Wicked Games

by S. Massery

  “My dad,” I whisper.

  She exhales. “Yeah, I’ve got a fucked-up dad, too. He finally stopped letting me come visit. Now I just see my brother once a month.”

  “That’s…”

  “Depressing as shit? Yeah.” She forces a laugh. “But he passes on news of my dad, and I’ll take it. We do what we have to.”

  I nod. “Right.”

  I jump when another buzz rings through the room.

  “Inmates entering,” a guard calls.

  A door in the center of one wall slowly slides open on its own, and a guard walks through. He stops just shy of the door and takes a step to his left, admitting the inmates. Prisoners.

  Their uniforms are khaki, their last names stitched over a breast pocket. Some scary-looking dudes come through the door first, finding their visitors and making a beeline in their direction.

  The room breaks out into murmurs as greetings are made.

  I stare at the door, gripping the table like it’ll save me from getting sucked underwater.

  What if I don’t recognize him?

  An unnecessary thought.

  He walks through the door, and he appears exactly like I remember him, if a little more tired. Sandy-brown hair trimmed too short, a straight nose and full lips. He has the barest hint of scruff on his face.

  His eyes are dark, like mine, and they find me immediately.

  He pauses, the guard removing his handcuffs, and then he strides toward me. Shuffles, really, because there are thin chains around his ankles.

  “Margo,” he says with all the warmth in the world.

  Nothing could’ve prepared me for it.

  Tears fill my eyes, and I throw my arms around his shoulders. All my internal debating—to hug or not to hug, to smile or frown, to be happy or upset—flies out the window. Happy. Definitely happy.

  But also… not.

  “Hi, kiddo,” he whispers into my hair. His arms come around me more slowly, but once there, he locks on. “You’re so grown up.”

  God, it feels so good to hug him.

  We cling to each other until a guard barks at us to separate.

  I shakily withdraw, swiping at my cheeks.

  “Let’s sit,” he says. “God, it’s been a while.”

  I nod.

  “How have you been? Your case worker was allowed to tell me a little about your foster homes… and the trouble you had. Running away.” His eyebrows draw in. “I’ve never felt so fucking helpless.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “She made it pretty clear that you weren’t going to come see me.” Dad leans forward, into the table, and extends his hands. “You’re an adult now. I can’t even believe it.”

  I take them in my own. His are calloused. He’s thinner than I remember, too, but harder.

  “Angela doesn’t know I’m here.”

  He winces. “Who—”

  “My foster dad drove me,” I say quickly. “They… they’re going to petition to adopt.”

  He glances down at our hands, then back at my face. “How do you feel about that? Are they good people?”

  “They are, but—”

  “Then I’m assuming you’re just here to see if I’ll give up my rights.”

  He tries to pull away, but I hold fast.

  “I came here…” I clear my throat and almost chicken out. It’d be easy to say yes, that’s why I’m here. But it isn’t. “My memory is blocked. I remember being happy, and then they were taking you away in the park.”

  I don’t examine his expression.

  “Did you give the drugs to Mom? Is that what I saw that made everything blow up?”

  “What?” Confusion laces his tone. “Margo, what are you talking about?”

  I freeze. “A-Angela said you were arrested on drug charges. Trafficking or something. She said I wasn’t allowed to go to the trial…”

  “Bullshit,” Dad whispers. “She really told you that?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out the truth here, Dad.” I release his hands to wipe at my face again. “If that’s bullshit, then what happened?”

  He glances at the clock on the wall. “Listen. Angela lied—or she masked the truth. Whatever her reasoning, I didn’t get sent to prison for drugs.”

  “I tried to search it online,” I whisper. “And there was nothing. I couldn’t find anything about a trial.”

  “Because the Ashers wanted it hidden,” he bites out. “Lydia and her brother-in-law in particular. They wanted the Asher name to be pristine.”

  “But why?”

  He shakes his head. “You saw something you shouldn’t have. And you told me about it when your mother told you not to.” He pauses, like he’s waiting for me to magically remember.

  Sorry, Dad. This is all new information.

  I wish I could just freaking remember. “She—you—one of you locked me in my room. There was yelling. Your room was destroyed.”

  “We got into an argument,” he says. “It was heated.”

  I’d hate to see what a real fight looked like, if that was just a heated argument.

  I push that thought away. “Did you hurt her?”

  He’s miserable reliving this—it’s written all over his face—and I almost apologize.

  “I didn’t touch her,” he says. “But… I did hurt someone else.”

  “Can you just be straight with me?” I demand. “Why are you in here? I talked to your lawyer, but he didn’t give me anything—”

  “You talked to my—”

  “Five minutes!” a guard yells.

  His face is white, and he grabs my wrists. I suppress a yelp and stay perfectly still.

  “You went to Tobias? Alone?”

  “My friend went with me,” I mutter. “We were in the city looking at NYU.”

  His face softens for an instant. “We’ll discuss your college search the next time you come in,” he says quietly. And then he’s back to brisk. “He got me a deal. A shit one, if you ask me, but what choice did I have?”

  “What deal?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re going to come back, right?”

