The Revenge Games Duet

by Kat T. Masen

  Wait, a piercing? My foot falls off the stool and onto the floor as I stumble forward only to be pulled upright by an unknown hand.

  “Jesus, can’t take you anywhere.”

  The shock slows me down until I turn slowly and connect the hand with the face.

  Are you kidding me? I don’t know what messed-up game the universe is playing, but I want out.

  Wesley is standing beside me, a smirk the size of Jupiter with that annoying stare that drives me insane. Yeah, I know what he’s thinking—here’s that dumb girl again who seems to manage to make a fool of herself every time I’m around.

  I blame my wedges since I haven’t worn them after my ill-fated trip down the stairwell back home. I’m certain they’re possessed, yet I wear them because they match my navy A-line dress and make my legs look slimmer.

  “I was distracted.” I clear my throat. “My brother is the drummer, and he has a piercing that wasn’t there this morning.”

  “Let me guess. You’re a nun who thinks piercings are acts of the devil?”

  “No…” I drag, annoyed at his presumption. “It’s just not like Flynn. Anyway, are you stalking me?”

  I don’t know where that came from, but his presence, so close, annoys the living daylights out of me. How can someone so attractive be so unattractive at the same time? He’s changed from wearing a suit, dressed in some light chinos and a dark denim shirt. It’s nothing like the bike gear he wore the other day, nor the suit earlier today, and for some reason, it strikes me as odd that one man can be so versatile.

  Okay, admit it for one second, he looks nice in his yuppie get-up.

  “Are you done staring now?”

  “I wasn’t staring.” I straighten my posture, crossing my legs in an attempt to act confident. “It would be rude to stare, and if I want to be rude, I won’t waste it on you.”

  His eyes flare with amusement. “Ouch, you must really hate me.”

  “Hate is such a strong word.”

  “Well, I can tell you don’t like me.”

  “Yet, you continue to stand here, blocking my view when the purpose of being here is to watch my brother.”

  Even in the dark, the contours of his face are defined—striking jaw in an upward pose, teasing me like we’re in the schoolyard.

  “Sorry,” he apologizes sarcastically. “I’m pretty sure this is a public place, but let me walk away from you because I’m here for another reason. Your clumsiness just happened to catch my attention… again.”

  I open my mouth to respond back, but it’s too late. He walks away in the opposite direction, suddenly crowded by a bunch of women who appear to be literally throwing themselves at him. They’re young girls who don’t even look of legal age and shouldn’t be in the bar. He doesn’t seem to care, lapping up the attention with his arms wrapped around two of the girls and easily ignoring my presence.

  I force myself to ignore him, finishing the gin and tonic and waiting for the set to start. The entire band is on stage, and with a short introduction, they open up with a remake of Help! by The Beatles, remade to sound like rock which appears to be a big hit with the crowd.

  Flynn is in his element. His talent to play music in beat with the band comes naturally to him. I wish Mama could see him now. She would be so proud of him, watching him perform and come out of his shell, something he struggled with back home. That piercing, though, I highly doubt she will be proud of that.

  The atmosphere is buzzing, people congregate in circles enjoying the time with friends. I have never felt so lonely. Aside from Flynn, who rarely spends time with me, I have no one here. Emerson is a great manager, but she isn’t exactly someone I hang out with or pour my guts out to. I miss Phoebe. She would have been drunk already, picked up several guys, and managed to climb onstage to play air guitar with the band.

  And then, there’s that longing just to feel wanted.

  Something I took for granted with Liam. Liam is a great boyfriend, but I guess over time like many relationships, we fell into the comfortable basket. It never bothered me at all, we would easily spend our time in the basement watching David Attenborough documentaries with a tub of popcorn between us. It was simple, yet comforting.

  This new life I have created in just two weeks is slowly growing on me. I enjoy the drive around Los Angeles, although traffic is a bitch. Visiting new places and talking to different walks of life if only for a few minutes, is fantastic and I love it. My neighborhood, while completely ghetto, is even growing on me a little.

