Twisted Little Games

by Dee Palmer

  “Good, see how easy that is. Maybe you could teach me to draw?”

  “What? Yes…yes of course. I have some paper and pencils at home. We could go there and—”

  “We’re staying here, princess.” She raises a knowing brow, and my heart sinks at the flash of missed opportunity.

  “For how long? I mean if you want me to teach you, we’ll need better light than this.” The room is very dim, and I indicate the fading light from the tiny window with an awkward tilt of my head.

  “Tell me what else and I’ll think about it.”

  “He would hold me all night when I woke up screaming, and he never left me alone when I was sad. He would read to me while I painted, and we both liked to watch old westerns. He said his dad—”

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” She howls at me, pulling one side of her hair and wrenching a fistful of hair extensions from her scalp. She shakes her head violently, and despite wanting to scream myself, I keep my voice level, almost soothing.

  “Lilith, I don’t know what you want from me. You tell me to tell you. It wasn’t anything extraordinary; it was simply two people living together, getting to know one another, caring and falling love. It’s not a choice thing …it just happens.”

  “What did you say?”

  “It’s not a choice it—” Oh shit.

  “Not that, what did you say about falling in love?”

  “Nothing…I didn’t mean it like that, I meant like friends, you know?” I lean back in the chair as she looms forward. I’m limited where I can actually go but my neck is arched as far away from the tip of the blade as the chair will allow.

  “He said he loved you like a friend?”

  “No…yes!”

  “But you told him you loved him?”

  “I…I…look, you know how I felt about him. I told him. You told me I should fuck him, for crissake!” I lose the tentative hold I had on my composure, and my pitch and pace of speaking is verging on hysterical.

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “No, of course not. He wouldn’t.” She shakes her head, laughing at her own ludicrous suggestion. “You’re damaged. Did you tell him you loved him to mess with his head?”

  “What? No!”

  “You can’t love two people, Tia, and you love Atticus. You always have and you always will. I don’t understand what trick you pulled on my Logan to fool him. You played him and he just can’t see it.”

  “I think you can love two people. Your heart doesn’t divide; it simply doubles.” My heart feels like it swells as I voice the notion out loud.

  “Oh I think if push comes to shove, you’d choose one over the other. I’d bet your life on it.” She sits up and tilts her head to the side as if weighing up my very limited options. There is a muffled sound of tyres screeching on the gravel in the distance and my heart leaps and strangles the air in my lungs. Atticus?

  She stands and paces to the window and back. The wooden floor groans ominously with each step. Her face flashes with panic and I have to wonder what she’s seen to make her lose the last of her colour. She spins when she hears the door from deep below us crash open. Rushing to me, she yanks me to standing, the back of the chair catching on the ties. She nearly dislocates my damn shoulder kicking it free. I stumble, and she throws me hard against the back wall. She steps close enough to press the knife in the centre of my stomach, under my ribcage. I can feel the point prick my skin through the thin material with every stuttered breath I take.

  Every muscle in my body freezes with the sound of multiple footsteps on the stone spiral staircase. I hope he’s brought the police. I freeze when she calmly stretches her free hand from behind her back and points a small handgun at the door. Where the fuck did that come from? The door smashes wide open, ricocheting off the wall, and I cry out.

  “No!” I can feel the tip slice into my skin, yet I’m numb with utter panic. She holds both the knife and the gun extremely steady. My nerves are fried as my worst nightmare just crashed into the room: Atticus and Logan.

  “Logan, you came for me.” Her instant wide smile fails to reach the perfect curve when his icy tone kills any warm fuzzies she might be having at this reunion.

  “Lilith, put the fucking knife down.”

  Her thin lips twitch, and she bites out her response, volatile fury quickly eclipsing any hurt that flashed in her eyes. “Not the gun? The knife, hmm, because we wouldn’t want your precious princess injured would we?”

