Wicked Little Games - Book 1 (Little Games Duet)

by Dee Palmer

  Heavy footsteps thump slowly down the stairs, the carpet only just dulling the sound but setting the tone of her imminent arrival. She has a face like thunder when she appears, her hair wild and looking like it is trying to get as far away from her and her foul mood as possible. I hold up my hands in surrender before she even opens her mouth. She narrows her eyes and scowls like it’s somehow my fault she’s an idiot. I told her she didn’t have to work, and she has an alternate income now, so there really is no reason to do these ridiculous shifts.

  “I made soup.” I blow on the spoon and take a final taste, perfect. My smile fades at her response.

  “I don’t have time.”

  “Yes, you do. I called you a taxi to give you a little more time, now sit.” My tone brooks no argument, and I point sharply at her seat. Her shoulders sag, and she instantly loses her irritation.

  “Oh, Logan, that’s so kind.” She slips into her seat, her eyes on mine.

  “I know.” Her face lights, and that smile is all kinds of infectious. I take the bowls from the warming oven, pour the soup, and top the fresh minestrone with some oversized, deep-fried croutons and do the same for mine. She pulls at the baguette on the table and takes a huge bite. Her cheeks swell as she struggles to contain her mouthful, her smile, and her thank you when I hand her the soup.

  “Don’t choke, I’ve ordered a taxi, not an ambulance,” I quip.

  “Funny.” She swallows and sticks her nose into the rising steam, and her tummy makes an audible and timely growl. “God, I’m so hungry. Did I actually eat any breakfast? I don’t remember.” She picks one of the croutons off the top and plops it in whole, puffing heavily when she realises it’s way too hot for that, her hand waving manically in front of her mouth.

  “So hot, so hot!”

  “Don’t, you’ll make me blush.” I bite back a grin, and she scoffs.

  “I’d pay to see that from the man who shamelessly struts round naked half the time.”

  “I’m not a fan of clothes. Nothing shameful about that.”

  “No, I guess. It just took a little getting used to.”

  “I’m wearing clothes now.” I sweep my hand down my body, which is clad in a black fitted t-shirt and dark jeans.

  “Yes, you are. Are you expecting company?” She holds my gaze, and I give a curt nod, but I’m not inclined to share the details. My plans changed, and it’s her damn fault. I ignore her inquisitive glare and answer her question from earlier.

  “You did eat some breakfast, I forced it down you before you passed out.”

  She hesitates but wisely chooses not to pry. “I thought that was a dream. Did you undress me too?” She arches a brow, and her lips purse into the cutest grin. Her cheeks start to colour, and my balls are instantly in fucking agony once more.

  “Yes, and it was complete torture, so don’t remind me.” I shift in my seat, and she drops her eyes, her tone no longer playful.

  “Don’t tease.”

  “I’m not,” I state with absolute honesty. She keeps her head down, and I let out a frustrated groan when she changes the subject. She powers on regardless.

  “I made a list of all the art supplies I’m going to treat myself to when the cash from my painting hits my account.”

  “Nice deflection there, T.” I tip my head to one side, raising a brow and holding her sheepish gaze. “I’d happily order on-line. I told you that.”

  “I want to pay my way, Logan. God, between you and Maria, you’d think I was destitute.”

  “Maria?” My spoon hovers just above the bowl.

  “My boss from work. She said I could help myself to the supplies in the store cupboard. She said no one would mind, probably not notice even.” She scoffs, and I drop my spoon with enough force to make her jump. Her eyes go wide with surprise.

  “Please tell me you’re not so fucking stupid as to risk stealing with only twelve months left on your probation!” I grit out, my rage building with the tension in my shoulders and my white-knuckle fists.

  “No! I’m not that fucking stupid!” she snaps back. She drops her spoon into her bowl and, placing both hands on the table, raises herself and pitches forward to meet my anger head-on. “Jeeze, a little fucking credit might be nice, Logan.”