  The loneliness is the only thing bringing me down.

  I stir the straw in my drink in circular motions trying to rid myself of these thoughts when a whiff of cologne strikes me. Trying not to seem obvious, I slowly peek at the arm beside me with the corner of my eye. It’s all muscle, nice and hard. Taking a deep breath, the part of me below that stirs, does nothing to cure my blues as if I could hook up with someone. One, Liam and I aren’t over. Two, this guy could be really unattractive. Three, I’m not that person. Sleeping with someone else is completely out of my comfort zone. I have been with one guy for four years. I might as well have been a nun. It’s like my past never existed.

  But I can flirt—harmless flirting.

  “Nice drink. Scotch?” I ask.

  The man stops drinking, holding his glass in mid-air, which gives me a chance to look at his face. A little older than what I like, but he has a mature face with slight wrinkles around his baby-blue eyes.

  “Bourbon.”

  I smile, unsure of where to go from here. “Nice.”

  He doesn’t say another word, glass in hand and walks away.

  Oh, that’s terrible.

  Damn! Is it really this hard?

  Maybe it’s not hard, I’m not exactly a supermodel with a banging body. I have gained weight over the past few months—stress eating as they call it. I’ve always had this complex about my looks—the fact that I look kind of Asian but also not is because of my mixed-race background. People often ask me about my ethnicity, confused by the almond-shaped eyes and scattered freckles across my nose coupled with my light hair that almost touches my waist.

  Alone at the bar with one failed flirting attempt, I’m so ready to call it a night.

  Just as I’m about to give up and say goodbye to Flynn, a cuter, younger guy walks to the bar, easing his body between myself and another lady, ordering a Corona. He smells nice like fresh waterfalls mixed with something manly.

  “You’ve been sitting on that drink most of the night.” His voice is husky, the kind of voice that would sound great on a sex hotline.

  “Not much of a drinker.” I grin. He’s cute—Ryan Gosling in The Notebook cute. “Here to support my brother.” I point toward the stage. Flynn is banging it out to a rendition of Eye of the Tiger.

  “He’s pretty awesome. He should play when the agents visit. I’m Mitch.” He extends his hand, and I shake it, trying to ignore Phoebe’s words about hands and sizes of genitalia.

  “Milana.”

  “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  A deep laugh erupts from my mouth and he appears confused at my sudden outburst.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just… this is weird.”

  He smiles, raising a brow, resting his elbow on the bar and drawing himself closer to me. “Explain?”

  “I don’t flirt if that’s what this is.”

  Oh my God, that sounds terrible. I should not be allowed to hang around people.

  “Sometimes flirting isn’t needed, not when you’re naturally beautiful, Milana.”

  I laugh again, this time clutching onto my belly. It moves up and down, beginning to ache. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? I’m sorry, it’s not funny. I mean you’re not funny. I’m seriously laughing at my stupidity here.” I bring the glass toward my lips, allowing the remains of the drink to burn my throat to ease my nerves. Mitch whistles for the bartender, ordering me another drink which I gracefully accept, not wanting to be rude.
>
  “Okay, maybe you’re right. Flirting isn’t your forte. Let’s start again.” He extends his hand, keeping his smile simple. “Hi, I’m Mitch.”

  “Hi, I’m Milana.”

  “Okay, no. Now you sound like you’re forcing it.”

  “Forcing what?”

  “The flirting. You batted your eyelashes.”

  I scrunch up my face, unsure if I did that but hadn’t been aware. “I suck.”

  “Maybe, a little.” He laughs, easing my worry. “I don’t know why. You’re gorgeous, and the thought of you not being taken already piques my curiosity.”

  I contemplate explaining my relationship with Liam but decide against it. This guy has no clue who I am or what baggage I carry. For all he knows, I could be part of a circus traveling through town as the starring trapeze act.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Ah, the good ol’ it’s complicated status.”

