Wicked Little Games

by Dee Palmer

  “See, all you will need is here, and I can send out for more supplies.” I open several of the drawers next to the easel that is fully stocked with everything she could possibly need.

  “You think I’m going to paint while I’m here?” Her tone is just as incredulous as her expression.

  “You always found it a great outlet, and if you don’t trust yourself to express yourself with words, I don’t want you bottling anything up. I want—”

  She responds with a short sharp acrid laugh. “You think I will have trouble expressing myself, hmm?”

  “You did attempt, albeit unsuccessfully, the silent treatment in the car. I just thought this would help. You don’t have to paint. Really, it makes no difference to me.” I stop talking when she drops her bag heavily and strides past me to the easel. She opens the top drawer and picks out something, a pencil or maybe a pastel chalk. No, it’s too dark and squeaks against the paper, charcoal. She starts to sketch. A few quick sure strokes and then she drops the stick and rubs her hands down the front of her jeans. A stark middle finger is flipping me the bird from the pristine white drawing pad.

  “Cute. Not quite what I meant, but it’s a start.” I hold her gaze, and we have this highly charged standoff. The mix of emotions is cloudy at best, but I know, on my part at least, dark desire and lust is rapidly rising to dominate anything else that might be trying to claim my focus. ”I’ll be in my office, if you need me.” I turn, breaking the eye contact before I do something stupid. Just before the door seals shut, her softly spoken words slice me open and cleave straight to my heart.

  “That ship sailed five years ago.”

  She hasn’t left her room, and I know she must be starving by now. She declined any offer of dinner last night, left the sandwich I made, and ignored me completely when I made late night cocoa. Same with breakfast this morning. I cooked bacon, even though I never eat breakfast, but since the smell of fresh coffee did nothing to crack the seal on that door, I thought the aroma of sizzling bacon would do the trick, still nada. It’s getting close to lunchtime when I hear the soft padding footsteps nearing the kitchen. Tia appears fully dressed with her tatty leather satchel slung across the shoulder.

  “Going somewhere?” I arch my brow high.

  “Yes.” Her tone and expression are impassive.

  “Care to elaborate?” I coax with a wry smile.

  “No.”

  I snort a brief laugh in reply. “Then, in that case, request denied.” I dip my eyes back to my laptop, closing down the conversation. She huffs, and although I don’t look up, I can just imagine her hands flying to her hips in outrage at my dismissive response.

  “I didn’t request, asswipe; you’re not my jailer,” she snaps, and there is a definitive snarl-like quality to her tone.

  “That’s exactly what I am. Did you not read the papers you signed?” I scoff. Of course she didn’t. She was so angry at the time that this was the best and only offer on the table, she would’ve signed regardless.

  “This is effectively house arrest, Tia. The only concession is if I deem it important, and I’m with you. I have work to do, so request denied.” I don’t bother to meet her gaze, which I know will be shooting daggers right about now. Her voice is full of indignation and injustice when she replies.

  “I want to see Logan, and I’m hungry. I need to eat!”

  “I offered you breakfast.” I wave a dismissive hand toward the stone cold plate of food on the side.

  “I’m not eating anything you cook. It could be poisoned, for all I know.” I slap my laptop shut at her dramatics and the ludicrous suggestion.

  “It was a fucking bacon sandwich, Tia, and if I wanted you dead, trust me, you’d be dead,” I snap, and I instantly regret the severity of my tone. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t recoil like I thought she might. She is either really good at faking her genuine fear, or she isn’t the scared little girl she once was.

  “So I am in jail. The decor is just a little flashier.” Her hip drops, one hand resting in a tight fist, and she purses her lips.

  “It’s only a jail if you continue to behave like a brat.” My observation has her jaw dropping when she gasps.

  “Brat!”

  “Yes, brat, eat my damn food, and we’ll talk about visitation.”

  “Sounding more and more like a prison, Atticus.” Her rebuttal has lost the brattish tone, but her indignation is very much evident.

