Three Players: The Game Series

by LP Lovell

  I shake my head as I dig my key from my purse and push it into the lock. It doesn't turn. My brow wrinkles as I twist the key again, but it doesn't turn. Sighing, I rest my head on the door and hear something inside—the low lull of voices. I place my palm to the door and press my ear to the wood. There's a man's voice. . .I knock. Within seconds, the door swings open and my body sinks, leaving me a weightless mess.

  "Saw. . .Sawyer?" My mind swirls with confusion and elation. He's come back home. And then I think of Maria, and my stomach knots.

  Sawyer's expression falls flat. He swipes his hand over his face like he always has when he's annoyed. "What are you doing here, Ella?" he asks.

  "What? I live here. What are you—"

  "Jesus Christ." He tosses his head back on a groan and scrubs over his jaw. I peek inside the apartment and notice the walls are beige, not serenity blue like I left them, and I see a woman—Maria—oh my god, Maria—peering around the corner of the kitchen wall. Sawyer steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him. He pulls his phone from the pocket of his slacks, presses a few buttons, then holds it to his ear. "Don't leave," he says, pointing a finger at me. "Yes," he speaks into the phone. "My name is Sawyer Levine, I made a call last night about a kidnapping pertaining to my fiancé."

  I swallow and slowly begin to back down the corridor, but Sawyer reaches out, his hand landing on my wrist like a snake striking prey. His eyes widen in warning, his nostrils flaring. "I have the suspect here," he says. "She came to my apartment."

  His apartment, what the. . .

  "Okay. Yes, yes. Thank you." He hangs up and stares at me, his jaw ticking as his grip on my arm grows tighter. "Honestly, Ella. You try to leave. I'll just snap your neck."

  "What is going on?"

  "What do you mean, what is going on. What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "I don't know what you're—" He moves his face inches from mine, his hold on my arm now so tight my fingers are throbbing.

  "You paid two men to kidnap Maria, scare the shit out of her, and then make her fuck you?"

  "I don't. . ." My pulse goes haywire. My head spins. Nothing makes sense. I glance at the door, 3B. That's my door, it even has the dent from when we moved the couch in. I look back at Sawyer, his face rippling with anger. "I. . ." But I can't finish that sentence because I don't know what to say.

  "I've tried to be understanding, Ella. I really have but you've gone too far this time."

  This time? "Sawyer, I haven't even spoken to you since you left."

  He tosses his head back on a laugh that fills the small corridor. "I feel sorry for you. I do. You're a fucking basket case." He inhales. "Where did you get the money to pay those pieces of trash, huh? Did you fuck them for it, you little whore?" His nostrils flare as he stares at me, and I fight back the tears. I'm disoriented and worried, scared of what Tobias and Preston will do. Terrified of what will happen to me. And then I get angry. Angry that Sawyer would want to take the apartment back. That he'd want to build his and Maria's life in the same place we were meant to build ours.

  "Why would you move back here?" I whisper.

  "I didn't, Ella. You're the one who left. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

  My brow wrinkles and I shake my head because this is insane. It is. I glance at the door, at Sawyer, at the clothes I'm wearing that Tobias and Preston bought me, and before I even realize what I'm doing, I scream. I scream loud and angry, thrashing my arms and kicking at Sawyer between the legs. He drops my hand and doubles over with a grunt, and I run down the hallway toward the stairs.

  "Come back here you fucking bitch," he shouts just as the door to the stairwell bangs against the wall. I clamor down the metal stairwell, my heart clanging against my ribs. I hear the door open and Sawyer start down after me. I reach street level and throw the door open, hurrying out onto the sidewalk and freezing the second I see the two police cars parked by the curb.

  Attempting to catch my breath, I slowly turn around and walk, as casually as I can, in the opposite direction of the squad cars. My insides are jittering with nerves. My skin soaked with sweat. I cringe when I hear the door bang against the brick exterior of the complex.

  "Ella, come back!" Sawyer shouts. "Officers, officers, she's right there."