  “We’re not complicated, Liam is so far from complicated. My circumstances are complicated. I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

  He places his hand on my shoulder, it’s nice and eases my nerves. “It’s noisy in here. Why don’t we head out, someplace quieter?”

  I smile, agreeing, jumping off the stool and bumping bodies with Wesley.

  “Going somewhere?” he grunts, eyes wide.

  “Um… yes. And you’re in my way because?”

  Wesley continues to block my exit, staring Mitch down like he’s done something wrong. Am I missing something here? Only moments ago, Wesley was across the other side of the room surrounded by his posse of women.

  “I don’t think you should be leaving with a stranger.”

  I’m confused. It might be the gin and tonic, but I’m certain it isn’t. “Mitch is far from a stranger. We’ve attempted to flirt three times. We have a connection. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to continue my attempt at failing with this very nice man.”

  I push on his chest, ignoring this warm sensation that pumps my blood and travels to places that it shouldn’t have. It’s pure anger. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this level of anger with any human being before. Don’t confuse it with anything else.

  “Milana.” Wesley pulls me back into him, his deep stare locking into mine as I try to understand what’s happening. What he’s doing?

  “Hey, leave her alone!” Mitch steps in front, breaking Wesley’s grip from my arm and creating a barrier between us. “I know you. You’re that guy, the one from that show.”

  Wesley’s expression turns into rage like Mitch has offended him by recognizing him. What show? I’ve never seen Wesley before that day in the café. Is this another one of those moments where I have no clue who someone is?

  Then it clicks.

  Emerson was on a reality television show. This must be their connection.

  “You don’t fucking know me, okay?” Wesley spits, pushing past him and penetrating me once again with a death glare.

  “Mitch, can you give us a moment, please?” I ask softly, calming the tension that lingers around us.

  Mitch takes a step back, touching the small of my back. I grab Wesley’s hand and drag him past the crowd, ignoring his weight and reluctance to follow me. People are watching, curiosity on their faces and a few following us outside.

  The cool air graces my face, instantly bringing my body temperature down. I search the area around us and continue dragging him to a more secluded area in the doorway of a neighboring store that’s closed. It doesn’t stop the onlookers and cameras from flashing in the distance. Conscious of the unwanted attention, I raise my arm and cover my face to disguise myself.

  I want to tear him apart which is fueled by anger and confusion.

  “What the hell is your problem? What was that? You can’t just fight people and throw your fist around.”

  “You don’t even know the guy, and you leave with him!” His brows pull down together, agitated, his expression full of animosity. “I know you’re naïve but didn’t think you were that dumb.”

  His eyes are distracted for a moment, watching people walk past, a bunch of girls who giggle and call his name. That’s it. This, whatever this is, needs to stop.

  “Thanks for calling me dumb. You seem to have this knack for making me feel pathetic. Run off to your posse of girls, I can take care of myself.”

  I don’t give him a chance to respond, abandoning him and walking at a fast pace in the exact opposite direction with no clue where I’m heading. I hear him call my name, once, twice, but ignore him. When a cab drives past, I wave my hand repeatedly until it stops along the curb. I jump in, shutting the door behind me, letting out a breath of air and allowing my head to fall against the headrest before the tears escape, and my homesick-self begins its plea to head back home.

  Wind sweeps through the cab and the door swings open. The cab driver yells, and Wesley has jumped in the back with me.

  I straighten my posture, restraining my hands that want to push him out of the cab and onto the pavement.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I yell at him.

  He runs his hands through his hair and bites his lip with an irritable twitch. There’s this nervous energy about him like he isn’t thinking straight and is on edge. “I don’t know. You’re… annoying, frustrating, clumsy, and dress like you belong in a nunnery.”

  I stare down at my navy dress. His terrible words make me want to cry, but as stupid as that sounds I won’t give him that satisfaction. I will cry behind closed doors with a tub of ice cream and be that type of girl I swear I’ll never be because of a mean boy.

