Game Over (Whithall University Book 2)

by Lisa Helen Gray

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  CJ lied when he said he would be back in a few. The place is now closing, and people have already begun filing out.

  I begin to feel bad for how I’ve treated him today. I didn’t stop to consider how bored by all of this he would be. He must have been going out of his mind. I was being selfish with my own excitement. As soon as we’d leave one table, I’d be dragging him over to the next.

  I feel a little bad, like I’ve mistreated him or something.

  Today has been the best day of my life. I’ve never seen so many unicorn authors in one room before, and never authors this big. And all of it is because of CJ. He was the one who went above and beyond to get me the tickets—hell, the fact he even thought of something so personal amazes me. Not that he isn’t a compassionate person, but because most boyfriends would give you a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates and be done with it. Not something like this.

  I just hope he can forgive me for turning into a grizzly bear over books.

  Books are something I’m truly passionate about. People have favourite TV shows, movies, or hobbies; I have books. I have the joy and escape they give me. They inspire me to be a better person, to hold out for something special. They gave me hope when I thought I had none.

  And I know CJ will understand that. However, he still should have had my undivided attention today.

  He might have left me here, not wanting to associate with the crazy-eyed person any longer. I wouldn’t blame him, either. We were only on the third author when I snapped at him for putting the book in the trolley on its side. The pages were bending and it was ruining the book. In my world, that is a serious crime. It’s like people who put books on their shelves without the covers facing outward. It just shouldn’t happen.

  From there, I only got worse. If I wasn’t being territorial over my books, then I was acting like a girl who never got let out for a day in her life.

  The day has been awesome though. I just wish I’d thought to have brought more money with me because there was so much more I wanted to buy. In my race to get on the road here, I left my bankcard on my bed at home.

  One author had these cute little owl earrings, another had a bunch of beautiful dreamcatchers, and others had T-shirts, tote bags, and more cool stuff to buy.

  I wanted it all. Even if I never got to use it, they would be great mementos for my time here.

  My eyes search the almost empty hall once again, this time finding CJ walking toward me a few tables over. He’s carrying a big cardboard box with a few things overflowing from the top and is struggling to push my trolley.

  I giggle at the sight and take a quick photo before rushing over to help him.

  “What the hell is all this?” I ask, dropping my purchases down on the pile in the trolley. I don’t even know how we’re going to get this out to the car without something falling out. It makes me nauseous to think of one of my beauties getting ruined in the dreaded white stuff.

  “I got a little carried away,” he says sheepishly, before dropping the box down on the table. Luckily, the author has already packed up and left, otherwise we’d be using the floor like a lot of others are, and I don’t think my back could take it. I’d never be able to get back up again.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, leaning up on my tiptoes to see what’s in the box.

  He laughs, pushing me away a little with a sparkle in his eyes. “Well, when we first got here you completely missed the raffle table they had going on―”

  “What?” I ask, outraged I never saw it. I look around, my eyes not finding the table in question. I freaking love entering raffles. I can’t believe I never saw it.

  He laughs at my expense, putting the box down. “Anyhow, I went ahead and got a bunch of tickets. You won, which is what is in here,” he tells me, pointing at the box. “There’s three hampers with books and other stuff in it, a few signed books, a couple of amazon gift cards, and you won a purple HD Kindle Fire.”

  “No,” I breath, staring at him in awe. “Really?”

  He nods, then bursts out laughing when I jump into his arms, kissing him. He pulls back, grinning at me. “And I got you some things I noticed you eyeing earlier, when you didn’t think I was paying attention.”

  “What?” I breathe, too in shock to say anything else.

  He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but it is. I’ve been acting like a crazy bitch on speed all day. “I’ll show you when we get back. Oh, and we’re totally ordering room service. My feet can’t take another step at this point.”

  I smile at him, kissing him quickly before pulling away. “You are amazing, CJ. I love you so much. And I’m sorry for acting so crazy today.”

  He laughs again, kissing the tip of my nose. “Cupcake, I’ll take you any way I can get you; crazy and all. I’m just glad you’ve had a nice time.”

  “I’ve had the best,” I tell him sincerely. It’s been one day I’ll never forget, and I can’t wait to go over all my goodies when we get back, and post pictures on Facebook.

  Not being able to keep my hands or lips away, I press forward, deepening the kiss until we’re forced to pull away by the catcalls and whistles.

  “Come on, let’s get back and order room service.”

  I glance up at the huskiness in his voice that causes my stomach to tighten. His eyes are filled with desire, catching my breath.

  “I love you,” I tell him softly, my gaze never wavering.

  I love him so much it hurts. I love him when he drives me crazy, when he eats my sweets, and when he wakes me up too goddamn early. I love him fiercely, irrevocably. I love him more than my heart can take. But I’ll try, because I can’t imagine being in a world where I don’t.

  His gaze softens, and he brings his hands up to cup my cheeks. He kisses the tip of my nose, his lips spreading into a warm smile when he pulls back to look at me. “Not as much as I love you, Cupcake.”

  “I do.”