  Will I?

  He clearly has a story to tell, but it might take some tugging to follow a single thread through the tapestry.

  “Yes,” I say. “I promise. Now tell me what deal you took. Please.”

  He grimaces. “I was looking at a life sentence for murder.”

  My eyes go wide.

  “But the deal was voluntary manslaughter. Medium security prison. I have another five years before parole is even considered.”

  I’m pretty sure I’m in shock. I can’t move. Can’t think. Dad’s in prison for killing someone. That’s… that’s so not the image I had of him. I didn’t think he would be capable of it.

  “I didn’t do it,” he adds.

  “Then why on earth did you accept the deal?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Time’s up!”

  Inmates around us stand and hug or shake hands.

  Me? I’m locked in a staring contest with my father, trying to sort through the different emotions fluttering around inside my chest. I might throw up.

  He pulls me to my feet and wraps his arms around my back. His mouth at my ear, he whispers, “I was up against the Ashers’ top-notch lawyers, as well as a determined District Attorney. All I had was a shitty public defender who didn’t believe my story.”

  I hug him back, blinking. “Why were the Ashers against you?”

  He chuckles. It’s the most depressing sound I’ve ever heard, and it drills a hole straight through my chest. In one side and out the other.

  “Because according to them, I killed Ben.”

  Ben. Benjamin Asher.

  Caleb’s dad. Caleb’s dad is dead. All this time, Caleb didn’t mention it. He grimaced whenever I mentioned my dad, who he had loved up until… well, up until Dad allegedly killed his father.

  “Let’s move it, Wolfe.”

  Dad releases me and steps b
ack, searching my face. I nod at him, unable to do anything more. I don’t think I can speak without screaming. He and the rest of the inmates file back through the door, and it slowly slides back into place.

  He’s gone.

  All around me, visitors stand. Some stretch, others just go right for the door where a guard is waiting.

  I can’t move. My knees are locked. White spots flicker in front of my vision.

  “Hey, hey,” the woman from earlier says, coming over. She grasps my elbow. “You okay? First time visiting?”

  I nod.

  “Yeah, first time can be intense. It gets easier. Although you look like you saw a ghost.”

  I force myself to smile. “Yeah, it was intense. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  She hums. “Well, let me walk you out.”

  Through the door. Down the hall. Once we’re buzzed through the final door and back in the waiting area, I take a deep breath. My first one in a while.

  I grab my stuff from the locker and collect my ID from the guard at the counter. I can’t be in here anymore. Just visiting is suffocating… or maybe it’s the impact of new truth.

  He said he didn’t actually kill Caleb’s dad. But nevertheless, Mr. Asher is dead. Someone must’ve killed him, whether it was Dad and he’s trying to preserve himself, or…

  Or he was framed.

  But there would still have to be motive and opportunity for the District Attorney to even get Dad arrested in the first place, right? They would’ve had to have evidence pointing them toward my father.

  I storm outside, emotions all over the place. I don’t know whether to cry or go on a rampage. He killed Caleb’s dad. The why is unclear.

  He pled out, got a lighter sentence than murder.

  Voluntary manslaughter.

  It sounds so…

  “Margo, are you okay?” Robert meets me halfway across the parking lot.

  I fall into his arms and a sob erupts out of my chest before I can stop it.

  He hugs me tightly, one hand pressing against the back of my head. “Shh, honey, it’s okay.” His other hand rubs small circles on my back.

  I hugged Dad and it felt like home. I can’t help but think that moment will forever be tainted by bars on the windows and confessions whispered in my ear.

  Caleb knew I was going to come out of there as a different person. Did he know what my dad did? Why didn’t he tell me? And it begs another question: what else hasn’t he said?

  I realize I’m gripping the back of Robert’s shirt in my fists. Tears stream out. I can’t breathe over the lump in my throat. My whole face is on fire with embarrassment, shock. I slowly loosen my hold, but I don’t release Robert. I tuck my face against his chest and try to get a hold of myself.

  I need to talk to Caleb.

  He knows something—I know he does. This ties into the lawyer, his family, my family. He sure as hell knew his dad was dead—and that mine is doing time for his death—but he didn’t say anything.

  My mind can’t grip reality. I’m furious and sad and overwhelmed.

  “Breathe,” Robert reminds me. “It’s okay. What happened?”

  I take a shaky breath. When I lean away, I’m ashamed of the tearstains on his jacket. “I just…” I can’t tell the truth. “It was a lot.”

  He guides me to his car, tucking me into the passenger seat then circling around. I watch him pass the front of the hood, bundled against the cold. He climbs in and turns on the car, and we sit there for a moment until the air gets warm.

  It must’ve started snowing while I was inside. It falls thick and heavy now.

  “Let’s go home,” I suggest. “I could use a cup of hot chocolate.”

  “Len should be home by now,” Robert says. “Maybe a movie night?”

  I force myself to smile. “Sounds good.”

  He hands me a tissue, then pulls out onto the street. “You can talk about it if you want. Either to me or Len, Angela, your new therapist… There are a lot of options.”

