Revenge Games (Revenge Games Duet Book 1)

by Sky Corgan

  I go to baseball practice on Thursday. Peter stands behind me in line to bat. He tries to talk to me, but I don't really want anything to do with him. Even though I've been trying to convince myself for days that this isn't his fault either—that he was just an innocent bystander who happened to be the target of a tenacious girl's affection—I can't help but be bias about the situation. At the end of the day, one of my friends hurt another one of my friends, and I can't just force myself to ignore it.

  After practice, Peter asks me if I want to go out for a drink, but I just want to get away from him. Once Willow starts getting over this, I'll feel more comfortable hanging around him. But until then, things will probably be tense.

  “Maybe some other time,” I tell him as I pitch my bat into the bed of my truck.

  “Are you alright?” He quirks an eyebrow at me.

  “Yeah. Why?” I walk around to the driver's side and pull the door open. Peter is parked beside me, so I really can't avoid him.

  “You seem grumpy. What's wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I huff, feeling resentment building at how clueless he is about the whole situation. I know that Willow would never say something to put him in his place, but I feel like this can't go unchecked, because if I don't say something now, he'll just hurt another girl in the future with his carelessness. “I'm lying.” I slam the door shut and turn to face him. “What in the hell were you thinking asking Becky out in front of Willow?”

  “What do you mean?” Peter looks genuinely confused.

  “Willow saw the two of you go out together.” I gesture in annoyance.

  He chuckles slightly, dropping his gaze to the pavement. “Ah, that.”

  I glare at him. “Yeah. That.”

  “Yeah.” Peter glances across the parking lot. “I thought it would be a good idea for her to see that I go out with all of my female friends.”

  “Are you and Becky even friends?” I knit my brow in suspicion.

  He smirks. “She'd like to be my friend. More than that.”

  I roll my eyes before going for the door handle again. “This is exactly why I told Willow not to go for you.”

  “Why?” He sounds surprised and curious.

  “Because you're a manwhore.” I step up into my truck and close the door.

  Peter taps on my window until I roll it down. I really don't want to deal with him anymore, but it's obvious that he doesn't want to let this go.

  “Is that really what you think of me?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply plainly. “Sometimes, I think you have no soul. You don't seem to realize or even care that you hurt people.”

  “Have I hurt you?”

  What an odd question.

  “No.”

  “Then what are you getting at?” Peter shifts his weight, seemingly offended by my assessment of him.

  I blow out an exasperated breath at the fact that I have to spell it out for him. “Willow hasn't left her house for anything but work since she saw the two of you together. All she does is cry and sulk.”

  My phone rings, interrupting a lecture that I wasn't nearly finished giving. I think about not even answering it, but when I look at the caller ID and see Willow's name, I spring into action.

  “Hello,” I say into the phone, glaring at Peter all the while.

  “I need you to come pick me up,” she mumbles, following it up with a hiccup. She sounds different than normal, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that she's drunk.

  “Where are you?”

  “I drank too much.” Another hiccup.

  “Yeah, I get that. But where are you?” I gesture for her to hurry up and spill the name of the bar, even though she can't see me.

  “It feels better this way...not feeling anything.”

  “What's wrong?” Peter asks finally.

  I cup the phone. “This is all your fault. It's Willow, and she's drunk and won't tell me where she's at.”

  “Hand me the phone.” He reaches out to take it. Reluctantly, I hand it over.

  Peter draws it up to his ear before speaking. “Miss Stroop, this is Mister Burgett. You need to tell me where you are so that Caleb can come pick you up.” His voice is all business, the voice he uses with his employees.

  There's silence for a moment. Then Peter's eyes go wide, and he pulls the phone away from his ear, giving it a queer look before handing it back to me.

  “What happened?” I ask. “Did she tell you where she is?”

  “Yes.” He glances to the side in thought. “She told me to come pick her up, and then she hung up on me. And she told me to come alone.”

  19

  Peter

  I pull up to the same bar where Caleb and Willow and I first had drinks together. I can't help but wonder if Willow picked this place on purpose, hoping that I'd show up.

  Caleb offered to come with me, but I feel like this is my fault, and I need to take responsibility for it. Lord knows I don't want to deal with this shit right now. This is just one of those things where you need to man up and face your mistakes.

  Caleb was right. It was dick of me to go out with Becky, but I thought it was the right move at the time. I thought that Willow would realize I wasn't interested and move on. I didn't think she'd sink into a deep depression over it.

  She called in sick the day after Becky and I went to dinner together, and I didn't think much of it. This past week, she's avoided me at work, and I knew she didn't look well, but I just figured it was part of the process of getting over me. All wounds heal with time, and this one should have been a scratch. It wasn't like we ever dated. I was just a crush who didn't reciprocate her feelings. There was never any deeper connection between us that should have caused her to act out like this.

  Oh well. She's obviously a sensitive girl. I suppose this can't be helped. Whatever the case, it's the situation right now, and I need to deal with it.

