The Revenge Games Duet

by Kat T. Masen

  He taps on a remote which slides the doors open onto a large patio. There’s a lap pool with a small Jacuzzi on one end, steam rising from it like a magical oasis. Even the pool is lit up, showcasing the deep blue water.

  The view is something else. The house overlooks the city, and all I can see is the horizon full of lights. It’s breathtaking. Different from the clear sky back home. I breathe out, watching the world outside this house until a warm breath catches my skin, causing me to stiffen.

  “It’s a big world out there.” His voice is soft, raspy, yet full of edge. “And I can tell it scares you.”

  Acting on defense, I’m quick to respond with my back to him. “Nothing scares me.”

  He turns me around, his hands gripping my shoulders with force. The grin on his face disturbs me—it’s not your average boy-next-door smile—it is sinister, the kind of smile that makes the Joker tap his heels in delight.

  “You’re awful at lying. Quit while you can.”

  I take his hands off me, sensitive to the closeness of his body near mine. I have to turn away from his stare, my gaze drifting around the room we walked through to distract my erratic heartbeat. The doors remain wide open, and I hadn’t noticed earlier, but the glass coffee table inside this larger living room is covered in bottles—beer, champagne, and others I’m not familiar with.

  “There’s a saying. Don’t judge a book by its cover. So what if I’m from a small town? Doesn’t make me any less a human than you are.”

  My arms fold pressing my breasts together to control this unknown tightness in my chest. This stare of his—persistent and killing me slowly—antagonizes me to the point that I push him away, scared of what might happen.

  I turn back around, watching my step down to the patio and keep my distance as I walk around the pool edge to clear my mind. Why am I here? My loneliness shouldn’t have dragged me here. I have a boyfriend back home and a best friend on call. Never mind that they aren’t actually present. A phone call could have cured that.

  “You’re quiet.” Wesley lays on the outdoor chair, leaning against the soft cushion with his arm draped casually across the back. From the man who so abruptly jumped into the back of the cab with this nervous energy, to calm and relaxed laying on a poolside chair, I can’t piece together the complicated puzzle known as Wesley Rich.

  “This isn’t like you.”

  I laugh quietly. “I don’t know why you think you know me. We’ve known each other for two minutes. I’ve had longer relationships with a box of cereal.”

  “Lucky box of cereal.” He snickers behind another bottle.

  “Sometimes…” I add, ignoring his comment, “… it’s nice just to think.”

  “I hate thinking.” He sits upright, not as relaxed as he was only moments ago. “That’s what gets me into trouble.”

  “Into trouble?”

  Now it’s his turn to laugh, throwing back the remains of his bottle and placing it on the ground, the glass clinging to the concrete. “Do you even know who I am?”

  I don’t. I’m standing in a stranger’s house, open to a massacre of things that can happen because I followed my curiosity. I want to go home, back to Alaska—my comfort zone. This isn’t me, now. This is Milana at fifteen. The girl who would skip school, hang out at boys’ homes and joy-ride to other towns to steal booze.

  “I should go home,” I stumble out, searching my purse for my phone, ready to call 911 in a state of panic. He could be a murderer. An ax-wielding murderer who will dump my body in the desert. The anxiety cripples me, my lungs short of breath. My hands shake while I attempt to unzip my purse, the zipper caught on a piece of fabric, which makes me panic even more as I attempt to jiggle it free.

  “Relax, will you?” he says with ease, his eyes following with a chilling gaze. “I’m not a murderer nor a rapist. Take a breath, I think you should have a drink and stop thinking so much.”

  There’s a large grill area with a glass fridge underneath the outdoor countertop. He removes a bottle of wine and two glasses, popping the cork and pouring it in. Reaching out to me, I willingly accept, drinking the wine so carelessly until my thoughts silence, and my skin tingles with delight.

  “I don’t usually drink so much.” I hiccup on cue, embarrassingly.

  He grins with amusement. “Tell me more.”