  “I know,” I mumble. My gaze goes to my fingernails. I shredded them at some point, but I didn’t notice the full extent of the damage. There’s blood caked around the nail of my index finger.

  “I just wanted to say, without anyone else around—you know how Len gets, hovering—that I’m proud of you. You were so against seeing your father when we first met you. It’s only been a few months, but this willingness to open up—”

  I bite my lip, desperate not to cry again. “I want to stay with you. And thank you for taking the time to drive—”

  The SUV comes out of nowhere.

  It smashes into the front corner of our vehicle, sending us flying. Robert reaches over, his arm across my chest as we catapult off the road. In slow motion, we hit a ditch, and the nose of the car goes down. Momentum takes it from there.

  I close my eyes, bringing my hands up to protect my face.

  The car flips. Glass shatters.

  My head bangs against something, and the world flickers.

  Screeching fills my ears, then the sound of wind.

  And then, silence.

  Darkness.

  Pain comes a heartbeat later, lacerating through me. I gasp, revived, and stare at Robert. We hang upside down, suspended by our seat belts. His eyes are closed.

  Black spots form in front of my eyes.

  It’s hard to breathe.

  “Robert?” I moan. I try to reach over, but my arm isn’t working right.

  I unbuckle myself, reaching up with my working arm to lower myself to the floor—the ceiling of the car. Hot liquid pours down my face, and I give in to the wave of dizziness.

  Just one second, I order. Then get out.

  The longer I stay still, the harder it is to drag my eyes open.

  Rough hands grab at me, and I fight them for an instant.

  “Stop, I’m here to help,” a voice says. “It’s okay, Margo.”

  How do you know my name?

  I hesitate long enough for them to drag me out of the car. Their arm is wrapped around my chest, just below my breasts, and they manage to get me out through the window.

  “How did you find me?” I slur. “Robert—”

  “He’s okay. The ambulance will take him. Come on, up to your feet.” My savior hoists me up, but my legs won’t hold me. After a moment, they adjust their grip and half drag me, moving backwards. “You hit your head pretty good, huh?”

  The voice is familiar. Distant. Talking to me through a tunnel.

  “I can’t leave my dad—”

  A sharp inhale. Mine? Theirs?

  “Where did you come from?” I ask. My heels drag across the pavement.

  “You’re not hard to track down.”

  I get a foot under me. My eyes open enough to see that we’re across the intersection by now. Robert’s car is almost unrecognizable. “Wait. I need to help him.”

  We stop, and I’m lowered into a sitting position. I stare at the car. I just need to get back there. Make sure Robert gets out. Why didn’t they get him out?

  “I’m sorry, Margo,” the voice says. A boy. It’s familiar, but his identity is just out of my grasp.

  It occurs to me that I could look back and see who pulled me out of the car, but I just don’t care. I need to get back. It’s so cold, and my neck is so stiff. My whole body is locking up. The road tilts.

  “This is what has to happen,” he continues. Loose gravel crunches as he kneels behind me. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

  His hand wraps around my face. He covers my nose and mouth with a damp cloth.

  I stop breathing and jerk, trying to get away, but I’m no match.

  He holds me tightly, his forearm pressed against my ear and his hand bracing the top of my head. I can’t get away from him.

  Pain radiates down my spine.

  Finally, I have to give in.

  I have to breathe.

  Chemicals choke me. And a second later, I fall into nothingness.

  TO BE CONTINUED
…

  The story continues in Wicked Promises. Pre-order now!

  Also by S. Massery

  Fallen Royals Series (Dark High School Bully Romance)

  #1 Wicked Dreams

  #2 Wicked Games

  #3 Wicked Promises

  #4 Vicious Desire

  #5 Wild Fury

  #6 Cruel Abandon

  Broken Mercenaries Series (Romantic Suspense)

  Blood Sky

  Angel of Death

  Morning Star

  Something Special Series (Contemporary Romance)

  Something Special

  Something Sacred

  For more information, please visit my website,

  http://www.smassery.com/books

  Acknowledgments

  Reader, this one is for you. Your enthusiasm for Caleb and Margo has made my days so much brighter. This story was born out of a desire to explore the dark side (of life, of romance, of characters’ minds) and it evolved into so much more than that.

  There are a few more people who need some gratitude thrown at them:

  My first readers, cheerleaders, and friends, Rebecca and Kylie: thank you for your day-to-day encouragement. For making me want to write better twists and turns, just to get all-cap shouty texts.

  My author friends, Elle and Jo, for keeping me sane (most of the time).

  And finally, my parents, for still not reading this series. (LOL), and for cheering on all my successes in life. Seriously, more supportive parents probably don’t exist.

  About the Author

  S. Massery is a romance author of varying sub-genres. She lives in Western Massachusetts with her dog, Alice.

  Before adventuring into the world of writing, she went to college in Boston and held a wide variety of jobs—including working on a dude ranch in Wyoming (a personal highlight). She has a love affair with coffee and chocolate. When S. Massery isn’t writing, she can be found devouring books, playing outside with her dog, or trying to make people smile.

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