The Revenge Games Duet

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The Revenge Games Duet Page 48

by Kat T. Masen


  “You always do this. Smother me when I ask for space.”

  “You didn’t ask for space,” he reminds me, bitterly. “You said you can’t do this.”

  He is right. I gave up. Ran. Threw everything into the too-hard basket.

  If I love him, which I openly admit, why do I give up so easily?

  “I have no clue how to be in love. This is… overwhelming. I just want time to process. I have so much going on, and I don’t know what to do, what to say, everything is getting to me. Your life, in the spotlight, I don’t know how to cope.”

  “You have no clue how to be in love?” he repeats, a rough smile playing on his lips. “You love me. Yet, you said you wanted out…”

  “Yes.” I can’t look at him, but then, I listen to this crazy heart of mine playing a wicked game of chess, and realize it’s checkmate, baby. “Just like you’re in love with me.”

  The emotions, raw and exposed between us in the flesh, exert their power while we stand here in the same room, though what feels like miles apart.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? Could have saved me an expensive plane ticket and a possible violation of Canadian law.”

  He moves closer to me, leaning over the side of the bed and bending as his hand grazes my cheek. The surface of his skin, soft yet manly, is all I need. I close my eyes, at peace, basking in his touch and allowing myself to feel it rain all over me. How easily the simplest of gestures wash away the pain.

  “You want to process. Then process.”

  “You mean it?”

  “You love me.” He breathes with a weightless gaze. “That’s all there is to it. Process, be merry. I’ll be waiting back in the States.”

  With a slow burn, he bridges the gap between us, purposely hovering his lips above mine. I want to taste him on me. It feels like forever since we have been intimate.

  I smile, releasing a satisfied sigh. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. But you know, I came all the way over here, you tell me you love me, and I love you, I think it warrants that we make love… if that’s what love is.”

  I laugh, softly and tired. “It’s kinda that time of the month.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He hovers over me, using his arms for support. The veins in his neck bulge as he leans in, sucking my bottom lip achingly slow. My hands find their way to his cheeks, caressing his face and guiding his mouth onto mine each time he pulls away. That fluttering feeling inside my stomach amplifies with the hammering beats of my heart.

  “Okay, well, I don’t have it now.” My voice is muffled in between our heated kisses. “But I’m cramping, so it’s coming, and it would be kinda awkward if the hotel staff had to clean up a mess—”

  “Shhh… I don’t care.”

  “Wesley.”

  “Milana.”

  He slides his hands into my shirt, touching my nipples softly and causing me to melt between his touch. I crave him, I want all of him, and maybe this is what it feels like to be in love. This moment, forever, just the two of us. Nothing can break this.

  “I love you,” I whisper again, his eyes searching mine with a need for validation.

  “I know,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb along my lip. “It’s just us, okay. You and me.”

  “You promise?”

  He kisses me softly, replacing the sexual element with desire. “I promise.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The loud banging echoes down the stairwell.

  I assume it’s Mr. and Mrs. Hannigan’s lovemaking again, but am mistakenly wrong as the noise is coming from our apartment.

  Jiggling my keys in the door, I open it with a struggle—balancing my purse, mail, and dragging along my suitcase, my arms are like a dead weight from the heavy load.

  The first thing I see is Flynn, relaxed in his ripped, black jeans and favorite Futurama shirt, sitting behind a drumkit. The drums are shiny red and black, almost identical to the pictures he has pinned near his headboard. They’re an eyesore in our small and very compact living room.

  “Check it out, Milly!”

  He plays a beat, banging the sticks against the drum, adopting a wide grin. I recognize the beat, a Linkin Park song that was his favorite in middle school.

  My suitcase sits by the door, and with a bout of tiredness hitting me, I plonk myself on the couch, hugging a pillow, and listen to the rest of the song.