  “Please, Lilith, we can sort this out. No one needs to get hurt.” He takes one step forward then freezes. I pinch my lips tight trying to hold the cry of agony inside. The knife is easing its way deeper into my flesh, and he’s the reason. His eyes widen with fear, and I shake my head. I don’t know what I want him not to do, but he’s got a fucking gun pointed at him. I can take a bit of pain. I can’t take him getting shot. I can’t take either of them getting shot.

  “Someone is already hurt, my love, I’m hurt and you’re hurt.” Her eyes water and there’s a sudden vulnerability about her that would make me question my own sanity if she wasn’t waiving a gun at the only people I’ve ever loved. “She doesn’t want you, Logan, she wants him.” She switches her aim, and I can’t breathe.

  “Ghost, please,” I beg. Paralysed by fear, my breath catches in my throat.

  “Shut up, you filthy whore.”

  I gasp when the knife sinks a little more, both men lurch forward but back off when she clicks the safety off the gun. “This isn’t your gun, Logan but I found it under the table in your hallway. I’m so glad I decided to take it. It’s so very pretty.” She admires the weapon with a dreamy sigh, then flips like the psycho she is and snarls at me. “Did you fuck my Logan after you fucked him or before? You don’t deserve to breathe. You tricked him, seduced him when he was saving himself for me!” Spittle flies from the crazy rant spewing from her mouth. I clench my jaw at the surge of shooting pain in my gut and fire back my question.

  “Saving himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sick, Lilith. You need help.” Logan’s softly coaxing voice, booms loud over her frantic breaths. She twists her head when she speaks. Honestly, I’m surprised it doesn’t spin right round; she’s fucking possessed. His tone is deadly serious when he clarifies his sex life. “I haven’t saved myself period. I’ve been fucking prostitutes for years. I only stopped when I—”

  “When you what, Logan?” she sneers, and I can see him curse himself. His knuckles are white with impotent rage. “When you were brainwashed by this whore?” Stars flit across my vision when she pushes the blade in once more. I don’t remember it being that long but surely it must be at the end by now. I cough and fold at the unbearable pain the muscle contraction caused, choking up some blood and letting out a bitter laugh when I manage to speak.

  “If we could maybe stop calling me a whore. I’d quite like the last words I hear not to be that.” My legs feel weak with the icy chill saturating my cells, and each breath is getting harder.

  “No one is hearing their last words, stop being so dramatic, Tia.” Atticus’s deep commanding voice makes me smile. A momentary warm burst hits my chest, and I relish the respite. “We are all going to calm the fuck down and drop the weapons.”

  “Atticus is it?” Lilith inches her body closer to mine. I should perhaps feel body heat with her being so close but then that would suppose she’s not the psychotic ice queen bitch she is.

  “It is.”

  “Shall we play a game?” she croons seductively. I want to vomit.

  “I don’t like games.”

  “Now that’s not true. Tia said you and she used to play games all the time.” She looks between me and Atticus, and his eyes fix on me, the crystal blue deep with worry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so scared. That’s not good.

  “I don’t like your games, Lilith. Please put the knife down.” Logan steps forward, his hand out waving slowly in a downward motion, calming and encour
aging her to drop the weapons.

  “You think she’ll choose you, Logan, but she won’t. Even if I kill Atticus, she won’t choose you!” Her voice waivers, pitched with hysteria and vitriol. Her hands are shaking, and her neck is red with an angry rash colouring her skin.

  “No! Please, please don’t—” I plead but Logan cuts in.

  “I don’t care if she doesn’t choose me. She loves us both. I don’t deserve her anyway, so I’m fine if she chooses him.”

  “Liar! You need to see the truth, Logan, then you’ll be free.” She raises the gun and turns her evil gaze at me.

  “Choose, Tia, choose who dies.”

  “What? Are you fucking insane? No!” My body starts to shake, adrenaline, nerves, and a sick fear coursing through me.

  “The only way she’s going to choose you, Logan, is if he’s dead. Now do you see the trick? She never loved you. I’m the only one who’s ever truly loved you.”

