Lovegame

by Tracy Wolff

  The first cracks start to show as he snaps, “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? With your Harvard education and your big Hollywood movie? Well fuck you, Ian. Fuck you.”

  Very deliberately, I yawn right in his face. And if I thought he was pissed before it’s nothing compared to the rage on his face now. Rule number one about my brother—he hates being ignored.

  His hands clench on the table and I can tell he’s thinking of taking a swing at me. Again, just like old times. But, again, I’m not a kid anymore. He doesn’t scare me the way he used to. I won’t let him have that much control over me.

  And so I don’t move, don’t flinch, don’t so much as breathe as I wait to see what he’s going to do. I almost want him to do it—being his little brother, if nothing else, taught me how to take a punch, physical or metaphorical—but it turns out he’s smarter than that now. Or he’s got more to lose. Because when the punch comes, it’s verbal, not physical.

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. Did you bang that blond bitch yet? The one who stars in that movie of yours?”

  My whole body tenses up, no matter how hard I work to stay loose. To stay blank. I can’t stand him talking about her, can’t stomach the idea of him even thinking about her. For the first time, it’s a struggle to keep my voice even when I answer him. “It doesn’t work that way. I’m just the guy who wrote the book.”

  He likes that. Likes how unimportant I am. Likes even more the thin thread of tension I can’t keep out of my voice.

  “That’s a shame, man. If that bitch was working on one of my books, I would have given it to her by now. Would have made her take it whether she wanted to or not.”

  “And we both know how well that worked out for you so far, don’t we?”

  “Don’t kid yourself. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

  “Whatever it takes to get you through the day, brother.”

  He really doesn’t like that.

  His eyes narrow and his fingers drum on the table. “What was her name again? Oh, yeah, that’s right.” He snaps his fingers, points at me. “Veronica Romero. Big Hollywood royalty. You hit that yet?”

  My jaw clenches despite myself and I force myself to relax. Force myself to let it go when all I really want to do is reach across the table and wipe the smug look off his face. Instead I just shrug, keep my voice low as I answer, “In what world would I have hit that?”

  He laughs. “Good point, good point. But you best get on that, son. Prime pussy like hers isn’t gonna wait around forever.”

  It takes a lot of restraint not to plow my fist into his filthy mouth. At this point, it’s only the knowledge that he’s expecting it—no, not just expecting, but hoping for it—that keeps me from breaking a couple of his teeth. “She’s not really my type.”

  He laughs, full and loud. “Now we both know that isn’t true, don’t we, bro? Tall blondes with long legs and good racks have been cranking your tractor since you were fourteen years old.”

  “Cranking my tractor?” I deliberately go a little heavy on the twang when I repeat him. “Who knew all it took to turn you into a redneck was fifteen years locked up in Texas?”

  He shrugs. “I’m adaptable. It’s part of that whole survival of the fittest thing.”

  “I’m pretty sure Darwin wasn’t referring to rapists and murderers when he proposed evolution.”

  “See, that’s your problem right there. You’ve always underestimated me. Because I’m pretty sure guys like me—guys like you—are exactly who he was referring to.”

  “I’m nothing like you.” It slips out before I can hold it back.

  “Oh, brother, you are exactly like me. It’s what freaks you out so much. What had you running to the FBI like the little pussy you were. Because you couldn’t handle what’s inside of you. Just like you can’t handle it now. But we both know that if you had your shot at little Miss Veronica Romero, you’d take it. You’d spread her out and fuck her like an animal, wouldn’t you?”

  My stomach pitches and rolls, but I hold it in and glance very deliberately at the clock on the wall. “We’ve got seven minutes left. Is this really why you wanted me to come?”

  “I can think of worse ways to pass seven minutes than thinking about that pretty little slit. It’s been a long time since I’ve been close to a woman. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly what you’d do to her.” He closes his eyes, leans back in his chair with a look on his face that’s half contemplative and half turned on. “First off, you’d mark up that creamy white skin or hers, wouldn’t you? Fuck yeah, you would. You’d bite her a little, leave a couple hickeys on her breasts, her throat. Then you’d tie her up tight just because you could. You’d leave bruises on her wrists, her ankles, just to see what they looked like. Just to show her—show you both—that you’re the one in control. Then you’d spread her out and spank that world famous ass, wouldn’t you? Then, when you couldn’t take it anymore, you’d fucking come all over her, come all over your fucking handiwork just because it gets you off.”

  He’s mad-dogging me now, staring into my eyes and waiting for me to flinch under the onslaught of his words. Waiting for me to give something away. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. He might have pinpoint accuracy when it comes to aiming the knife, but I refuse to let him see it.

  Eventually he gets bored of the staring contest, just like he did the silence. Or maybe he just finally deems it time to deliver his parting shot.

  “You know how I know? Because that’s exactly what I’d do to her.”

  Despite my best intentions, my hands clench into fists of their own volition. It’s just for a second, just until I can force myself to relax again, but the damage is done.