  It’s good to be home, or whatever this place is, familiar in a weird yet comforting way. It’s funny how the things that once annoyed us have become a normality, such as the damp smell coming from the bathroom, and the aromas of curry that seep through the small cracks in the window. The brown walls—once a depressing backdrop—relax my state of anxiousness. I’m glad to see Flynn. I miss him despite his moody ways.

  “Wow, bro. Nice kit. Looks expensive.”

  “Yeah, it was a gift.”

  “Who on earth would have bought you such an extravagant gift?”

  Flynn’s face gives it away. I sigh, caught between Flynn being happy and Wesley’s erratic behavior. Granted, he has money and easily flaunts it. I’m simply not used to such extravagance. But this isn’t my battle. In ways, Wesley knows not to throw lavish gifts at me. I think he learned how difficult I can be when he sent me to the store to purchase that dress for his mother’s event.

  “Are you mad?”

  “It’s not for me to be mad. I guess you’re friends or something. I’m tired… I think I’m just going to head to bed.”

  “Cool. By the way, Mama asked if you could call her. When you have time.”

  I wanted to tell Flynn about the voicemail Mama left me. But watching him, in his essence and in such a good headspace, I just can’t do it. I need to understand what it means, speak to the nurses and get their opinion on the matter. After my panic attack and Wesley’s brief visit, our two days were jam-packed with work, not allowing me a single moment to think about anything else. In ways, I welcome the distraction but know that I have to get to the bottom of this. Mama only has me, and without me taking care of her, there would be no one else.

  I decide to call her as soon as I get into my room. Best to talk before I get distracted by something.

  Upon opening my door, the scent of floral mixed with green nature-type smells hits my senses. The room is covered in bouquets. I quietly count the number, twenty to be exact. It’s a mixture of roses, all in different colors, though oddly no red. It’s like a beautiful rainbow sprinkled all over my room.

  I move closer, to the one next to my bedside table, and read the card resting inside it.

  I love you.

  I hold the card close to my heart, bringing a smile to my face. My thoughts on his lavish gifts are afterthoughts now. This makes me happy, I can’t deny that. Underneath it all, lay a sweet and beautiful man.

  A man who belongs to me, and a man who loves me in return.

  I automatically dial his number, my breath hitched as I wait excitedly to hear his voice on the other end. The sounds of his hello, velvety soft with a hint of cheekiness only confirms how much I miss him. With a small struggle, I hold back my girlish giggles.

  “They’re beautiful, every single bunch.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself, Rich. So, question. Why no red?”

  “I hate red roses. My mother loves them. Speaking of which, if you’re done processing, please join me for dinner tonight. Mother is turning the big six-oh and making her closest acquaintances join her.”

  “You’re not an acquaintance,” I scold him, gently. “I’m sure she wants her family there. Her one and only son.”

  “I have a sister, you know. She lives in… I think somewhere in the Midwest.”

  Another piece of information that he chose to withhold like it isn’t important. Family is always important.

  “What do you mean you have a sister, and she lives somewhere in the Midwest? How do you not know this information?”

 
“Because I don’t care.”

  “Wesley, stop…” I take a deep intact of breath. “Okay, so dinner. How formal are we talking? I’m really tired and jetlagged.”

  “Open your closet and see for yourself.”

  I jump up with a sudden burst of energy, opening the closet to a long, black dress hanging inside. It’s gorgeous, formal yet sexy at the same time. Draping neckline—may be too low—and a sheer skirt that trains along the floor.

  “I’ll pick you up at six?”

  “Sure, but I’m warning you, I may fall asleep and never wake up again.”

  Wesley laughs, telling me to grab some coffee because I won’t get any sleep tonight at his place. He misses me and gives me a long list of demands in the bedroom, all of which I agree to with enthusiasm.

  “Oh… before you go, I have some good news. Well, semi-good news.”

  “Does it involve you shaving your beard that can house a swarm of bees?”

  “You’re not a fan of my beard?” he questions, light-heartedly. “I’m going for the Hagrid look. A few more weeks, and I think I’ll get there.”

  “No.” I grin, half believing him. “You’re not growing that beard. It’s like me growing a full bush.”