  “I mean, I can drink. I just don’t very often. I don’t know why I’m just… boring.”

  “Boring. Unusual way to describe yourself.”

  “Well, I am. Nothing excites me,” I continue rambling, helping myself to another glass. “You know when you read a book, and there’s that thrill of the chase… like those tornado chasers. Living on the edge ready to get swept away.”

  “You want to be swept away?”

  “I don’t know what I want.” I sit on the edge of the pool, removing my shoes and dipping my feet into the water, allowing the cold liquid to soothe my sore feet. Maybe it is the wine, or the panoramic views of the city that whisk my thoughts away, but right now, even in his presence, this state of serenity consumes me. My head begins to clear itself from the toxic thoughts and focuses on the deep and meaningful ones instead.

  “Life is complicated.”

  He sits beside me, placing the bottle between us. Unlike me, he doesn’t place his feet in the water, crossing his legs and resting back on his hands. That scent—his cologne—is fresh and lingers my way.

  Okay, he smells damn good.

  “A moment ago, you said you were boring. Which one is it?”

  “I’m boring. Life is complicated.”

  “You don’t know complicated until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.”

  My focus moves away from the current of the water, my gaze moving toward him. Just like me moments ago, he’s watching the water with a downcast expression.

  “I don’t know you,” I tell him, keeping my tone calm. “Who are you?”

  With the glass in hand, he drinks it fast, slamming it down before standing up and muttering, “It’s probably better you don’t. Let’s go inside. I hate being here.”

  It’s another mood shift, quick and abrupt. I can’t figure him out, or maybe I’m not meant to.

  He grabs my hand to lift me up, rushing me like we’re out of time. I carry my shoes, drying my feet against the warm tiles.

  “What music do you like?”

  “Uh… I don’t know. Whatever.”

  “Surely, you must have something you like.”

  “Barry Manilow.”

  I can hear him choke on his saliva. “Barry Manilow?”

  “Yep.” I enjoy teasing him, watching his brows turn in with confusion.

  He knows I’m playing, lifting his confused frown and replacing it with that insatiable grin. “Barry Manilow it is.”

  The remote in his hand controls the music, and after a few taps, the sound of Barry Manilow fills the room.

  “This reminds me of my mom.” I blink my eyes, holding back the tears, not wanting to break down in front of him. Until I left home, I hadn’t truly understood the power of music. A song can evoke so much emotion from a person purely because of memories.

  I’m taken back to a simple time with Mama outside potting her new flowers on the rusty old deck with her straw hat and garden gloves on. She sung to herself often, and at the time, I prayed she would stop because it distracted me when I was reading on the porch chair. Plus, I wasn’t a Barry Manilow fan and preferred the upbeat tunes of Hanson.

  And now, I would kill to be back in that moment.

  I’m quick to distract myself by staring at a photograph on the wall. It’s a bunch of men posed in front of a plane, Wesley included.

  “I’m sorry. How did she pass?”

  “She didn’t.” I swallow, keeping my sentence short. “She’s back home.”

  He nods his head, leaning on the wall beside me. His eyes examine my face, causing that rippling effect to grace my skin. I ignore him, desperate to distance myself away from this feeling. He does
something to me. I don’t know what it is. I’m scared of him, yet fearless at the same time. That makes no sense to me whatsoever.

  Nothing about tonight makes sense.

  “So many secrets… I hate secrets.” His tone is bitter, a sudden change from a moment ago.

  “I don’t have secrets. I told you I’m boring. Just a small-town girl making a living.”

  We play this game of cat and mouse. I pull away, he finds me once again. This is unlike anything I know. This is something Phoebe would do. Not me. I’m the rational one. Rational Milana would never go to a stranger’s house, let alone drink three glasses of wine while there.

  Yes, a third may have made its way into my hand.

  “A small-town girl inside my living room… how very dangerous.”

  He’s found me again, cornering me across the other side of the room. This time, he leaves nothing to chance, our bodies almost touching, making me very uncomfortable. I don’t want him to see me so vulnerable.