  “Tia…” I reach over and cup the side of her face, the tenderness of my move disarming her anger and taking her completely by surprise. Her body reacts to my touch like I hoped it would. She leans into my palm and closes her eyes when I speak softly, the words catching in the back of my throat with their truth. “I can’t lose you. I won’t let you go back to jail.” She nods, and I pull my hand away, adding when she opens her eyes to look at me, “I believe I would hate that more than you, sweetheart.”

  “I doubt that.” She pulls her mouth into a soul-sad smile, and her eyes fill with tears.

  “No, you’re probably right.” I agree, and since we are on this subject, I need to understand what is really going on in that head of hers, because not for a second do I buy that her new career choice and location is a coincidence, or that it has anything to do with her contributing to the household coffers. “So tell me again, Tia, that you working for his company has nothing to do with revenge, and remember: you’re piss poor at lying.” She stiffens, her back straight like I’ve just inserted a four-foot pole up her backside.

  “You know a little faith would go a long way here, Logan.”

  “You have all my faith, T; you just have a shit tonne of my concern, too.” My tone is rising to match her irritation.

  “I know what I’m doing, Logan.” She stands and snatches up the bowl of soup. It’s her turn to be pissed at me for overstepping a line that, between us, keeps shifting. I stand and catch up to her at the doorway, my hand resting on the small of her back. My fingertips ache to touch her skin, and they fist in frustration into the loose material of her sweater, preventing her from moving forward.

  “I can’t lose you, Tia.” I repeat my words from earlier, and she lets out a heavy sigh.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” I stand flush to her back, her heat seeping across the damn material barriers between us. My other hand rests on her hip, and my fingers curl around her soft flesh. I pull her back against me, firmly fixing her body to mine.

  “Logan, I can’t. You don’t want someone like me, and I won’t risk us.” Her voice breaks, and her body starts to tremble. I can hear her heart beating; it’s so damn loud. I can feel her, like every nerve in her body is alive because of our connection. I drop my mouth to her neck, and she leans her head to let me get where I need to be, where she needs me.

  “Us together is the only good thing in my life, Tia. I have nothing if I don’t have us.” My breath washes over her silky pale skin, and I can see the blood pulsing through the vein in her neck. I place my lips over the pulse point, and she sucks in a sharp breath. She holds it for blissfully long seconds, and I’m momentarily filled with hope.

  “You’re my best friend, Logan,” she says, slowly letting out the breath she had been holding.

  “Bullshit, I’m your only friend, and this is more than that, and you know it.” I can’t hide the frustration in my voice, and this has nothing to do with sex. I hate that she won’t give us a chance, any chance. I know what’s holding her back; still, she has to feel this in her bones; I know I sure as hell do. “You have to trust me on this, Tia.”

  “Like you trust me to help you, you mean?” She twists out of my hold, and man, my hand just twitches to spank that obstinate arse.

  “Fuck, you’re stubborn.” My voice is a deep grumble, but I back off, for now.

  “Must’ve rubbed off then. Now let me go. I have to get ready for work.”

  “We’re not finished here, Tia,” I call after her as she scurries up the stairs.

  “We’re not started either,” she yells back. Fuck!

  The doorbell rings just as Tia comes down the stairs, ready to leave. She offers me a tentative smile I ca
n’t quite read. Her eyes have this crinkle in the corners from her smile, but they keep darting to the floor and then the door. I am about to press the automatic open when Tia beats me to it, pulling the front door wide. Jade and Lacy are standing on the porch, arms linked and looking like any man’s wet dream. Damn it! I flinch when Tia gasps.

  “Back so soon?” Tia smiles sweetly, but her jaw is so tense, she’s having to push the words through her clenched teeth. The girls enter, their wide eyes firing between me, Tia, and each other. Tia may have made herself clear where we stand, but I’m not done playing my hand, even if this is a particularly low blow.

  “I have blue balls from hell, Tia, and I blame you,” I bite back.

  “It’s okay, Logan, I blame me, too.” Her eyes fill with tears, and she steps past the girls too quickly for me to stop her. Fuck.