  “What if I tell you I like full bushes?”

  “Then I will tell you you’re a freak and maybe need to find yourself some old European lady because that ain’t never happening with me.”

  “Fine.” I could hear him smiling over the phone. “So the news…”

  “Yes, your exciting news?”

  “Charlie has worked her magic. It looks like we’ll be able to sue the company that stole our designs. In fact, the publicity will be good.”

  “Oh wow! That is good news. Emerson hasn’t mentioned anything.”

  I can’t blame her. The last week had been crazy and my drama only added to that craziness.

  “Still early days, but it’s something,” he says, happily. “Okay, you need to get your ass ready because I’m coming for you soon.”

  I giggle, quick to point out the obvious. “I’m not into anal, but glad to know you’re coming regardless.”

  “Ha, ha,” he mocks. “I’m saying goodbye now.”

  As I hang up the phone, admiring the black dress, I battle my fatigue and power on by grabbing myself a double-shot coffee from the kitchen to keep me awake.

  Not wanting to miss another opportunity, I call Mama’s cell. Ring, after ring, unanswered. My heart sinks again, and with the time being a late Saturday afternoon, I try the main office. Delia, the receptionist, informs me that it’s only her, and the nurses are busy.

  Following my disappointment, I head to the bathroom to get ready for tonight, glad that my period is over after two short days, though the cramps, annoying as usual, linger. It doesn’t matter, I will spend tonight with Wesley. He has become my safety blanket, and tonight will be all about us.

  ***

  This was the second time we’ve visited his mother’s home, and the drive still intimidates me. The wealth that sits in real estate astounds me. A few weeks back, I read that these homes are worth millions of dollars. Granted, they are beautiful and nothing like the small shack we call our home back in Alaska. It’s a different world up here in the Hills.

  Wesley spends most of the limo ride teasing me with some notably-missed foreplay. I don’t object, grabbing his crotch several times and even suggesting a pit stop. I’m quite surprised when he gives me a lecture on patience, given he’s the most impatient person in the world.

  The car pulls into the property, driving toward the well-lit home. Gina stands at the door, waving hello in a posh white suit with her breasts protruding. They have to be Es or Fs, and, of course, they are fake.

  As we exit the car, Wesley pulls out a drag with a grunt of a hello. I don’t understand. He says we have to come here yet seems uninterested, almost as if the sight of his mother repulses him.

  “Wesley, darling. You came.”

  He scrapes his hair back, curling his fingers, irritated. “I said I would.”

  “And you brought your girlfriend.” Her smile fades, picking up again, obviously forced. “Milana, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I respond, uneasily.

  “Of course. Well, I guess it’s nice to see you. Wesley didn’t mention you coming.”

  “She’s my fucking girlfriend, of course, she’s coming, Mother.”

  In the space of ten minutes, Wesley’s attitude did a complete one-eighty. I place my hand on his arm, willingly calming his nervous anger. “Wesley, please.”

  With nothing but her usual plastic smile, she ushers us into the house, ignoring his rude response, making us join her in their formal living room for drinks.

  There are a few couples inside, none of whom are willingly come over to say hello. Therefore, I stick to our side and pretended to be interested in the artwork. Gina beckons the maid to pour us a drink.

  “Bourbon,” Wesley demands the same time I say, “Anything.”

  The maid serves our drinks, bringing them over with a weary expression. Wesley downs it all in one go, rudely demanding another. I’m not sure why I follow suit, regretting the burns that etch as I swallow. Wincing, I politely ask for another. Something tells me to prepare myself for a long and drama-filled night.

  Not wanting to forget, I reach out for a small box—a gift that Wesley chose for his mom. “From us. Happy Birthday.”

  Gina thanks us, aloof and without a gracious expression, she accepts the gift and opening it. When she sees the diamonds staring back at her, her face completely changes.

  Excitement and dancing eyes accompany her wide smile. I think back to what Emerson told me, agreeing with her opinion on Gina’s money-hungry persona.