  But I cave.

  To this lust overcoming me.

  “For me…” I watch him, controlling my breathing. “Or you?”

  The tip of his finger graciously slides against my hand, rising slowly up my arm until he settles in the middle of my collarbone. I struggle to tame the thump of my heart and hide the way my body is reacting. His response hangs in suspense, and waiting patiently, only builds this wall of fire between us.

  “Stay with me,” he whispers against my ear.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You will.” He doesn’t say anything else, breathing softly into my hair. “You won’t leave. I know that much.”

  I hate the way he does that—makes me feel all these things I shouldn’t even be thinking. He just wants to get me into bed, and I’m not that type of girl. I have morals, respect for myself, and a man back home waiting for me.

  And then, it all falls apart.

  The old me.

  Gone, if only for tonight.

  I nod, raising my head to meet his lips, watching the depth of his gaze and trying to unravel his intentions. “I’ll stay.”

  Chapter Nine

  We have spoken for one hour straight about different bodily rashes.

  Emerson is adamant that the baby has chickenpox. Her husband, Logan, argues that it’s poison ivy. The poison ivy seems far-fetched, but nevertheless, images were sought after on Google, and my appetite dwindled to nothing after the horrendous pictures I saw.

  It’s my first time meeting Logan Carrington. He’s exactly how Emerson described him—stubborn, hot-headed, and gorgeous.

  He has an athletic build with well-defined muscles from what I can see. And the longer I sit across from him, the more he looks exactly like Lola. I can’t quite work it out, perhaps it’s the light eyes or the way their faces are contoured.

  Emerson and Logan have something unique about their relationship, something I haven’t seen before, like he knows what she’s thinking, or she pre-empts his next move when grabbing the last turkey sandwich. They constantly argue, laugh equally, and despite the occasional heated tension, I enjoy being in their company.

  I let out a yawn unexpectedly, covering my mouth and apologizing for my poor manners.

  “Late night?” Emerson grins while ripping a piece of lettuce out of her sandwich.

  “Just a tad over my bedtime.” I don’t want to appear rude or grouchy, offering a weak smile before pouring myself a much-needed coffee and adding a double dose of sugar, hoping for a rush.

  Logan begins to tell us about his trip to Brazil, what it’s like to coach a bunch of teenage boys and the pressure of mentoring them. Somewhere during the conversation, I zone out.

  Last night wasn’t what I’d expected.

  He didn’t touch me.

  Not a single time after the moment he asked me to stay.

  We sat in his den, watching a black-and-white movie play on the screen. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t sexual, it wasn’t anything.

  We had moments when we watched quietly, engrossed in the storyline. Moments when we spoke about the scene that had just finished or some random topic he would bring up, and somewhere during the night, I fell asleep on the brown leather sofa only to wake in the early morning covered by a blanket.

  Wesley was nowhere to be seen.

  His housekeeper woke me up, speaking her native Spanish. I couldn’t understand a word. It took me ten minutes to figure out she was offering me breakfast, and that’s only because she dragged me to the kitchen.

  Wesley didn’t leave a note, nothing to tell me why he left. I didn’t know what to feel.

  His company comforted me in ways I never imagined a stranger could. Then he goes and does something like this—abandonment.

  I’m left questioning what last night meant. But I give up when my brain begins to hurt, and conclude that I’m just convenient for him, and in the end, he simply lost interest.

  “Drink up, you need a caffeine hit if we’re going to get through these contracts.” Emerson creates a pile for me and opens the first page. “So, Wesley said nothing in the meeting?”

  “Not really. Jeff kind of spoke and Wesley just sat.”

  “How predictable,” Logan snarks.

  Emerson raises one eye at him, quick to ignore his childish comment and move on.

  “I thought he would sign it over.”

  “The business?” I’m confused by her question, and maybe the whole situation. “He mentioned nothing of the sort. I mean, he seemed distracted.”