  “Just test me a little more, Tia, and I’ll chain you to the damn bed. Now eat!” I growl and push my half eaten tuna bagel toward her. She swings her satchel behind her and slides roughly onto the island stool opposite me. She snatches the bagel from the plate and scarfs down three large bites like a huge child. I stand and pour her a cup of tea. The china cup I bought for her has the word ‘princess’ printed in simple pale pink letters on the front, and when her eyes meet mine, they hold for a few precious seconds too long with shared recognition of something more.

  “Thank you.” The words float in the air like a white flag.

  “You’re very welcome.” We sit silently while she finishes the rest of the bagel and sips her tea. “Would you like me to make you another?” Her plate is clean, and I doubt so much has changed that she no longer enjoys her food.

  “No, thank you, but I would like to visit Logan.” She shakes her head at my offer, and my stomach rolls at her request. It wasn’t that I wasn’t expecting it; I just wasn’t expecting it so damn soon.

  “I have work to do. It can wait ” I take the plate and drop it in the sink. With the height of the drop, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. The noise is loud, though, and she jumps.

  “I left some of my stuff there,” she offers with a slight shrug.

  “Stuff?”

  “Tampons.” She holds my gaze, and, damn it, I look away.

  “Right, yes, of course. Wait, nice try. Can’t I just get those delivered?” She did that on purpose, and I have to credit the play.

  “Yeah. Look, Cass, this is hard for me, but it will be doubly hard for him, and I want to make sure he’s okay,” I can’t deny that I fucking hate that she cares like this. My shoulders tense, and I don’t know how I manage to give a civil answer when I feel the rage building inside.

  “Call him.”

  “He’s not picking up.” I can hear the genuine worry in her voice. Fuck.

  “Fine, but I can’t do this all the damn time, Tia. I have a business to run and a hundred million pounds to find.” I throw this in her face, and she doesn’t flinch; she never does. It’s the one thing that made me doubt the coincidence of her appearance and my money’s disappearance. Well, that, and the fact that I knew she was innocent five years ago.

  “I can go on my own. You don’t need to come.” She tries a placatory smile on for size, and it looks all wrong. At this precise moment, it’s a toss-up whether she hates me or this situation more. I don’t flatter myself that it’s the latter.

  “Actually, I do,” I state as a matter of fact, but I kill the smug expression before it pulls at the corner of my lips. After all, I’m thankful I have this kind of leverage over her, because I know I’m going to need every single favour banked if I’m to redress the balance of her affection. “So when you’re there, impress upon your ‘boyfriend’ the importance of picking up his fucking phone.” I make a point of air quoting the relationship, which I know is still very much up for clarification. “Because if you get tempted to visit unsupervised, there will be nothing I can do to keep that sweet arse of yours out of jail.”

  “I’ll tell him.” She gives a sharp nod. “Thank you, Atticus.”

  “I prefer when you call me Cass; you’re the only one who ever did.” My voice softens and her eyes flit to mine, locked for only a second before looking away.

  “Thank you, Cass.”

  “Don’t thank me just yet.” I stand and pull the chunky chain platinum collar from my back pocket. I drop one end and swing it from my clasped fingers.

  “What’s that
?” Her throat moves up and down with the effort of swallowing. My eyes follow the movement almost as closely as my cock, which twitches and swells with lust and longing. I clear my throat and my wayward mind.

  “Your tracking device.” I hold the actual part of the chain that carries the technology between my finger and thumb, the necklace part dangles on either side. The padlock clasp is possibly a little over the top, but I didn’t have a great deal of time to source what I wanted, and this is much better than the standard issue ankle tag. “I should’ve put it on you last night, but since you didn’t come out of your room, and you can’t leave this apartment until I scan your fingerprint, I concluded you weren’t a flight risk.” Her expression shifts from adorably confused to horrendously outraged.

  “That looks like a damn collar!” she yelps.

  “It is.” I fight the smile that is desperate to take control of my stoic features.

  “I thought the device was some big black thing you wore on your ankle?”