  When I walk inside, I find Willow slumped over the bar. There are two empty shot glasses sitting in front of her and a full beer. I'm surprised the bartender didn't cut her off. Or maybe he did, and that's why she called Caleb to come pick her up.

  “Miss Stroop,” I say her name. When she doesn't respond, I place my hand on her back and gently shake her to get her attention. It looks like she's passed out.

  She rouses with a groan, her head bobbing as she turns to look at me. For a moment, I don't think she recognizes me. But then her eyes widen, and she stands, practically falling against my chest.

  “What in the hell is wrong with you?” Her voice rises several octaves. It's not long before all eyes are on us, and I realize she's about to cause a scene.

  I take a wad of bills out of my pocket and toss them onto the bar to pay her tab before grabbing her by the hand and practically dragging her out of the building. She struggles all the while, but she's weak against me, half giving resistance, half stumbling uncontrollably towards me.

  As soon as we're outside and a good distance from the door, I let her go. Her face is all red fury as she glares at me with contempt.

  And then it happens.

  SLAP!

  My cheek stings and my mouth falls open in shock. She hit me. She actually hit me.

  “What was that for?” I touch the spot where her hand made contact.

  “You know exactly what that's for,” she seethes. “Asking Becky out when you know I can't stand that bitch. You knew I liked you. What insensitive jerk does something like that?”

  “That's no reason for you to hit me.” I drop my hand to my side, giving her a stern look.

  For a drunk girl, she's pretty quick. I don't see the second blow coming until it's too late. Again, I find myself holding my face, my cheek throbbing. Now I'm cowering away from her. It seems like only a matter of time before she goes completely wild on my ass. Maybe agreeing to come pick her up wasn't such a good idea after all.

  “Does it hurt?” Her tone is mocking.

  “Yes, it hurts.” I rub the sting out of my cheek.

>   “Well, not half as badly as you hurt me.” She stands up tall, and I lean away from her, expecting to get hit again.

  “I'm sorry,” I say genuinely.

  “You're sorry,” Willow snorts. “Do you really think that's good enough?” She sways a little, and for a moment I worry she might tip over. The energy seems to be leaving her. The anger deflates from her voice as she continues to speak. “Everything I've done is because I care about you. And you had the gall to tell Caleb that you feel nothing for me. Nothing at all.

  “Everything I've done since I moved here has been to make you happy...to make sure that you're okay. Doing things for you...it made me feel alive in a way that I never have before. I guess I should at least thank you for that. If nothing else, this little disaster made me feel things I've never been able to feel since I was fat. Excitement about seeing someone because I thought maybe...just maybe you had it in you to like me back. But I guess I was wrong. I guess I'm no better off than when I was fat.” She stares through me as if I'm not even there, her eyes glassy and distant. But then life springs into her expression again. “You're a fucking asshole."

  Willow swings at me again, but this time I see it coming. I jump back just in time to avoid the blow. The force that she put behind the slap makes her lose her balance, and she ends up falling.

  I sigh in relief that I avoided being slapped again, though I feel bad for letting her fall. Maybe I should have just taken the blow. She obviously feels like I deserve it, and maybe I do.

  I bend to help her up, but she pushes me away. Her body folds over as she begins sobbing, and I glance around, hoping that no one thinks I'm abusing her. Thankfully, the parking lot is blessedly empty of people besides the bouncer who has been standing at the door watching us in amusement this entire time.

  I'm not really sure what to do. Willow won't let me help her up, but we can't stay here all night. All I can do is stand there and watch until her tantrum finishes playing out.

  She cries for a few moments longer before her sobs turn to laughter. She sounds almost crazy, but I know it's just the alcohol making her say and do irrational things.

  “This must be funny to you,” Willow says. “Something that happens to you all the time. In the end, I was the joke. The joke was always on me.” She sniffles before her voice takes a serious turn. “I'd be lying if I said I didn't know I'd get hurt in the end. I set my sights too high. I knew you were out of my league from the moment I laid eyes on you. That someone like you would never want someone like me. Not when you can have prettier girls...like Becky.

  “It confirmed what I always knew. That it didn't matter how much weight I lost. I'd never be good enough.

  “It's not really your fault, though. I could have protected myself better. I've been rejected so many times in my life that I shouldn't even feel anything from it anymore. But somehow...I allowed myself to get hurt this time.”

  It sounds like she's going to start crying again. Her body jolts a few times, and then she slumps over onto her side.

  I rush to her aid, picking her up off of the pavement. Willow's eyes are closed in sleep. The fight has left her, and so has consciousness.

  I carry her to my car and put her in the passenger's seat. Then I drive her back to her apartment, thinking all the while about everything she said.

  Her words struck me in a way I never thought they could. I know it was just a bunch of drunk blabbering...but then again, it wasn't. It was what she actually thought—what she actually felt about me and herself. And it was sad. So sad and raw that it filled me with a level of remorse I haven't experienced in a long time.

  I glance over at her every once in a while, thinking of the person she is. The girl who likes sports, whose eyes light up when she's excited like nothing I've ever seen. It's as if every little bit of happiness in her life is a blessing. She takes nothing for granted.

