Twisted Little Games

by Dee Palmer

  “It’s your fare, darling. Fill your boots.” He gives me a warm smile and a two-finger salute, reaching for his newspaper before my hand touches the door handle.

  “Thank you, I won’t be long.” The green light pings the all clear to open the door and I step from the taxi just outside the one and only village shop. The bell over the door rings a discordant tone in my ears and spirals me back in time.

  “Let me buy them for you.” Atticus takes the packet from my hands.

  “No Cass. I have enough money,” I argue and look through the coppers in my palm, counting the pennies for the third time as if somehow it will miraculously conjure up a few more. I don’t have enough money, nowhere near. “Actually, I’m not that hungry.” I slip the change into the back pocket of my jeans and shrug off the decision as a simple change of heart or tummy. I’ve worked on and off all summer when Cass was busy or on holiday. Even so, all my money goes to buying art supplies; chocolates are a treat I can’t afford. I take the bag from Atticus’s hand and replace them in the tired display, along with all the other mouth watering, teeth rotting confections I can’t afford.

  “You’re so stubborn. Let me buy the damn sweets, Tia.” He picks up the packet and holds it so high out of my reach, even on tiptoes I struggle to get anywhere near enough to grab it back.

  When did he get so tall and strong? I rock back onto my heels and huff in defeat. However, I spin and flounce angrily from the shop, determined to win the war.

  “No,” I brush past Cass, pulling the door so roughly the curve of the brass bell snaps from its hinge, making enough noise to wake the dead or worse, disturb the owner, Mr Clegg, who is reading his creepy magazines behind the counter. I freeze in the doorway as he hollers from the rear of the shop.

  “You damn kids. You’re going to pay for that, Missy.” He charges down the narrow aisle waving a crooked finger in my direction, thunder and bitterness raging across his wrinkled face. His black eyes sparkle with life, and I swear it’s the first time I’ve seen the old man smile.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Mr Clegg.”

  “It was an accident, Mr Clegg,” Cass adds in my defence.

  “No such thing. This was an antique.” He picks up the bell and cradles it in his weathered hands like some prized possession.

  “It was old; it wasn’t an antique. There’s a difference.” Atticus scoffs, and Mr Clegg retorts with a scowl filled with contempt and animosity.

  “No one asked you, milord.”

  “There’s no need to be like that, Mr Clegg.” Atticus shakes his head at the old man’s attempted insult. He brushes it off with twinkle of mischief in his eyes and a politely condescending rebuttal. “This will cover the cost of the heirloom and these.” Atticus grabs a box of malteasers from the high ledge, takes my hand, and leaves a stunned Mr Clegg in the doorway holding the bell like a fallen comrade.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper even though we are well out of earshot and walking back toward the Hall. Atticus has hold of my hands, and I love the way the butterflies dance like they’re at a rave when he does.

  “He was being a prick, and I didn’t want you worrying about how you’re going to pay him back. You should never have to worry about money.”

  “Says you, because you have it.” I roll my eyes, even though I know he didn’t say it to show off or be a smart-arse.

  “Says me, because I have it, but I have something and she’s worth much more.” He steps around me, making me halt or crash right into him. I hold his gaze for a moment and not a second more. It’s too intense. I shuffle from one foot to the other and mumble.

  “Yeah, because I’m such a catch.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He tips my chin and takes me by surprise with a heart-pounding, breath-stealing kiss. It’s only my second, and it feels so much better than the first. My toes wriggle with anticipation when he breaks the kiss, and I think about the possibility of a third. “Here” He holds is hand out. It takes a moment to register the gift since I’m in a daze from the knee-wobbling kiss.

  “You bought a whole box.” I place my hand over my beating heart, convinced nothing says I love you better than a family size box of malteasers.

  “Because you’re totally, worth it.”

  “Would you like a bag?” The lady behind the counter asks as she starts to ring up the contents of my hand basket. Her name badge says Gaynor, but I recognise her as Mr Clegg’s younger sister.