  “I thought this more suitable.” I take each end and move close enough to tentatively hold it in front of her face. Her eyes are like saucers.

  “I’m not a fucking dog, Cass!” She leans away but not far enough to stop me placing it around her neck.

  “I never thought you were. It’s a platinum chain, Tia. It will easily pass as a pretty choker, and only we need to know the truth.” I pause before I clarify its significance.

  “The truth?”

  “That it is, in fact, a collar, so you don’t forget what you are.” My voice drops, and I ache from my balls to that yearning in my chest.

  “A criminal?” Her voice waivers, and I shake my head, hold her gaze, and tell her the truth.

  “No. For the next twelve months, Tia, the collar means, once more, you are mine.” I secure the lock with a click that makes her jump. I slide my fingers under the cool metal and make sure there is sufficient space around her neck, that no skin is caught, and it’s perfectly comfortable.

  It looks good.

  I suppress the grin that threatens, because her eyes are on fire, and I fear one spark will light the powder keg between us and not in a good way.

  I’m in so much trouble.

  I might be fooling him with my cool and mostly hostile exterior, but I can feel the cracks in my resolute resolve beginning to widen. That damn snack he left for me last night nearly had me banging on his bedroom door to more than share my midnight feast of a stack of banana and sugar sandwiches, my favourite.

  I admitted to myself, in the wee hours, that I might not be entirely prepared. Who am I kidding? I’m in no way near prepared. Not for him being nice, being the Cass I remember. Even being in the same damn room, my body betrays me, and I know full well he’s acutely aware of every goosebump. I’m an idiot for thinking I had a handle on this, that I somehow I wouldn’t remember everything he once was to me, that this wouldn’t affect me, wouldn’t knock me sideways and then some.

  Truth is, I just don’t know how to deal with Cass still being the man I loved, my first love.

  I need some space to collect my wayward thoughts, together with some straight talking and maybe some not-so friendly advice to help me regain focus.

  And I need Logan to finish what he started.

  My head may be a mess, but my body is in a war zone, and it’s clouding my judgment.

  All night I tossed and turned, trying to separate what I feel from what I need to do. When I finally managed to close my eyes, all I could see was impossibly deep blue eyes staring into my soul, and when I woke up, all I could think about was Logan’s kiss and how I want more, much more.

  I know the right choice is to keep to the plan, but my body is on the ragged edge, and I’m afraid it’s going to leap arse first into the wrong direction. If I can’t trust me, there’s only one person I can trust to help me make the right choice. The dial tone is cut when the call connects, and I quickly speak first.

  “Ghost?”

  “What the fuck, Star? I’m hanging up, and don’t call me again unless it’s from the fucking burner phone. Did I not teach you anything, you dumb bitch?” Her soft southern American accent sounds brutally harsh, just in case I didn’t get that inference from her calling me a dumb bitch. The line goes dead, and I curse myself. She did teach me better, she taught me everything and more, and she is spot on about being dumb, but I’m desperate, too, another thing she will be mad about and will rightly tear me a new one next time we do speak. Desperation makes smart people do stupid things, and stupid things get smart people caught.

  Cass’s mood seems to darken the instant we cross the Blackfriars Bridge heading away from his home and toward Logan’s. I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to see him, but that brief aborted call earlier is the real reason I need to return today. The burner phone is in my room, hidden along with some other essential supplies that I now know I need. I can pick almost any lock there thanks to the excellent tutelage from Ghost, but biometric entry requires some special materials if I’m to get the access I need to Atticus’s office. It’s the whole reason I knew seeing him again was inevitable. I have everything I need in place, and I thought I was prepared for every curve, fork, or spanner. I just wasn’t prepared for him.

  The limousine pulls alongside the curb outside Logan’s house, and my hand is on the handle before the motion of the car has completely stopped.

  “Wait!” Cass calls as I swing the door wide. He grabs my jacket to stop me from disappearing. I hold my position half in and half out of the car, turning my head when he speaks. “How long are you going to be?”