  “Oh, Wesley, darling. They’re gorgeous. They match the necklace you gave me at Christmas.”

  He smiles, deviously. After she kisses his cheek, thanking him, she excuses herself to attend to other guests.

  “They’re beautiful earrings. You have nice taste.”

  He laughs. “I don’t have nice taste… her best friend does.”

  “What does that mean? Her best friend bought them?”

  “No, I stole them from her.”

  I drop his hand, pulse racing as my anger climbs. “What do you mean you stole them from her?”

  “It’s just this game we play. The sons, we steal our mother’s shit and re-gift it. They never know, of course, because they’re spoiled wives with their hoards of diamonds.”

  His hands wrap around my waist, pulling me into him and smothering me with his scent. My body stiffens, his usual charming ways aren’t working like they usually do. Perhaps, subconsciously, my view of him is tarnished at this moment. His mother, despite her greedy ways, is still his mother. I’m sure, beneath the plastic, she has feelings and a heart.

  “That’s awful,” I tell him. “And not remotely amusing.”

  “Oh stop. Don’t fucking ruin my night, okay?”

  Wesley removes his hands from my waist, playing with his collar that seems to be irritating him. I’m surprised he’s wearing a suit, though he draws the line at wearing a tie, his chest exposed slightly beneath his navy jacket.

  He sorts his itch out, grabbing my hand again, twitchy and unsettled.

  Carson steps into the living room, making a grand entrance. Shaking the hands of the men and kissing the cheeks of the wives. The creep makes my skin crawl. Moments later, he’s beside us, giving Wesley a strong man-shake and forcing me into a hug, lingering way too long.

  “Milana, I’m glad you could join us tonight. We didn’t get much of an opportunity to chat last time, but I’m hoping tonight is the night we can get to know each other.”

  I loathe him, slicked-back hair and a sleazy grin. I pray that Wesley notices, but he seems preoccupied with his cell, much to my annoyance.

  “Thank you for having us, Carson. Once again, your home is lovely.”

  I ignore his lingering gaze on my breasts, wishing I hadn�
�t worn such a provocative dress and forgetting about the last time I was here. He makes me uncomfortable, and I contemplate telling Wesley but fear his reaction.

  We make our way to the dining room and sit at the table. I’m squashed between a man who has awful breath and a woman whose perfume smells like toilet freshener. Wesley is sitting across from me, though barely making any eye contact. Again, on his cell, rudely typing and ignoring everyone at the table.

  Gina, however, loves attention. That much is evident. She tells stories, supposedly humorous, but firing a maid because she wore the wrong color doesn’t seem funny to me.

  She talks about her charities and random stories of women at her tennis club. Carson often interjects, laughs, and keeps the conversation flowing. Gina loves to talk about herself, rarely asking questions about anyone else, so I just sit and eat quietly, often smiling to show I care. It’s nothing like dinner with my family. The way these people speak to each other is cold and formal.

  Somewhere in between the main course and dessert, Wesley lifts his head away from his cell and shifts his gaze to me. Something doesn’t seem right. Aside from his fidgeting, rolling up his sleeves, only to roll them down again moments later, he’s clearing his throat often, wanting my attention yet when I turn his way, he quickly focuses back to his cell.

  Narrowing my eyes and tightening my grip on my fork, I divert my attention back to the conversation until I realize it’s about diamonds and of no interest to me.

  Before dessert is served, I excuse myself to the restroom, needing a moment alone to curb my anger toward Wesley and to text Mama. Tonight reiterated how much I love my family and am grateful for how she raised us in a house full of love.

  Me: Mama, I love you, and everything you’ve done for our family. I promise I will come home and visit, just like you said. Call you tomorrow xxx

  I wait a few minutes for a response but nothing, giving up and exiting the bathroom after washing my hands. I walk down the corridor, running into a maid and almost knocking over a pile of towels. Apologizing for my clumsy behavior, I take a sharp left, staring at the wrong door. Far out—this house is massive.

 

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