  “I love them both, you crazy fucking bitch, and there is no fucking way I’m going to choose, and I’m not your fucking pin cushion.” I lunge forward, grabbing the knife as it sinks to the hilt into my stomach. I knock her hand free of the hilt as I press my body against hers, twisting us and slamming her against the wall. Everything slows down and as if I’m seeing only a few frames at a time as the end of my life plays out in slow motion. My hand slips on the grip, there’s so much blood but I manage to pull the blade from my body.

  “No!” Deep voices boom above me and the sudden rush of lightness and a cool gushing of blood over my stomach makes me realise, a little too late, that move wasn’t such a great idea, but it was necessary. With strength slipping faster than I can hold on to, I manage to plunge the knife into Ghosts neck. The noise of the gun explodes in my ear and we both crumple in a heap. A mass of weighty bodies and far too many limbs for it to be just me and Ghost. Logan and Atticus try to detangle the twisted limbs. The light, tender touch of someone’s hands on my face feels like nirvana and is all too fleeting. There’s an almighty cracking sound, like the heavens are being torn in two and hell is opening up to consume us all. A brief weightlessness dissolves into an agonising fall, as floor after floor we crash through burnt and rotten wood, hitting the ground in a pile of broken bones and bleeding bodies.

  I know I must be dead, because I’m floating. A warm, fuzzy blanket cossets my broken bones, and I feel no pain, only woozy and light and a little bit happy. The bright light I’m staring at doesn’t hurt my eyes but my eyelids feel way too heavy to open. I wonder if this is heaven, because when we fell through each floor and the tower timbers crashed over our bodies, that most definitely felt like I was plummeting into hell.

  I felt bones snap like twigs, yet the excruciating pain in every nerve was nothing compared to the image as the ancient dust settled, revealing Atticus and Logan’s limp and lifeless bodies tangled beside mine; that was unbearable.

  My heart breaks to a million painful pieces with the agonising recall, and it’s why I know this light dreamy feeling isn’t real. This isn’t heaven and the respite from that unbearable pain is merely a result of the drugs sedating my nightmare reality. Utter exhaustion blissfully mixes with the numbing cocktail swirling in my veins and once more takes me under. The soft darkness draws around me, and I sink back into sweet oblivion.

  Voices I recognise wake me, and its like my heart jolts to life with a pure shot of electricity. My eyes spring open, and I’m faced with the most wonderful sight imaginable, coupled with the painful reality that the drugs are wearing off. I don’t care; I’ll endure the agony ripping through my body to have this vision of crystal blues and chocolate brown eyes staring right back of me. Their expressions are a comical mirror of each other even if they look so completely different, a perfect picture of wonder, relief and love on ridiculously handsome faces.

  “Hey,” I say, but no sound escapes. My mouth feels like the Sahara, gritty, rough and horribly dry. My tongue sticks on my chapped lips, and I struggle to swallow since there is absolutely no moisture in my mouth.

  “Here.”

  Atticus hands Logan a small cup since he is closest to me. Logan fishes out a few ice chips and slips them into my parched mouth. I smile but don’t attempt another word. I simply drink in the sight before me. Fresh dark bruises colour Atticus’s right arm and spread under the cap of his t-shirt. His brow has several strips of white tape pulling the skin together, and his lip is very swollen and mottled purple. Logan seems to have fared slightly better, but it’s difficult to tell since his arms are covered in ink. His hairline has some blood matted in it and a single piece of tape over the cut on his forehead. First impressions make me think I haven’t been unconscious for long. As if reading my mind, Atticus speaks, easing himself gently on the edge of my bed.

  “You’ve been unconscious for two days. The surgery went well, we think, but they won’t tell us much more than that since we’re not family or next of kin.” He grumbles the last few words, and darkness clouds his expression and forces his brows to knit together.

  “Something that gets fixed as soon as you get out,” Logan adds, his tone equally irritated.