  “Impossible,” he breathes, before kissing me once more, taking my breath away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A chocked cry crawls its way up my throat when I hear a door in the near distance click shut. That sound can only mean one thing:

  He’s here and he’s close.

  Fat tear drops fall down my cheeks, splashing against my knees that are pressed against my chest.

  It still feels like I’m living in a nightmare. I’ve been pinching the inside of my arms, willing myself to wake up. But I can’t.

  It’s real, every single second of it.

  Sunday, I went for my morning run. My trainer, who is helping me prep for my marathon, demanded I train every morning. Most of the time I do track at our local sports club, but every Sunday morning, I like to go out, breathe in the fresh air.

  It started off as a normal day; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I had been running for twenty minutes when I reached the crossing where one path leads to the park and the other to the train station. That’s where I had been hit from behind.

  I woke up here.

  In Hell.

  I still don’t understand why I am here.

  I’ve asked the man who took me so many times why he wants me, what I did to deserve being stolen. I’ve begged him to free me, but he talks over me, like he doesn’t hear me speak.

  On the second day of waking up here―and I’m only guessing the days as I’m going by the one meal he brings me each day―I panicked, screaming and shouting for him to free me. He lost his patience, and before me, in a fit of rage, I met the demon nightmares are made of.

  He was a monster when he hit me, cutting my lip open in a deep gash. That day I was humiliated.

  Being scared out of my mind, not knowing what was going to happen to me, I soiled myself. I wept, begged, and fought for him to let me go home, but to no avail.

  I wanted my mum and dad.

  Instead, he stripped me of my running clothes, then put me in the shower to scrub me clean. My skin was red raw, parts still sensitive on my weak, frail body. I tried to do
everything I could to get away but was forced to endure it, tied up. I had no say, no argument, as he washed me, touching parts of my body he had no right to touch.

  He’s done this every day for twelve days.

  Twelve days of nothing but gut-wrenching fear.

  That first day I not only lost a part of my soul, but my dignity.

  Each day he would wake me up. I’d be groggy, having fought sleep, too scared he would come when I was at my most vulnerable. He’s everywhere; in my nightmares and reality.

  I’ve had no choice but to let him take me to the toilet, where he watches me, and then cleans me afterwards.

  The second time he comes in a day, he brings me food. He feeds me like I’m a baby, sitting down with me to watch television and act like we’re friends. All the while I cry, pleading with him to let me go.

  It’s what he is here to do now: bring me food and make me endure his company. At least, I think he is. Time… it’s long forgotten. Hours, minutes, seconds have passed, but I couldn’t tell you how many. I can only go by my guess.

  I know what I’m about to endure. He’ll ignore my cries, my demands to go home. He’ll shower me, brush my teeth, then dress me in another nightgown. All of them are the same: old-fashioned, but thankfully they cover me from head to toe. After, he will sit me down on a stool in front of a mirror and brush my hair, telling me how perfect I am and how much I belong to him.

  He may have touched me inappropriately, but none of it has been sexual. It doesn’t mean I don’t fear that one day that is what will happen. I do.

  I’ve been living in a constant state of fear since I woke up here and realised I had been kidnapped, torn away from my friends and family.

  He won’t even tell me if they’re okay.

  I wipe my cheeks once again, not wanting him to see me cry. Even a speck of dirt or tears and he will use it as an excuse to shower me.

  I’m weak. Twelve days of eating nothing but ham sandwiches and drinking little bits of water when he visits is all I’ve been allowed. I asked him to leave me water, but he yelled, telling me he already gives me water and I shouldn’t ask for more.

  I’ve lost any hope of being set free, but it doesn’t mean I’ll stop pleading. I’ve prayed he will begin to see that what he’s doing is wrong, that he will grow a conscience.

  No one is coming to get me.

  No one is going to save me.

  My last days on Earth will be spent tortured, broken and afraid. It’s inevitable. In the deepest part of my heart, I know death is how this will end.

  The chains on the second door, before the one leading to my cell, rattle. My breathing picks up, my body breaking out in a cold sweat. I rub the palm of my hands down the white nightgown, my eyes watching the door like a hawk.

  The key in the lock causes a whimper to escape. I’m terrified about being in his company for however long he decides to stay this time.

  Trembling, I sit up against the headboard, hugging my knees as tight to my chest as the chains around my wrists and ankles allow. I cringe as they chink against the bedposts they’re tied to. I wince at the sting where the rough metal has rubbed my skin raw.

  I jump when my door opens and he walks in, looking intimidating and scary. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have found anything harmful about him.

  But under the intelligence and knowledge he holds close, he is soulless. There is nothing but darkness when I look into his eyes, nothing but anger, hatred and rage. He seems calm and collected on the outside, but he’s not. He’s a ticking time bomb, and no matter what you try to do to defuse it, he will blow.

  “Please, I want to go home. I want my mum and dad,” I beg, my voice scratchy from lack of water. The tears I willed to stop begin to fall helplessly.

  He storms over to the TV and switches it on, before pacing in front of it.

  Instantly, I know something is wrong. A shiver runs along my spine.

  One, he isn’t carrying the tray of food he normally brings, and two, he hasn’t even looked at me, not once.