  And I take off in a sprint, dashing through people window shopping, darting around bicycles. I hear the officers shouting at me. I see people staring and moving out of the way. I push myself harder, running as fast as I can, but soon enough, I feel someone grab onto me and slam me to the ground. The officer's heavy frame presses down on me and my cheek scrapes against the sidewalk. I feel him wiggle as I assume he reaches for his cuffs. "Resisting arrest. . ." he pants by my ear before I feel the cool metal of the handcuffs close around my wrist.

  3

  I've been booked, complete with a mugshot and fingerprints. The guard walks me to a cell at the front of the jail. I want to tell him I didn't do anything, but really, I don't even know if I believe that any longer. I don't know what to believe.

  We stop in front of a cell. A buzzer sounds and the motor to the glass door whirs as it slides open. "I'll be back with toiletries in a minute," he says before the door closes with a bang.

  I stand here, in my little gray and white striped suit, staring through the glass at the officer piddling away behind the desk. This isn't what jail looks like in the movies. There are no bars, just glass with wire mesh in the middle of the panes. The bunk bed is cold metal. The toilet stainless steel. No mirror and the cell reeks of piss and sweat. I sit on the little ledge built into the wall, hang my head, and cry. How did I get to this point in my life? I close my eyes and think about Sawyer, about the beige walls of that apartment that were once blue. Maria. Tobias. Preston. My head spins with a lost sense of reality, with the notion that maybe I actually am crazy.

  Hours go by, I think. I have no way to know what time it is. Another officer comes by and drops a Hungry Man meal off, still halfway frozen. I pace and cry, cry and pace, and then, the door slides open. "Ms. Taylor," an officer says. "Come with me."

  I follow him out of the cell, down a hallway, and to a back room where the uniforms are kept. He opens a locker and hands my belongings to me. "Get changed," he says, pointing to the restroom.

  "Wha—"

  "Someone posted bail for you."

  My brow wrinkles as I step into the bathroom and quickly peel the uniform off. Once I'm dressed, I'm taken back through the jail to the front area. The second I round the corner, I see Tobias Benton, his jaw ticking, green eyes swirling. He looks like an expensive piece of art with his designer suit and tan skin. He's so out of place in this dreary, filthy jail.

  "Mr. Benton posted your bail," the officer behind the counter says, typing over his keyboard. The printer hums. A piece of paper sucks into the feeder. "If you'll just sign here." He places the document on the counter, marking an 'x' by the signature line. "You'll have a court date of June 13th."

  Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I sign my name and have a flashback to three nights ago when I signed Tobias' contract. I slide the piece of paper across the counter and turn around, coming face to face with Tobias' freshly pressed shirt. "Come on, little lamb." He opens the door.

  People in the waiting room stare at us as we pass through. The second we step outside; he grabs me by the arm and leads me to the black car that always seems to be waiting for him. Only, this time, when I slide inside, Preston's not here.

  The door slams shut and the driver pulls off. All too quickly the inside of this car seems to shrink. Anger seeps from Tobias like a volcano releasing toxic fumes right before an eruption. I watch his fingers drum over the sleek, black material of his slacks. "Strike three, little lamb." He inches toward me and grabs my chin, tilting my head back. "Your little stunt just cost me one-million-dollars." He trails his nose along my throat, his hot breaths fanning over my skin. "I don't like losing unnecessary money."

  My breath hitches, my heart pounds so hard
I feel it in my temples. "How ever will you repay me, Ella?" he whispers, his teeth grazing my earlobe.

  "I..." And what do I say to that? I want to ask him why he came and got me, but part of me wishes to remain naïve and ignorant to his intentions. His warm hand slips down the front of my dress to my lap and he hitches my skirt up, sliding his hand over my panties.

  "Open your legs," he says. I have no choice really, what he wants, he gets, because no matter how terrible he may be, no matter how terrified I am of him, there is this primitive instinct that draws me to him. A moth to a flame. Isn't that the truth? It's what will likely kill us that seems to have the most lure, the most power over us. And I flit right to that flame, dancing around it's heat, begging for my wings to catch fire. I open my legs and his hand sinks between my thighs. "That's my sweet little lamb."

  I toss my head back on a groan when his thumb sweeps over my clit and presses down. "So wet, Ella, always so wet," he murmurs against the crook of my neck.