  “Yes, please.” Today is about survival, and I am fully loaded with enough essentials to last at least a few days: milk, bread, eggs, sausages, cheese, coffee, wine, and toilet rolls. I even eye the box of malteasers gathering dust on the top shelf, but figure they’ve probably been there since I was at school.

  “Are you visiting the area or are you moving back?” Gaynor follows my line of sight and nods her head in the direction of the chocolate, confusing me with which question she wants me to answer. I shake my head at the chocolates and respond with my own question.

  “Moving back?”

  “You look just like your mother, dear.” She smiles kindly, her face lighting up with recognition and memory. “I know it’s been a while, but I would know those green eyes anywhere.”

  “Oh, I see…I’m not sure. Staying for awhile, I think.” I shift under her scrutiny.

  “Did you hear what happened at the Hall?” Her dramatic gasp is almost comical. The hand on her heart is also for effect, and I suddenly do remember what a quiet village this is and what big news the explosion must’ve been.

  “Sort of.” I’m not a gossip and have no intention of adding more fuel to this fire.

  “Such a shame, such a beautiful house and now its just rubble and cinders,” she muses, ringing up the total. “Thirty eight pounds and twenty four pence.”

  “Really?” I peek into the bag and struggle to see what I’ve bought that could’ve cost so much. I hand over the cash.

  “We can’t compete with he big supermarkets, I’m afraid.”

  “But have no trouble competing with the daylight robbers,” I mumble, and she smiles so brightly I know she heard every damn word.

  “So where are you staying?”

  I sigh because, even if I don’t tell her now, she’ll find out soon enough.

  “The Lodge.”

  “The one that belongs to the Kraus family, you mean?” She tilts her head, curiosity creasing her brow, and she grins with an air of optimism that perhaps I might be more forthcoming. I’m not, and her suspicions will go unsatisfied.

  “The very one.”

  It was a hunch that the spare key would be in the flowerpot by the back door, although I was pretty confident I could slip the latch open on the kitchen window and climb in if I needed to. Still, I’m thankful I don’t have to scale the coal bunker and balance on a sill of crumbling rotten wood to gain entry. Even if I weighed the same as I did when I was at school, I am worn weary by recent events, and I’m struggling to haul myself in through the front door as it is. The stale, damp air hits me in the face like a pungent time hop, an assault to my nostrils and memory. I flick the hall light on and am knocked sideways with overwhelming sense of nostalgia. My last visit, I didn’t even look in the window when I returned after my release from prison. I barely paused at the driveway, headed directly up to the Hall, got what I needed, and got the hell out.

  Everything is as I remember. I hated this place.

  I guess I assumed it would’ve been cleared out when my mother died. My bag slips from my shoulder, and I place the door key on the sideboard. My finger absently swipes the thick dust clean in a streak, exposing dark glossy mahogany. I suck back the surge of emotion threatening to teeter my fragile self over the edge. I never thought I’d be so happy to be proved wrong and standing in the entrance of the place where I grew up. I never thought I’d be so happy to be home.

  Pulling my cases to the bottom of the stairs I step over them and take my recently purchased supplies to the kitchen. The harsh florescent
light flickers, casting eerie shadows on the wall before bathing the small room in far too much artificial light. The small pine table and other surfaces are clear of typical life-confirming debris: upturned cups on the drainer, a greasy butter knife with a mix of jam and breadcrumbs, a fresh coffee stain on the table or the faint trail of steam rising from a recently boiled kettle. Stark evidence the heart of the house flatlined a long time ago. Yet this house feels like a home, my home.

  When Logan handed me the folder from Mr Waterhouse, he said it contained a list of my assets, properties around the world and bank accounts at my disposal, as if that would help somehow. It didn’t, and I still haven’t looked in the folder. I wonder if it eased Logan’s conscience at all. He has to be reeling from what he’s done. I know he loves me, and I know because of that, the threat is both crippling and terrifying. It is for me too, but I thought we were together in this, in life. And I didn’t get a say. I’m not sure I will ever forgive him for choosing this option.