  “So you have fucked her,” Jason says with a cackle. “Of course you have. Same old Ian. Same old wolf in sheep’s clothing. Tell me, brother, does it ever get tiring pretending to be something you’re not? You may condemn me for being in here, but at least it’s honest, man. At least the world knows who I am. You?” He shakes his head. “They don’t have a fucking clue about you.”

  “There’s nothing for them to know,” I tell him mildly. “I’m just a law-abiding citizen, one who is leaving here in exactly three minutes. And I’m not coming back. So if you want something—”

  “You think I want something from you?” he demands, slamming his hands down on the table. “You think there’s anything you have that I want? That’s not how this works, little brother. That’s not how it’s ever worked between you and me.

  “You’re here because I asked you to come. You’re here, because I wanted you to be here. You write those books because of me. You went into the FBI because of me. You run away from who you really are because of me.” He leans closer now, so close that I can see the tiny broken blood vessels under his eyes. “How’s that feel, Ian? Knowing everything you are, everything you do, is just a reaction to who I am and what I’ve done?”

  His words roll over me like a tank, leaving me flattened. Leaving me even more battered, more broken, than I already am. But I’ll be damned if I let him see it. “Better than it feels for you, I bet. Better than being locked up in here while my little brother gets to lead the life that should have been mine. Fucking movie stars, making money hand over fist, doing whatever the hell he wants.” I fire the words at him, watch as they score one direct hit after another. “Yeah, I’m guessing my way feels a whole hell of a lot better than yours.”

  “Fuck you!” he shouts as he lunges across the table at me. “You pansy ass little bitch. Everything you’ve got, you’ve got because of me. You fucking owe me. You fucking owe me.”

  I stand up then, making sure to stay well within his reach so he knows that I’m not afraid of him. So that he knows that I don’t give a shit about his threats. “Maybe I do. But that just sucks more for you, brother. Because we both know you’re never going to be able to collect. You’re going to be in here for the rest of your sad, miserable little life and I’m going to be out there,
living the life you think you should have had. So which one of us is the pansy ass little bitch, now?”

  He goes for my throat, but the guard is there, yanking him down, ordering me to get out even as he slaps restraints on Jason.

  I go, with Jason’s curses raining down on my head and his words echoing through my soul.

  I keep it together long enough to collect my license and car key, and then I’m fumbling with the door and all but falling outside in my haste to get away.

  Once I’m outside, I bend over at the waist.

  Brace my hands on my knees.

  Suck in a few deep breaths of fresh, clean air…just because I can. Just because I’m not locked in a cage. Just because I’m not Jason.

  Fuck. Just fuck. I wanted to kill him for even saying Veronica’s name. Wanted to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until he couldn’t talk anymore. Until he couldn’t call her any more ugly names. Until he couldn’t imagine any more ugly things to do to her.

  I shut him down, but not soon enough. His words still swim in my head—every nasty, gleeful description of what he imagines I’d do to her. I hate that he’s right, hate that he knows me well enough to see what no one else can. Hate even more that there’s a side of me that so closely resembles him—the same side that did to Veronica all those things he said and more.

  Is it any wonder she kicked me out of her life? Any wonder she wants nothing to do with me? I might not be the monster my brother is, but I’m far from innocent.

  Nausea swims through me, but I force myself to stand up. Force myself to start the walk to the back of the parking lot where I left my car.

  I make it two rows before I’m bent double again. Only this time I’m dry heaving, my whole body revolting against what just happened. Against what he said and what I did.

  I don’t like to be cruel, but I was cruel to him.

  I don’t like to use my training against anyone, but I used it against him without compunction or impunity.

  He was right when he’d called it survival of the fittest because when I was in there, all I could think about was making sure that he didn’t break me. Making sure he didn’t tear down all the walls I’ve spent so long building and destroy me completely.

  So I used every weapon I had…and I broke him instead.

  I feel no pleasure at the realization, just like I feel no pleasure in what I did. I did it because it was necessary, because I had to protect myself against the poison he so determinedly spreads. But I didn’t like it.

  I’ll never like it, never revel in it. Not in the way he would—and does.

  And that’s when it hits me. That’s when I finally realize what I should have figured out a long time ago.

  I’m not like Jason. And I never will be.

  It’s a stunning realization for the guy who has spent his entire life running from his brother’s violent legacy. He wasn’t wrong when he said that so much of who I am, so much of what I’ve done, is because I didn’t want to be like him.

  I did study psychology because I wanted to understand who he is and why he’s made the choices he has. I did join the FBI because I saw a darkness in myself and wanted to make sure I’d never do what he did. I do write the books I do because I want to measure myself against diseased minds and know that I am winning the war I’ve been waging against myself for my entire adult life.

  But was it a war I even needed to fight? Or was it just an excuse to never let myself get close to anyone?

  Fuck. Just fuck.

  I hurt Veronica so badly, though it was never what I intended. Worse, I let her push me away instead of fighting for her because I was terrified of who I might be and what I might eventually do if we stayed together. She brings out so much in me—too much, I think sometimes. Walking away was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I did it because she asked me to and I thought it was the right thing to do. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was exactly the opposite of what she needs?