  I spread my legs wider, scooting my ass closer to the edge of the seat. I moan, I buck my hips, forcing his hand to fuck me harder. I grab his thick hair, threading it through my fingers when I tumble over that cliff into the oblivion of waves he coaxes from my body. And the very moment, I relax, soaking in the blissful heat that's seeping through my veins, he grabs my hair and fists it, shoving my face to his crotch.

  "You have three minutes to make me come if you want me to really save you." He unfastens his fly. "And I have the power to get you out of anything, Ella. Anything, even murder." He laughs. "The world is not as it seems, my little lamb. And it is up to you whether you want to be a pawn or a queen."

  His hard cock lays waiting, his hand still on the nape of my neck. Three minutes to be saved from things I'm most likely unaware I need saving from. I slowly trace my tongue over his length, around his head. He groans, tightening his fingers in my hair. I swallow him back, circling him, licking him, moving my fist up and down at just the right speed. "Fuck," he groans, shoving my mouth all the way over him. My eyes water and I fight the urge I have to pull away as his hips lift from the seat and he shoots hot come down my throat.

  "Oh, Ella," he says when he releases me.

  I sit up. Tobias' head is still thrown back against the leather seat, his eyes barely open. And I wonder, what is the point in all of this? What life do I really have left, one-million-dollars or not?

  4

  Tobias opens the door to the penthouse and I follow him down the hallway. My heart is racing, my hands trembling. Nothing is as it should be. I'm certain now that Tobias is the human form of the devil, that this little game of his—of theirs—runs deeper and more sinister than my feeble mind can possibly fathom. And I'm left spinning out of control, a ghost walking through what should be my life, but no longer is.

  Preston is standing in the living room with his defined arms folded over his chest. This has become my warped reality. These two heinous men are all I have right now, they are my twisted form of salvation.

  "Tell me, Ella. What are the rules?" Tobias says, his voice deep and gravelly. I swallow hard, suddenly consumed by panic.

  "Don't leave," I whisper, closing my eyes and dropping my chin to my chest. I'm ashamed, like a disobedient child being scolded, but why? Why do I care what they think?

  The warm brush of Tobias' fingers meets my jaw, and I flinch. "Never leave," he says, his warm, minty breath blowing across my face. This is dangerous, and yet, it feels impossibly safe. Why is that? I must be losing my mind. Maybe this is all just the delusions of a woman lost to insanity.

  Tobias shakes his head like a disappointed father. I glance at Preston and he's watching me, his expression unreadable, though the tension pouring from him makes me all too aware he's unhappy with my decision to run.

  "Why did you leave?" Preston asks, taking a step toward me. "Tell us why you left."

  I stare at the floor, debating on what the right thing to say is.

  "Ella. . ." Tobias whispers my name with a hiss as both he and Preston back me toward the wall, cornering me like a hunted animal. "Tell us what you’re afraid of, Ella?"

  And it's not what I'm afraid of, but who. "You. . .you didn't kill her." I barely breath the words. "I saw her."

  "Who?" Preston asks. My back hits the wall. Both men are inches from my face, their cheeks nearly pressed together. Tobias sweeps my hair behind my ear before placing his hand on the wall beside me, caging me in.

  "Maria."

  Tobias smirks. Preston smirks. "You wouldn't have believed otherwise, now would you?"

  I lean my head back and drag my fingers through my hair. I feel frayed, like I'm slowly breaking apart and sooner or later, I'm going to snap. "I don't understand this," I whisper.

  "Ah, but this is the game, sweet Ella," Preston says, trailing his fingers down the center of my chest.

  Tobias chuckles. "It's not for you to understand. All you have to worry about is playing along for four more days."

  Taking a deep breath, I slowly meet each of their gazes. "Play along." Four days. Four days that might very well ruin my life, that might drive me to the edge of what sanity I'm clinging to, and leave me questioning everything that I thought my life once was. And then what? I want to return to a form of reality, but what is that? As of this moment, Preston Lucas and Tobias Benton are the only reality I have, the only one I know, and this depraved game, it's not a game, it's my life. "I just don't. . . I don't understand this game. I don't understand what's happening."