  “Why? Would you like to come in?” I instantly regret my snide and snappy retort. That’s the last thing I want, and Logan would definitely throw a shit fit if I show up with Cass in tow.

  “You’re funny, and I’ll call your bluff one day, princess, so you can drop the attitude. I will be back in an hour, and I’m being generous.” His jaw ticks wildly with this concession.

  “An hour! Come on, that’s no time at all!” I huff out with obvious exasperation.

  “Exactly. Mine, remember?” He reaches his long fingers to flick the tiny padlock, which is surprisingly weighty when it thumps back against my throat.

  “Please, Cass, give me three hours. I have stuff to do. I didn’t realise I wouldn’t have easy access to my things, so I need to think a little more about what I will need. I don’t want to have to keep putting you out like this.” I soften my tone. If only my plea didn’t sound so disingenuous, he might buy the sentiment. His brow quirks high, and his full lips thin into a tight line, and I know that’s not the case. I hold my breath, because from that look, I will be lucky if he gives me five fucking minutes.

  “Two hours and not a minute more.” I exhale the held breath with a rush of air and a wide genuine smile.

  “Thank you.”

  “You will owe me for this, princess.” He tugs me back into the car, catching me off balance, and I brace my fall with one hand on his lean muscular thigh and the other on his shoulder. His breath is warm and minty, millimetres from my lips. The invisible hairs on his skin seem to tangle with my own, he’s so damn close. His piercing eyes bore into me. There is so much there in those swirling depths—history, longing, and lost love. My stomach drops fathoms into the deep, and I have to force myself to speak. It’s a raw whisper.

  “Really, Cass, what more can I give you that you haven’t taken already?”

  “Oh, I can think of one thing.” My mouth dries, and a million prickles kiss my skin with the drop in his voice and the incendiary glare in his eyes. Shit.

  “Two hours,” I choke out and push off of him. The heat between us crackles and dies at the break in contact as I hightail it out of his car. My feet hit the pavement, and I would be surprised if Bolt himself would’ve beaten me to Logan’s door. I’m so in over my head with the whole sexual tension thing. Why the fuck didn’t I factor this in to my plan? Oh, yes, because I’m a dumb bitch.

  There’s no sound in the house w
hen I enter the front door, and a quick look in the library and kitchen makes me think Logan is probably still asleep. Before he ‘found’ me in the basement, he was pretty much nocturnal, so I’m not surprised he has reverted to type, although it might just be a one-off. It has only been one day.

  It feels so much longer.

  I spring up the stairs two at a time on my tiptoes, taking care to avoid the creaks. I’m on the clock, and I need to speak to Ghost before I deal with Logan. His office is on the second floor but both our bedrooms are on the first, opposite ends of the long corridor and the floorboards could wake the dead with a poorly placed foot. I hate this feeling of uncertainty, and if anyone is going to put me straight, it’s her. I’ve never met anyone like her. Smart, brutally honest, and most likely a sociopath. She was my best friend for three years while we shared a cell, and if she was capable, I think she would say the same of me. She wouldn’t take a bullet or anything, because she lacks even a smidgen of empathy, but she ‘cares’ in a way that I appreciate. Educated, resourceful, and a brilliant mind for revenge.

  I click my bedroom door shut and press my ear to the solid oak to check I haven’t disturbed Logan. Satisfied, I drop to my knees and roll the rug back enough to expose the floorboards. Pushing one end of the only one that is slightly discoloured, I lift it free. There is a small steel security box with a padlock, not unlike the one I currently have around my neck. The key is hidden in the joist of the flooring, a small section I carved out which is invisible to anyone who doesn’t know it’s there. I prise the wood out and the key falls into my palm. The box contains my passport, some cash, a copy of the Will, some sentimental crap I couldn’t seem to throw away, and the burner phone.

  I sit with my back against the door because if, for whatever reason, I can’t hear footsteps, Logan is large enough that I will feel the vibrations. I do not need him to hear this conversation.

  This shit is complicated enough without that.