  “Well, you’re a conceited snob who’s probably riddled with diseases from all the hoochies hanging off you.”

  “You’re just…” He curls his fist into a ball, stumbling on his words.

  “What, Wesley?” I laugh out of nowhere. “You have no clue who I am. You don’t know me from a bar of soap. Whatever opinion you’re forming of me, go ahead. I honestly don’t care.”

  He raises his head and opens his mouth, my heart beating like a looming thunderstorm from the anger consuming me. I know his next words will be cruel and heartless, so I prepare myself, biting my lip and scrambling for the right words to use against him.

  Then I stop.

  I’m staring directly into the eyes of a man who hates me.

  I want to hate him back.

  But his stare changes, and it’s something I can’t figure out. It is still anger, and there’s a wild flare.

  He leans forward, my body pushing into the door as our lips touch. It lasts only seconds, him pulling away, leaving me shaky and confused. I’m deafened by the thumping of my heart, catching broken words as he directs the cab driver, giving him an address.

  My voice wavers, scared to ask the question. “Where are you taking me?”

  Silence. He says nothing, staring deeply at the front window, nostrils flaring with lips pursed so tight they’re almost stark white.

  “Wesley,” I push with desperation. “Answer me!”

  His head turns swiftly, angrily. “I’m taking you back to my place. Now shut up, you’ve done enough damage tonight.”

  I’m blown away by his disrespectful tone, his hurtful words, and equally confused at the same time of his need to kiss me. That strong, independent woman inside of me is sobbing at this unnecessary mess.

  I want to push him out the door.

  Or jump out myself.

  It’s now or never.

  Yet, that little devil, the one sitting on my shoulder with a heated pitchfork, wants answers.

  And the only way I can get that is to stay in this cab and follow his lead.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s just like stepping into a car museum.

  In front of the garage sit four cars. Three of them sporty and shiny, and the last one on the end, a black truck with large wheels and dark windows.

  There are two motorbikes on the side—some sort of racer bike with orange pinstripes parked next to a Harley David
son. It seems excessive and unnecessary to waste so much money on these possessions, but then I remember something that Liam once said to me. “A car to a man is like shoes to a woman, you can never have enough.”

  Liam would be in heaven.

  I’m overwhelmed with guilt. I shouldn’t be here in another man’s home. The same man who violently kissed me in the back of a cab without an explanation then remained silent during the next twenty minutes to his house.

  But I have this odd feeling.

  Maybe not a feeling but something unusual drawing me in.

  I follow Wesley’s lead, standing in front of the wide, clear glass door. The house is very modern perched in a secluded gated community. The lights turn themselves on, almost blinding me as we walk inside. My curiosity is piquing more than it should, my feet moving against the polished concrete floors, staring at the pictures hanging on the wall and furniture placed around the home.

  It’s simplistic. It screams ‘bachelor.’ He takes me inside what I assume is his living room. There’s not much to see—a white leather modular lounge with a shaggy black rug on the floor in front of it. There’re pictures on the wall, artwork that gives it a splash of color but far from that homey feel.

  I hadn’t realized that Wesley had left the room. “Wanna drink?”

  He opens a beer, consuming it within a beat, while handing me a bottle with his other hand.

  “Uh… no thanks.”

  He shrugs his shoulders and disappears again, leaving me alone in this big room. What the hell do I do? Take a seat? Stand here looking like an idiot? I’m not sure how to escape. I didn’t pay much attention on the drive over here with my mind all over the place. There’s no way I can tell what suburb I’m in, let alone his house number. The room spins slightly, the dizziness induced by the panic of being in a stranger’s home, becomes apparent.

  The smell of his cologne graces the room as he returns moments later, and suddenly, I manage to calm myself down.

  “Let’s go out back.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief, welcoming the fresh night air to ease my unsettled imagination. My wedges produce a clunky sound with every step, making me self-conscious as I follow him through the house and into another living area with glass doors surrounding it.