  "We tried to explain that to you from the start," Tobias says, his thick fingers sweeping along my jaw.

  Preston moves his face directly in front of mine. "Where did you go when you left, Ella?"

  "It doesn't matter," I say, and immediately wish I hadn't.

  Tobias' eyes flash. His nostrils flare and he tilts his head to the side. He inches toward me and his eyes narrow as he grabs my chin, tilting my head back in a painful grasp. "You went home?"

  His grip tightens. "Yes, I went home," I whisper.

  Preston laughs. "You have no home."

  "Preston," Tobias scolds. "Careful to not upset her. . ."

  "She left, Tobias."

  "I'm well aware of that, but she's back. Our prodigal little lamb." His thumb skims along my lower lip. "And what was waiting for you at 'home'?"

  My gaze falls to the floor. Shame crawls over me. I am nobody and I have nothing, not even my pride. "Nothing," I respond, my voice flat and emotionless.

  "Nothing?" Preston sighs.

  "Then why did I come pick you up from the city jail? What did you do, Ella?" Tobias stares at me, his gaze tearing pieces from me I don't want anyone to see. I glance between the two men, wishing I could disappear, that I could go back to three days before this day and start over. Nothing makes sense. "Tell us everything," Tobias coos

  "Why, Ella, did you go to jail?" Preston asks. "Was it because of Sawyer?"

  The mere mention of his name has my mind falling to bits. Sawyer. Sawyer. Sawyer. "I. . ." I slowly creep along the wall and they follow suit. Inch by inch, step by step, they remain with me. Stalking me like the bleeding prey that I am.

  "I tell you what," Tobias says. "Five minutes. You have five minutes to ask us any question you want, as long as it does not pertain to the game. Seem fair?"

  "So we're still playing?" I ask.

  A smirk flickers over Preston's face. He grabs my arm and moves closer to me, his breath washing over my throat. "You have three strikes, you’re allowed four," he says, kissing my neck.

  I find myself closing my eyes, fighting the way Preston's warm lips feel against my neck. I stare at Tobias, at his eyes that seem to always study me and take me in. "Why was Sawyer in my apartment?" I ask him.

  "Your apartment, was he in your apartment?"

  I stop and think. I walked up to 312 Water Street, apartment 3B. "Yes. Everything had been moved. The walls repainted and Maria was there. She was there. Not dead, but there, in my apartment." I pause. My chest tigh
tens, my jaw tenses. "She is living my life."

  Preston kisses my jaw, my lips. "It's okay."

  Tobias moves in front of me, Preston lingering close to Tobias, his eyes trailing over his face. "The thing is, Ella," Tobias says before placing a tender kiss to my lips, "we know nothing about you."

  "Nothing about me, then how—"

  Tobias kisses me again, his tongue brushing against mine and silencing me as if on command. When he pulls away, he smiles. "All we know about anyone is what they upload to social media. To my company, Sixth Degrees."

  I study him, my mind doing circles. Tobias pulls his phone from his suit pocket, tapping and flicking over the screen. "Sawyer," he says. "Sawyer, Sawyer. . .Levine, ah yes, here our dear friend is." Tobias smiles before tapping a finger over his chin. "Well, he looks quite happy." He flips the phone around and hands it to me. There, on the screen, is a picture of Sawyer and Maria in the apartment that once was mine. I scroll back through the album, back to six months ago when we broke up. And, only a few days after he left me, is a picture of him and Maria with moving boxes in the background. The walls still serenity blue. The color I picked out. "But. . ." I trail off, flipping through picture after picture. "How. . ."

  Preston peers over Tobias' shoulder. "Look at your page, Ella. Maybe that will help jog your memory."

  And so, I do. I type in my name and pull up my profile. I go back six months. And nothing. A vague post here and there about a broken heart, but for the most part, to anyone who would have looked at this page, I seemed happy. Pictures of me smiling in Central Park. Pictures of wine bottles and dinners. But not one inside my apartment. . .

  "Still have questions?"

  "I just. . ." I hand Tobias his phone. "I don't understand. I was there. Three days ago, I got dressed to come on that interview with you. In that apartment."