  Regardless of what assets and properties might be in the folder, though, I know this is where I need to be to gather the broken pieces of my life.

  I was right to come here. I feel it in my bones, a connection to something more than mere bricks and mortar. I just hope it’s enough to pull me through because, right now, I feel like I’m freefalling into the abyss, and I no longer have a net.

  I’d convinced myself for so long, it was just me, and all that time I had Logan. My hand steadies the buckle in my knees, resting on the kitchen table as the enormity of everything hits me like a fucking freight train.

  You don’t know what you have until its gone.

  A heart-rending howl shatters the silence in the room and hurts my soul with raw, visceral pain clawing from the deepest most broken part of me. I can’t quite believe I’m making that god-awful sound, and I can’t stop. I crumple to the floor. Nothing is going to hold me up; nothing is closing this floodgate, and nothing is going to stop me from drowning. I sink deeper and deeper and for so long, I know I’m completely lost when I start to hear things, a familiar voice I shouldn’t be hearing.

  “Hey, princess.” Eyes so deep and enticing I will happily remain submerged, even if I know it’s just a dream. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” His strong hand lifts my chin, and he wipes away the tears with such tender surety, my eyes dry at his seemingly magical touch. This is a dream. It has to be a dream, and I don’t care. I’m going to cling with both hands to the comfort seizing my heart for as long as it lasts. Illusive, wondrous and fleeting as dreams always are, I feel the warmth of his nearness ignite the spark in my stone cold, broken heart.

  “Atticus,” I exhale, sorrow filling every particle of air holding his name.

  “Princess,” He strokes my cheeks, and his touch feels like heaven, lifting my senses from the numbness consuming me. My body shudders from the contact and awakens the agony eroding inside.

  “It hurts so much.” Holding the point, I feel it most with an angry clenched fist.

  “I know, baby. I know, and I’m so sorry.” His other hand covers mine and pulls it away from my chest.

  “I love him. I love you, and I’m all alone. How is that fair?”

  “You have me.” He drops his head to one side. His gaze is intense with understanding and certainty. I wish I shared a fraction of that resolve. I shake my head, pull my hand from his, and cross my arms for support and protection.

  “I don’t have anyone. You’re not real. I’m dreaming you because I’m utterly alone.”

  “You’re dreaming of me because you are mine and I’m yours.” He counters with a cocky quirk of his blonde brow.

  “I’m dreaming of you because I’m here, in my old home. Trust me, give it another day and I’ll be dreaming of him.” I scoff and instantly regret the picture of hurt, however brief, darkening his expression. He rallies, cupping his hand possessively around my neck.

  “Perhaps, but tonight it’s me in your dream. It’s my chance and I’m going to take it.” His lips press against mine, urgent and hungry, coaxing my compliance and making it difficult to breathe.

  Do I even need to breathe in dreams? I can do anything I want, this is my dream, and it feels too good to be anything else. And my reality is too fucking painful to bear. I want this; I want this dream.

  “Make me forget everything.” I speak against his soft lips.

  “No,” He growls and his pupils dissolve to inky blackness, erasing all traces of brilliant blue.

  “No?”

  “No, princess, I’m going to make you remember.” His lips cover mine, soft and sure and dizzyingly perfect. He lifts me in his arms with no effort, and while I catch the breath he stole, we glide up the stairs and into my old bedroom. The bed is freshly made and seems to hold my frame like a familiar coat around my body when he lays me down. His large body hovers over mine and he just gazes at me. The tears in my eyes trickle and the vision before me is hazy and illusive. I reach up to touch the apparition and smile when the touch feels real, feels good. His strong jaw has a light dusting of bristles which tickle my palm, and when he turns his head, I can feel the same lips from only a moment before kiss my palm.

  “Atticus I’m not—” I’m not sure what I was going to say when he silences me with a well placed finger on my lips.