  I’d kick the door shut if I could get close enough, my anger coursing through me like a wildfire, burning my insides and needing an escape. I freeze at my own imaginary safe distance in the hall, nowhere near the door. I drag my hands through my hair, and from the bottom of my belly, let out a deep and frustrated howl. The echo of my torment bounces off the walls and up the stairwell.

  “You want us to do the same as yesterday, sweetie?” Jade ventures after I fall silent. The only sound is my ragged breathing and my teeth grinding. I fish a wad of notes from my back pocket and hand it over to Jade.

  “No, I want you to get the fuck out of my house.”

  I’m a mess by the time I get to work. My head is spinning, and my chest feels bruised from the inside. My heart hasn’t stopped thumping like a rabbit in the headlights since Logan kissed my neck the way he did. I can’t breathe when I think about it. I can still feel his touch like a brand on my skin. His firm, full lips were so soft and sensual, they were completely perfect. Sparks of electricity ignited and flashed across my skin from that single point of contact. All I could feel was him, in every fibre of my body, in every cell, in my soul. It was just him, and he knew it.

  I ran; I know I did, but I felt that everything changed with that kiss, and I’m terrified. It’s not like he hasn’t touched me before. He’s kissed my cheeks a million times, held me in his arms all night more often than I care to remember when I’ve awoken screaming from a nightmare.

  This was so very different.

  So tender, so intimate, so…raw.

  I panicked and gave him my standard brush-off, only this time, when I reached my room, I had the biggest smile on my face. My cheeks were burning from the stretch. I was floating. I felt the shift, and for the first time in forever I wanted to do something about it. I cursed that I had to work and right up to opening the front door, I was tempted to call in sick. Then reality hit me with a sucker punch in the shape of Logan’s evening entertainment. How the hell am I going to compete with that? I doubt I could open my legs without having a hideous spirit-crushing flashback.

  Logan doesn’t deserve that.

  Even if, for a split second, I thought all he deserved was a kick in the balls for being such an insensitive arsehole and inviting them over in the first place, especially after that kiss. Still, it didn’t even take a moment to realise why he did it. He’s lashing out, frustrated, and his attempt to get some sort of jealous reaction would’ve been spot on, if I hadn’t overheard the girls’ conversation earlier. He’s not actually fucking them. I don’t know why that means so much, when I have no rights over his sex life, but it does.

  This is such a fucked up mess for both of us. I need to sort my head out. We can’t go on like this. I just don’t know if I can give him what he wants. I don’t think he really has any idea what he’s letting himself in for.

  Does he really want to learn what the T in my name really stands for?

  I grab my bag from my locker, utterly exhausted and grateful that my shift is over. I stretch my neck out to one side, pain radiating all along my spine, and there’s tightness in every muscle. My whole body is crying out for a long, hot soak in a deep bubble-filled bath. I let out a heavy pleasant sigh, thankful at least, that I won’t have to work here for too much longer.

  I hate lying to Logan, and my feelings may be all over the place, but if anything, that just solidifies my decision to keep him in the dark as being the right one. I need to keep him safe, but I have to do this. I’m owed this payback. I swipe my security card and push the heavy glass door, only the lock doesn’t release. I swipe again, then rub the metallic strip of the card against my sweater when it doesn’t work on the third attempt. Sometimes the friction helps, although not today. I turn at the sound of multiple heavy footsteps rushing toward me.

  Security guards, lots of them.

  My forehead is numb from resting the heavy weight of my head directly on the cold metal table. There is fuck all else to look at in this clinically bare box room, and after hours of staring at the blank wall, my head just needed the support. I’m so fucking tired that I don’t move when I hear the door slide open or the hollow sound of solid footfalls echoing off the walls of the interrogation room. The Kruse security guards took me directly to the police officers waiting in the service yard. I was whisked away like a common criminal. I’m nothing of the sort.