  Because in listening to her, in letting her push me away because I was afraid to hurt her any more, I left her all alone in the middle of hell. I tore down her walls, ripped her wide open, and then left her all alone to fend for herself because I was afraid I was too weak to give her what she needs without falling prey to my own darkness.

  I was so afraid of becoming the monster that Jason is that I became another monster all together. One who destroyed a woman because he was too weak to fight for her.

  Goddamn it. I really am the pansy ass little bitch that Jason called me. And Veronica deserves so much more.

  Chapter 32

  I open the small clutch my assistant pressed into my hand seconds before I climbed into the limo and pull out the small compact she always makes sure is inside. I open it up, then tilt it this way and that so I can check my hair, my makeup, my teeth. Then I angle it down a little so I can check the top of my dress, too, just to make sure all that styling tape my stylist used is doing its job and keeping my very daring bodice exactly where it belongs.

  So far, it seems to be doing the trick. I can only pray that it keeps it up. I show enough of myself in Belladonna. The last thing I want to do is end up popping out a boob on the red carpet and showing even more.

  My phone vibrates with a text and my heart leaps to my throat despite myself. It’s been six weeks since Ian walked out of my house—since I ordered him out—and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. He even turned down the invitation to the premiere tonight, citing a scheduling conflict—or so the publicists told me.

  Which is exactly how I want it, I remind myself as I very deliberately close my purse without checking the new message. I banished him from my life and that is exactly where he needs to stay.

  And then I take it back out and check anyway. Not for a message from Ian, obviously, but because of my mother.

  It turns out the text is from my stylist, reminding me to work the leg slit in my dress. Like I would forget.

  I text her back a wink, then close my eyes and rest my head against the cool leather of the seat. Suddenly I’m too exhausted to even hold my head up.

  I’ve been on the press junket for Belladonna for two straight weeks—it opens in the U.S. this Friday—and it’s been an absolute whirlwind. Made worse by my mother’s ongoing presence in a psychiatric hospital and everything that came before it.

  I visit her regularly, at least three times a week when I’m in town. But I can barely look at her when I go, can barely talk to her. How can I when everything that happened—everything she made happen—lays between us like so much rubble.

  Our relationship, which was always strained, is completely broken and I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to put it back together again. Or even if I want to put it back together.

  I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do and I’m not sure if I ever will again.

  The limo makes a right turn and then suddenly slows down to a crawl. That’s how I know we’ve arrived, even before I look out the window and see Grauman’s Chinese Theatre all lit up, a red carpet running from the sidewalk all the way to the front doors of the theater.

  There are crowds—massive amounts of crowds—and nearly two dozen imposing security guards ranged on either side of the carpet. Thank God. Premieres always bring out a few crazies, but I don’t even want to think about what this premiere—what this movie—has brought out of the woodwork.

  We inch forward slowly, which gives me a chance to really look at the crowd. It’s massive, maybe one of the biggest crowds I’ve ever seen at a premiere, and I should be excited. After all, it’s just more proof that this movie will be a success.

  But it’s hard to be excited when I look up and see the banners hanging from the two pillars on either side of the entrance—or the gigantic one hanging right above the doors. There were a variety of movie posters made for Belladonna, all taking a different tack. Some of them are really good, really original, so I don’t know why they chose to use the two that feature only me.

 
No, not me, I remind myself as we pull to a stop right in front of the red carpet. Her. There is a difference between us—a big difference—and I’m not going to let anything confuse that in my head again.

  I take a deep breath, shake off the melancholy that’s been dogging me ever since I woke up this morning. “Have a good evening, ma’am,” the driver tells me.

  He’s not my regular driver, just one of many hired by the studio to deliver the movie’s stars tonight. But he’s been more than nice and I smile and thank him before handing over a hundred dollar tip. I know I don’t have to do that—the studio covers everything—but the traffic around here has been horrific tonight. He more than deserves every penny.

  And then someone on the red carpet must get the nod from him because my door opens. I take a deep breath and then reach forward and take the proffered hand.

  Climbing out of a limo is an acquired talent and even thirty years in, I still take the offered help. Especially when my skirt is as long and my heels as high as the ones I’m wearing tonight.

  The crowd roars as they get their first sight of me, flashes exploding in front of my eyes from all directions. I’m momentarily blinded by all the lights, but I do my best not to show it. Instead, I smile all the more brightly as I strike a little pose and nod to fans and photographers whose shapes I can barely make out.

  Eventually the overpowering flashes die down a little and I start my walk up the red carpet, pausing every few seconds to speak to a reporter and take a picture. Each time I stop I make sure I’m flashing my leg—taking the best advantage possible of the thigh-high slit, just as my stylist instructed—and that my dress is being shown off to the best advantage. It’s another Atelier Versace creation in winter white and with its strategic side cutouts and largely see-through fabric, it just might be the most stunning couture dress I’ve ever seen, let alone worn.