  “Shh, princess, I’ve got this.” He drops to my side and shifts and manoeuvres my body so my back is to his front, and his arm lays heavy on my waist. His head rests just above and on the side of mine so we are almost cheek-to-cheek. I can feel his warm sweet breath ebb and flow across my face. He eases his knee between my legs and hooks my leg back over his. His hand skims the waistband of my leggings, and when his lips begin to nibble the shell of my ear, his long fingers descend down the front on my pants.

  “Mmm, oh god,” I shudder when one finger sinks along my surprising wetness. He groans in my ear as I wantonly open my legs to give him better access. If this is my dream, I may as well enjoy it. His lips suck my lobe into his hot mouth, and he drags the soft flesh through his teeth, biting down to the delicious point of pain. I roll my hips and push my backside against his erection. I try to turn but his fingers cup between my legs, one just at my entrance, and he prevents me from moving with the firmness of the hold.

  “No, princess, this is about you. I want to watch you fall, and I want to catch you when you do.” I look ahead and see the standing mirror in the corner of the room perfectly reflecting our entire image. His eyes meet mine and I agree. I am so ready to fall into that deeply erotic gaze and dark desire emblazoned on his strong Nordic features. His smile widens with pure wicked intent when I drape my arm up and back around behind me and around his neck, an open invitation to do his worst, if ever there was one.

  I’m glad this is a dream. Even I’m judging my lack of morals. I seem to make a habit of slipping out of one bed and straight into another.

  “I’m just trying to ease your pain princess, that’s all,” he whispers, and I shiver with the warm brush of his breath on my neck. Yes, yes that’s all this dream is. My heart is broken, and I need a distraction from the devastation. Since a sinfully sexy dream is what my subconscious has conjured up, who am I to argue?

  “Mmmm,” I sigh when his finger dips inside me, first one then two, and he moves them at such a languidly luscious pace it’s like he’s coaxing my climax from a much deeper place indeed. “Atticus!” I cry out when he twists and rotates, working his fingers in a scissors motion and squeezing a third inside me. I feel the stretch as he pushes farther inside me, and my tummy tightens with the delicious pull of pleasure from every sensitive nerve he teases. I grip the short hair at his neck and squeeze as the first wave of tingles starts to build.

  “Keep your eyes open, princess.” His hoarse voice is strained and his command is timely. I desperately want to squeeze my eyes shut. The intensity of the feral look he is boring into me feels too real. I obey and return his gaze. His lips part, and I feel the rush of his exhalation. My compliance seems to gi
ve him equal, if not more pleasure than what he’s drawing from my helplessly willing body.

  “Oh god, yes!” My leg snaps away from his and slams closed around his arm. His fingers continue to dive and delve into my depths as far as they can, with the angle of his arm despite the fact that it is now wedged between my trembling thighs. In and out, twist and turn, deeper and more, until ungodly pleasure shoots like an exploding supernova, bursting inside me, the inevitable result of just the right curl of his finger, just the precise amount of pressure on the perfect spot. My building climax escalates. Ripples become waves, and sparks ignite the powder keg inside me, a heavenly detonation sending me higher and higher as his expert fingers eek the very last trace of euphoria from my body. Only when I can no longer breathe without gasping or see without stars permeating my vision does he stroke and tenderly kiss me back to the land of blissful nights and endless dreams.

  “Ah!!!” I scream at the sight before me. My hands snatch the bed sheet to cover my nakedness. I try and calm my heart from beating right out of my chest and wrack my brains at what the hell is going on.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Atticus moves from the doorway and is instantly at my side, dipping the bed with his weight. He reaches for me, and I scramble away, farther up the bed until my head cracks the wall. Careful to keep the sheet close I wave an accusatory finger at the apparition in all its godly glory.

  Oh god, it wasn’t a dream.

  “You! You!” I utter, feeling the first shock of shame like a tidal wave.

  “Yes me, although I think I prefer when you call me God.” His nefarious smile is perfectly accompanied by his playfully wicked glare and teasing tug of the sheet. His voice drops a little lower, and it feels like sensually smooth velvet over sensitive skin. “I very much like the sound of ‘Oh God!’ falling from your lips the moment you c—”