  “I’m good enough, dammit!” he yells, his voice filled with anger.

  The hairs on the back of my neck bristle, and I try to bury further into the headboard of the bed.

  He throws all his anger towards me when he turns, his eyes blood-red, his fists shaking violently by his side.

  “Why do you always moan?”

  “I want to go home,” I whisper. Something in the tone of his voice stops me from my usual pleading.

  “You’re just like her!”

  “Her?”

  He glares at me, stomping over to my bed. He pulls roughly at the cuffs, grabbing the small key to unlock me.

  “Why can’t you be her?”

  I know from the look in his eyes he’s not even hearing me. I don’t even think he is truly seeing me as he unlocks my feet.

  He hauls me roughly off the bed and my knees hit the floor. I cry out in pain, looking up at him with wide eyes, my heart pounding as dread seeps in like poison.

  This is it.

  He doesn’t bother to wait for me to get up. Instead, he drags me across the floor to the shower he must have had installed recently.

  I don’t know exactly where I am, if I’m in a warehouse, an old house, building or what have you. All I know is what I see. And that’s one room, no windows, a bed, a chest of drawers filled with nightgowns, and a dressing table with a mirror. The shower and toilet are right next to each other, the shower looking newer than everything else in the room, including the toilet that looks to be years old and never used or cleaned until I arrived.

  On the dressing table is one brush, one hand-held mirror, and a bobble.

  The only other furniture is in the corner, where the TV, two-seater sofa and coffee table are.

  I grab the leg of the bed, stopping him from taking me further. He pulls harder, but when I don’t budge, he turns, his anger directed at me. He looks through me, his expression thunderous as he kicks me in the ribs.

  “Move it, now! You need to be better. You need to be! I’m the one who cares.”

  “Let me go! I want to go home!” I scream, kicking his legs.

  He grunts, grabbing my hair, and had I not let go of the bed, a chunk would have surely been ripped out by the force of his pull.

  I scream. Even though my throat is raw, I scream for help, for my parents, for anyone to come save me. I pray and plead, but my prayers go unheard as he shoves me against the shower stall. My head smacks the tiled wall with a thud, and my vision blurs.

  Too weak and a little disorientated, I don’t fight when he pulls me up, turning the shower on with both of us under the cold spray.

  “Please, let me go. I’m not who you think I am. I’ve never even met you,” I cry, although he does remind me of a science teacher.

  “You aren’t her! I need her!” he yells, his fingers digging into my biceps.

  “Please, my name is Linda Cooper. I live with my parents, who I love and miss. Please, let me go.”

  He shakes his head, and when his eyes meet mine, I flinch, taking a small step back until my spine is against the tiles.

  His lips curls in a snarl as he takes a step forward, slamming his fists against the tiles on either side of my head.

  I cry out, my eyes closing in fear. “Please, don’t hurt me. Please. Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Cold fingers grab the hem of my dress, and in one swift movement, I’m standing naked in front of my captor.

  My eyes snap open as I try in vain to cover myself, more tears falling down my face and blurring my vision.

  “I’ve given you everything. Why can’t you be happy?” he screams in my face, spit splattering across me.

  “Please, I want to go home. I didn’t ask for this.”

  “You aren’t her. You were supposed to be her. You were supposed to be happy. But you’re not. You’re just a silly, ungrateful, whore. I need her.”

  A strangled sob tears from my throat as I bend a little
to cover myself. He moves closer, closer than he’s ever been, and cold dread swarms through me.

  “Please, don’t do this.”

  Is he going to rape me?

  My heart races, and as each horrendous thought passes through my mind, warmth trickles between my legs.

  I hear the disgusted hiss from his lips, and before I know what is happening, he’s slamming my shoulders back against the tiles, knocking the air out of me.

  “Why can’t you be thankful?”

  Nothing could have prepared me for the feel of fingers wrapping around my neck. My eyes bulge when I realise he isn’t doing this to scare me into submission.

  He’s going to kill me.

  I wheeze through the little air I have left, using my gaze to try and plead with him to let me go. “Please!”

  It only fuels his anger, tightening his grip on my neck. He lifts me off the cold, tiled floor, my legs dangling uselessly as I cling to the last bit of oxygen I have left inside me.

  My eyes close, and I picture my parents in my mind. I remember the morning I left for my run, saying goodbye to them and kissing them on the cheek. A lone tear falls from under my closed eyelid as I think of how I will never feel the warmth of their embrace again, never get to tell them how much I love them and how great they were as parents. I think about all the things we did together, as well as the things we will never get to experience.

  I think of my friends and family, the people I’ll never get to see again.

  And then nothing.

  Just darkness.

  Like the light that was once blazing inside me has been snuffed out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Damn flipping stairs.

  Damn exercise.

  I huff and puff, taking another step up. Whoever invented stairs needs to be held accountable for the people they’re trying to kill. Surely it has to be a crime.

  “Why, oh why, do we pay our building maintenance fees when they don’t bloody fix anything,” I growl, stopping at the bottom of another flight of stairs. The instant I look up, I want to give up. My legs are burning, my feet are already throbbing, and I’m wheezing like I smoke forty a day.