  I said too much. I sensed it when Logan’s brows raised. Emerson looks disappointed. I’m not the type of person to pry, but I had managed to foolishly spend the night with a stranger. A man who held secrets that Emerson looked like she knew.

  This business arrangement of theirs makes no sense. She doesn’t want to work with him, and he seems uninterested.

  Logan taps his knuckles on the table, his fist curling into a tight ball driven by frustration and anger. “I don’t understand why you don’t just let go. We’ve got money.”

  “Because I built this from nothing. I can’t just give up…”

  His stare is anything but sympathetic. It’s cold and unforgiving. “It’s like you don’t want to let go.”

  “Logan,” she warns. “Not again. Please.”

  It’s like a car crash. You want to turn around because watching is painful, but at the same time you need to know if the victim pulls through. Logan drops the subject, and Emerson is quick to talk about something else.

  For the next thirty minutes, we go through the contracts, highlighting questions for Jeff. We talk until the baby wakes, and Emerson leaves the table to retrieve her. With Logan busy on his cell, I decide to check mine.

  There are a dozen messages from Phoebe in a state of panic that only Phoebe can find herself in.

  Phoebe: Talk me out of getting bangs

  Phoebe: Like right now…

  Phoebe: I think it will make my face look skinnier.

  Phoebe: Like Reese Witherspoon.

  Phoebe: I got bangs.

  Phoebe: Why didn’t you talk me out of this!

  Phoebe: I look like a ten-year-old boy.

  The messages went on and on, pictures of her new do attached. I laugh quietly, not arguing that the hairdresser did a poor number on her hair. I respond quickly, fielding through her regrets. In the middle of my best-friend duty where I begin to tell her it’ll grow back, a message appears from an unknown number.

  Unknown: Sorry I left. Not sure why I did.

  I stare at the few words. I’m unsure how he got my number or even how to respond. I look up at Logan. He’s busy typing something on his phone. It gives me a few moments to think about what to say. My gut tells me I should just cut ties now. Wesley has issues I should probably stay away from.

  Then my secret gut—the one underneath that gut—types faster than I can think.

  Me: I don’t even know how to respond.

  I hit send, instantly cringing at my ho
nesty and letting out a frustrated sigh.

  “Is everything okay?” Logan asks, lifting his eyes away from his screen, though he’s still typing.

  “Uh, yeah. Just did something I probably shouldn’t have. You know, stupid text.”

  He nods his head. “Boyfriend?”

  “Um… no. Boyfriend is back home.”

  Liam. How the concept seems so foreign.

  I need to stop now. This isn’t right. My head’s been all over the place, and Wesley fills this emptiness that has consumed me. None of this is right, and as long as I distance myself from Wesley as much as possible, last night will just be added to the list of regretful nights starring Milana Milenov and a bottle of wine.

  “Alaska, right? Emmy was telling me. You must think it’s crazy out here. I know I do.”

  Logan tells me about Emerson and him growing up back East. How simple their lives were and how family means everything to them. Emerson’s brother, Ashley, was Logan’s best friend. He was also a soccer player and the three of them being in the limelight was a far cry from their simple upbringing.

  He’s so proud of her, that much is obvious. When he speaks about her, his eyes lit up. The contours of his face change, and he speaks with adoration. Though, in her presence, he plays the ignorant card and purposely riles her up to goad some sort of reaction.

  “Sounds like she was the one all along.” I smile softly, admiring their love story.

  “Yeah.” He grins. “Just don’t tell her that. She gets a big head.”

  “I won’t, though, I’m sure she knows it. So, you guys have been together for how long?”

  He raises an eye, thinking for a moment before answering, “Almost two years.”

  “Oh, I somehow thought it was longer.”

  “Depends on what you consider together. She was with someone, but the circumstances were complicated. I’m sure you know all about it anyway. The whole world does.”

  My expression freezes on a smile, another moment where my lack of celebrity knowledge makes me look like a dumbass.