by Esme Devlin
The Kiss Game
Esme Devlin
Contents
Playlist
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Also by Esme Devlin
About the Author
Playlist
Love the Way You Lie, Pt. 2
Rihanna (feat. Eminem)
Ocean Eyes
Billie Eilish
Uninvited
Freemasons (feat. Bailey Tzuke)
Black Velvet
Alannah Myles
When Doves Cry
Prince & The Revolution
Dov’e L’amore
Cher
Edge of Seventeen
Stevie Nicks
Epigraph
Life's too short for burning bridges. I learned that lesson when I was seven years old, and I tried my best to live with that as my motto.
But the thing with bridges is that they’re not people. Sure, I understand the likeness. You shouldn't burn the bridge because one day, you might find yourself needing to cross it.
But what if the bridge is broken? Dangerous? What if that pack of matches is right in front of you, tempting you? What if monsters lurk on the other side, and the only way to save yourself is to light that fucker up like a dying star, and wish upon it that you don't get burnt?
Ironic really, that the boy who taught me that lesson is the same one who has me doubting it now.
I lived every day like it was my last, while he wished upon his own dying star that it would be.
This is our story, that is our bridge, and the fire will come for the both of us.
Prologue
Ten Years Ago
Run.
Hide.
Those are the only words I think of as I tear through the woods, as fast as my legs can carry me.
I hate this game.
I don’t know why I always play it.
Oh, aye — we don’t get a choice.
I can hardly take five steps before I have to turn to avoid a big fat tree. There are rocks everywhere, boulders the size of tables and wee wet slippy ones that can easily trip you up.
But I keep going.
I don't want to get caught.
My lungs are on fire. My throat burns. My heart hammers in my chest.
Am I far enough away from the others?
My feet slow a little while I try to look for something I know. A rock, the river, the cliff’s edge?
Nothing.
There’s a tree at the side of me, big enough to block out a lot of the sunlight, but with branches low enough that you could easily climb it. I’d know that tree if I had seen it before. It’s a memorable tree.
I stop when the sinking feeling in my tummy becomes too much to ignore. What if I get lost? Mum will be angry if I’m not home by dark.
I’m not even supposed to be in these woods. Even Scott’s not allowed in these woods by himself.
That’s never stopped us before — but then we’ve never been caught before.
My eyes dart around. I’m in a clearing, and if someone comes, I’ll be found straight away. Trying to find somewhere to hide and spotting a bramble bush, I think there might be just enough room for me to crawl under it.
It’s dark, though, and what if there are spiders? Slugs?
A branch snaps some distance away and birds shoot up from the trees. I don’t waste anymore time thinking.
What’s a wee slug going to do to me anyway?
I scramble under the bush and lie down flat on my tummy, mouth covering my hand to quiet my breathing. It smells damp under here, wet and muddy.
Another snap of a branch.
Someone is close.
Thunder growls in the distance and I shift in the dirt, trying to get a look at the sky for the flash of lightning. You’re supposed to count, so you know how far away the storm is.
One elephant. Two elephants. Three elephants.
Did I miss it? It was a big one, the type that would have you excited if you were safe and warm and home.
But I’m not safe and warm and home.
I swallow down the lump in my throat while watching silently for any sign of movement.
Was that another branch snapping?
I can’t be sure.
I’m straining my eyes, trying to see past the twigs in front of me when two hands grip around my bare ankles. My heart stops. I think I scream.
The next thing I know I’m being dragged back out the other side of the bush.
I try to grab on to the plant, to stop whoever is pulling me but my palms burn from the movement and the little twigs just snap anyway.
I’m out.
Who ever has caught me doesn’t bother to flip me over. Now there’s a knee pressed into my back and my face is pushed down in the dirt.
The mud tastes exactly the way it smells and I try to wipe my tongue off between my lips.
“Kiss, slap, or torture?”
What?
I want to poke my head up, to see who is getting this so wrong, but he just pushes my head back down.
It should be cuddle? It’s kiss, cuddle, or torture.
When did the rules change?
“Who are you?” I ask.
The boy just laughs.
I try to buck my body and throw him off me but he barely moves. He must be one of the bigger ones.
“Who are you?” I try again, trying to keep my voice strong while avoiding swallowing any more muck.
“Your worst fuckin’ nightmare.”
Something in his voice worries me. His knee is digging right into my spine and it feels like my back is about to snap in half.
He’s hurting me.
Another rumble in the distance. This one is louder, and this time I see the flash of lightning.