  I can almost picture a toxic cloud accompanying the now familiar stench of the detective’s stale aftershave, which hangs so heavily in the air. It may even be a classy brand of scent for all I know, but it’s been contaminated beyond anything remotely pleasant by this man’s own noxious odour. I curse that I didn’t draw in a breath when I heard the door click, and now it’s too late. I lift my head and suck in a shallow breath through my mouth and prepare to answer the same damn questions in a slightly varied way for the umpteenth time. I’ve lost track of time, drifting in and out of sleep as I have; however, what I do know is, if they don’t charge me soon, they’ll have to let me go.

  Getting caught was always a possibility, and oddly, for my plan to work the way I hoped, a necessity even, but the timing here is not of my own making, and I’m mentally kicking my own stupid arse that, once again, I am being accused of something I didn’t do.

  Detective Doyle is in his late fifties, and he wears every hard year of his life in the deep lines on his pallid, pock-marked face. His dark beady eyes could be black for the lack of colour, but given his fair thinning hair are probably blue. He sports a sneer rather than a smile, with thin lips pulled into a tight straight line, which look to be sticking to his nicotine-stained teeth. His light grey suit is fraying at the cuffs, and his cheap shoes have been repaired on more than one occasion. I’m not judging the man for his cheap clothes and style or lack thereof. I’m judging him for being thoroughly unpleasant and a creepy arsehole.

  “So, Miss Parker, do you want to tell me why you stole from your employer?” His eyes drift from my file to my breasts and linger there. His lips curl with pleasure when I fold my arms across my chest.

  “I haven’t stolen anything,” I state, keeping my tone level, but I can’t hide how fucking bored I am. How many times do I have to answer the same question?

  “Really?” He lifts my bag, which he brought with him this time and pulls it from the floor, tipping the contents onto the table. Small items like my keys, chewing gum, lip balm, and the odd penny scatter and roll along the surface, falling over the edge. I don’t bother to try and catch anything. I am too busy staring at all the office stationery that doesn’t belong to me, two pads of drawing paper, some inks, boxes of marker pens, pencils, and an expensive looking fountain pen. I close my eyes. This is bad; this is really bad. Maria, fuck!

  “I didn’t take those.” I point to the items but I don’t pick them up. I don’t want to touch them.

  “No, we can see that.” Sarcasm drips from his ugly mouth, and his smile creeps from flat impassive to smug. My mind is racing. There is a knock on the mirrored glass behind me, and the detective scowls. He pushes back from the table, all his weight on the spindly metal legs of his chair, which screech their disapproval. The horrendous noise
causes a pain in my head akin to an ice pick between my eyes, and my ears feel as though they are actually bleeding. He does that every single time. Motherfucker.

  I try not to move when the door closes, even if I want to howl, scream, and get the fuck out of this room. This can’t be happening. I can’t go back to prison when I am so close to being free, totally free, safe and set up for life, getting back what is rightfully mine and making the son of a bitch and his family pay for a crime they did commit.

  The door opens, and this time the scent that fills the room is so different, it’s like I have been hit by a fucking freight train. Some smells are more powerful than photographs at conjuring up memories, freshly-cut grass after a thunderstorm, cooked spices wafting through open windows maybe, or in this instance, sunshine and whiskey drenches the small room, so much so I can’t seem to breathe. The only sound is the blood pumping in my ears. The air is frozen in my lungs, and it feels as if we are both transfixed in a vacuum, where it’s just us.

  My eyes fall on the most beautiful man I ever loved, the only man I ever loved. He hasn’t changed a bit. His eyes widen, and just for a moment, he looks like the little boy I grew up with. I get a high definition flashback recollection of pale cornflower blue eyes, filled with wonder and mischief. The crooked smile over perfect white teeth, dimples in his cheeks, that really only show when he smiles wide and wicked, and strands of ice-white hair flopping any which way. Not now, though. Today, his hair is cut and styled for serious business. The brief moment of lightness vanishes as quickly as it came, and his expression shifts to a blank canvas. Breathtakingly handsome, but with no emotion, and, if I hadn’t witnessed that change myself, I would question whether he recognises me at all. It’s obvious he does. I do have to wonder why a few pens and a pad of paper have brought the Acting President of the Kruse Corporation down to the police station.