  “Agreed.” Atticus and Logan share a knowing glance that would pique my interest if my brain wasn’t mush. What the hell was that? “You lost a lot of blood, had two transfusions, but you’re very pale and weak from the surgery. The knife wound was deep but by some fucking miracle missed any of your major organs, may have clipped your pancreas, here. ” He points to his torso where I took the brunt of the knife, as if I could forget. “But they repaired the damage. Your humerus is broken, and the ulna bone fractured in three places and needed to be pinned. It’s your left arm though so won’t affect you being able to paint.” He continues to pinpoint each injury on his own body and I almost crack a smile through the pain, which seems to spark each time he identifies where my injuries are. “Your left leg had a clean break, which means you’re going to be in a cast like this for a little while.” My leg is suspended and my arm is crooked at an angle, fully cast in white plaster and also supported by ties and some sort of trapeze frame.

  It could be worse. It seems Logan can read my mind too.

  “Ghost died…not from the knife,” Logan is quick to insist. Since she nearly killed all of us, I don’t much care how she died. Even so, he seems keen to ease my mind and continues to clarify. “She broke her neck in the fall. We only survived because a large piece of flooring caught on a window ledge and took most of the impact of the falling timber and loose stones. Battered and bruised and, in your case, a little bit broken but we’re all lucky to be alive.”

  “Thought we’d lost you, Tia.” Logan’s hand covers mine, and Atticus lays his large palm tentatively on my thigh, the one that isn’t encased in plaster. He squeezes and Logan does the same, both sets of eyes fixed on me and are filled with the same sentiment: utter relief.

  “Oh good you’re awake.” The nurse’s bright smile widens when she takes in the two men at my side. I don’t blame her. They are enough to keep my heart thumping near the point of arrest. Not least of which because they seem to be friends. “I’ll get the doctor.” She disappears, not before her cheeks flush the same pink as her uniform.

  “You think you can take a shower now?” Atticus leans back and chokes out an exaggerated cough, holding his nose with his free hand.

  “I’ll take a shower when I know she’s going to be all right.” Logan raises an accusatory brow, his tone very matter of fact.

  “You could’ve left her side for an hour. I said I wouldn’t leave her side while you took a much needed shower.”

  “I might smell, but you’re the idiot risking his fucking life coming out of hiding like you have.” Logan rolls his eyes and my jaw nigh on hits the floor. They’re bantering…maybe I’m high?

  “You fixed that, and maybe now’s not the time to discuss this.”

  Logan dismisses Atticus’s curt, tight-lipped reply with a shrug, pointing his thumb over his shoulder as he explains. “Numb-n
uts here seemed to think paying his debt was enough and the Russians would understand his girlfriend needed him. I just gave them something else to worry about. They had a rat problem. I simply enlightened them about the issue in exchange for calling it even with Atticus.” Logan winks at me, an easy air settles between them. It’s surreal. I mean, I’m glad Atticus is not going to be hunted down, but this is just weird. Logan continues, even the events he’s describing make much more sense than this inconceivable outcome, that he and Atticus are friends. “It took about forty minutes to find the source of the leak. That’s the thing with criminal organisations, they’re full of…fucking criminals.”

  “If you can’t trust a crook… Thanks again, Logan. I owe you.”

  “I’ll take this one here as payment.” Logan leans up to plant a possessive kiss on my forehead, nose, and lightly on my lips.

  “Yeah not gonna happen” Atticus’s tone is lightly taunting. He eases his way in front of Logan and does the same. I’m reeling. What the hell?

  “Miss Parker, good to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?” A dark haired, dark skinned kindly looking doctor enters the room, leading what looks to be a train of young student doctors who look paler than their white coats, a mix of terror and exhaustion rimming their collective wide-eyed expressions.

  “Like I’ve been hit by a ten wheeler.” I wince at the muscles moving in my tummy. Who knew they were connected to my mouth?

  “A fair analogy from what I understand, although survived an earthquake might be more apt.” He chuckles, and Logan lets out a disapproving low-level growl. “You are all very lucky to be alive.”

  “We barely got a scratch in comparison, doc.” Logan scoffs and makes only just enough room for the doctor to approach my side.

  “I wasn’t referring to you two gentlemen.” The doctor shakes his head at the notion, irritation testing the limits of his polite game face. “I meant the Miss Parker and the babies.”