  I think about the girl who brought me soup and medicine when she didn't have to. She probably nagged Caleb until he drove her over, because she so desperately wanted to show me that she cares.

  I think about the girl who is humble about her appearance. She compared herself to Becky, but girls like Becky are a dime a dozen. Willow is beautiful on both the outside and the inside, and she doesn't even know it. She doesn't act like she's better than everyone because she's attractive.

  She gives everything and expects nothing. She's sweet and kind and funny and passionate. And she was bold enough to speak her mind to me, even if it took liquid courage to do it. I can't help but admire that.

  As soon as I pull into the apartment complex parking lot, I call Caleb to ask which unit belongs to Willow. Then I carry her to the elevator and meet Caleb outside the door so that he can fish through her purse for her keys.

  “What happened?” he asks as he pushes the door open for me.

  “We just had a long conversation,” I tell him with a soft smirk. “Everything is okay now.”

  Caleb pulls down the covers, and I lay Willow on her bed, brushing stands of hair away from her face. He places a trashcan beside her bed, and we take our leave. As we walk out of her bedroom, I look back at the girl who has shaken the very foundation of what I thought I wanted.

  I've broken a lot of hearts in my time, but this one is special.

  20

  Willow

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  It sounds like a machine gun, and my head aches with every bullet. I open my eyes, and pain presses in against my temples. It takes me a moment to realize what the sound really is—to realize where I am and what's going on.

  I'm in my apartment. Somehow, I made it back here.

  I don't remember much of the night after I got the brilliant idea to tell Peter to come pick me up. Probably because I took two more shots after that to get up the courage to say what I needed to say. The actual conversation is slowly coming back to me in spurts, though I don't have much time to reflect on it because of the incessant knocking on the door.

  “I'm coming,” I groan as I pull myself out of bed, nearly tripping on the trash can at my feet. I'm not sure if I'm thankful or not that it's full of vomit, the weight of which keeps it from tipping over.

  Just the smell of my bedroom makes me wretch, and I end up detouring to the bathroom to throw up some more before I make it to the door.

  Caleb is standing on the other side, leaning against the door frame. His expression is full of concern as he looks at me. “Are you alright?”

  “Do I look alright?”

  “Do you have any hangover medicine?”

  “Hangover medicine?” I parrot. Is there such a thing?

  “Tylenol. Most pain killers would help.”

  I glance over at the cabinet where I keep my medicine. “I'm pretty sure that I do.”

  “Good. Take two. What about something with electrolytes?”

  “That, I do not have.” I think about my barren refrigerator.

  “I'll run to the store and get you some Gatorade.” He taps his fist against the door frame before pushing himself off of it.

  “Thanks.” I close the door and shuffle back to bed, feeling like I just want to die.

  I can't remember the last time I drank this much. Probably never. I certainly don't remember ever feeling this bad after drinking.

  I close my eyes and pray that the room will stop spinning, knowing that I'm going to be bedridden for most of the day. Man, did I ever screw things up by getting drunk last night. Not only did I yell at Peter, but I pretty much quit my job by no call/no showing today.

  I suppose that's for the best, though. I don't really want to face Peter again. Not after what I said—what I did. It's better if I just walk away with my tail tucked between my legs. Find somewhere else to work where I'm not chasing my boss. It will make things a lot less complicated.

  I'm almost asleep when I hear knocking on my door again. I glance at my phone to check the time. It's only been about ten minutes since Caleb left. Either he drove to the gas station like a bat out of hel
l, or he forgot something.

  I groan as I drag myself out of bed again, feeling a bit less grateful than I should. I know he's just trying to help, but part of me wishes he would just leave me alone and let me sleep and/or die.

  There's annoyance on the tip of my tongue as I open the door. I want to bark at Caleb, but the words evaporate in my mouth as I see Peter standing there in his place holding a bag. He's smiling at me, a hint of amusement in his expression.

  It takes me a moment to find my voice again. “What are you doing here?”

  He holds the bag up to me. “You took care of me when I was sick. I figured I'd return the favor.”

  “Aren't you supposed to be at work?” I quirk an eyebrow.

  “Have you forgotten that I'm the boss. I can come and go as I please. Besides, I figured you'd need food more than your co-workers would need me to micromanage them.” He slips past me to come inside, not even waiting for an invitation. I watch him in confusion and wonder as he places the bag on my kitchen island and starts unpacking its contents. “I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got you a little bit of everything.”

  He's not kidding. There are smaller bags inside of the large bag with labels from four different fast food restaurants. It's a bit excessive.

  “Thanks. You shouldn't have.” I hug myself, not really sure what else to say. The fact that he went out of his way to do this for me makes me feel extremely guilty for the way I acted last night. “I'm sorry for slapping you last night.” I scratch my arm, unable to look at him. I'm not even sure if I mean it or not, but it feels like it needs to be said. “It was out of line.”

  “It was a bit out of line.” Peter leans against the counter, looking at me. “But I'm kind of glad that you did, because I think it knocked some sense into me.”