instead—dressed like this—I just feel vulnerable.

  Not that I’m going to let him see that. Because if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that when I make a man suffer, I want to be certain it’s me he’s suffering for—not some character he invented or some woman whose head he lived in for far too long.
Ian spent months trying to figure out who Celeste Warren was, how she thought, what she was capable of. And now, here I am, looking just like her. Again.

  For the first time, I feel an ounce of sympathy for him. If he’s half as messed up by all of this as I am, is it any wonder that things have gotten so messy between us?

  He’s almost on me—I’m bracing myself for having to speak to him, trying to figure out the best way to handle him considering everything that’s passed between us in the four days we’ve known each other—when Damon Brooks, my own personal hero, swoops in and asks me to dance.

  One of the most famous actors in Hollywood—in the world, actually—he and I have been close friends since we starred together in a teen movie well over a decade ago. I was the young ingénue with a heart of gold and he was the rich bad boy out to seduce me. Only the tables turned halfway through the film and the predator became the prey…and vice versa. The movie did well, quickly becoming a cult classic, and our trajectories in Hollywood were set.

  He’s the golden boy and I’m the cunning seductress. It’s a role whose restrictions I may chafe against every once in a while, but it’s a million times better than playing the victim.

  I should turn him down. Ian is closing in and the look on his face warns me not to move. But I’ve never been very good at doing what I’m told, so I do accept, taking Damon’s hand with a smile and allowing him to sweep me onto the dance floor.

  It’s a fun song, not too fast and not too slow, and Damon is a great dancer—one of those men who makes it easy for his partner to follow wherever he leads. Add to that the fact that he’s one of the few people in this town that I genuinely trust, and I couldn’t have asked for a better savior.

  He spins me out a couple of times, then pulls me close as the music segues into a slower beat. “How are you?” he asks, dipping me before I can answer.

  “I’m good,” I answer once I’m upright again. “How are you? And what are these rumors I keep hearing about you and some new starlet whose name nobody can remember?”