The storm is going to hit soon.
“I don’t want to play anymore. Let me up.” I can hardly even get the words out, he’s crushing my chest.
He turns me over onto my back and I try to spit out the mud that’s in my mouth.
“Answer the question. Kiss, slap, or torture?”
Malachy Hunter. He is one of the bigger ones, probably the biggest in fact.
I would have chosen cuddle.
Not because I like him, but because I heard he uses burns on the arms for torture, the kind where you pull the skin in opposite directions.
I hate that.
“Slap.”
He lifts an eyebrow at me, like he’s not sure whether to believe it. “Really?”
“Get it over with.” I blow the hair up off my face, and with him sitting on me, my
chest feels empty now.
“Suit yourself,” he says, getting off me and pulling me up to my feet.
I look him up and down when he takes a step back. He’s a good bit taller than me. Messy black hair, mud on his face, and clothes that look far too fancy for a game of chase in the woods.
I don't really play with Malachy, because he's much older. He’s my brothers friend, not mine, and they would rather play hunt the cunt than the kiss game.
I like hunt the cunt even less than I like the kiss game.
Maybe that’s why the rules changed? A slap is more like hunt the cunt than a cuddle is.
We stand a little bit apart. I try to brace myself but it’s not like you can clench your face the way you would clench your tummy or something.
He pauses for so long I get nervous.
“Do it.”
He shrugs and swings his arm back.
I hear the swish as it moves through the air.
I close my eyes.
Pain erupts on the side of my face and for a second I think I see stars behind my eyes.
My hand flies up, trying to stop the sting.
When my vision clears I glance up at him. He looks pleased with himself.
“You didn't have to do it full force,” I snap at him.
He shrugs me off. He’s standing with his feet apart and his hands in his pockets, watching me. “Quit your whinging little bitch. You made the choice.”
Little bitch?
It really did hurt.
“You changed the rules.” I push him, and because his hands are in his pockets, he stumbles back.
He takes his hands out of his pockets and his head falls to the side while he looks at me.
“It’s my game.” He pushes me back, harder.
“Well, I didn't want to play your game in the first place.” I push him again, as hard as I can, expecting him to stumble.
But he’s ready for me this time.
He rears forward, knocking me off my feet and sending me tumbling back.
I see the sky through the trees on my way down.
Then my head connects with something hard. Really hard.
There's an explosion behind my eyes.
Fireworks.
I try to get up.
I try to think.
I can't move.
What?
Chapter 1
Grace
“Bring me through that bolt of cotton, you know, the one that got delivered last week.”
I roll my eyes but try not to let it seep into my tone. “We had thirteen bolts delivered last week.”
“Ah. So we did.” My mum pops her head up from beneath the counter, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Pinstripes, but very faint. It was a midnight shade, so blue it was almost black. Semi-matte, if I remember correctly.”
“I’ll have a look.” I pin the piece of crepe I was working with up onto the tailor-maid and smooth down my skirt.
It’s my first commission and Mum promised she’d give me the use of the shop to make sure it’s completed on time.
I didn't realize the offer wouldn’t also relieve me of my normal Saturday duties.
Well, it’s technically Friday. But since school has finished and college doesn’t start til next week, every day except Sunday is a Saturday for me.
Heading through to the back room, my eyes mentally sift through the clutter as I try to remember what in fucks name I did with it.
I unloaded all three deliveries last week. I’d covered every afternoon myself while Mum was at the hospital with Gran. I even stayed late on Wednesday night, trying to sort out the utter carnage.
Lot of good that did me, eh?
Deciding to give it my best shot, I start sifting through the bolts and piles of fabric that are lying around haphazardly on every available surface. By the time I’ve found the one I think she means, I’m sweating like I’ve just robbed a bank and the place looks even worse than it did when I came in.
I didn’t think that was technically possible.
“We need to do something with that back room,” I tell her, letting the bolt of midnight blue cotton flop on the counter with a thud.
My mum shrugs me off, as usual, and comes over to inspect the fabric. “Huh. It’s a lot less midnighty than I remember it.”
“What does that even mean?” I’m already back over at the tailor-maid, trying to figure out where I was going with it before I was rudely interrupted for that little fools errand.
“I ordered it specifically for Mr Hunter… and I just don’t think it’s going to do. I mean look at it. It’s too blue. It should be closer to black than blue… Shit Grace.”
Mr Hunter. Probably her most important account. My mum makes all his suits, and the man goes through a lot of them. Fuck-knows why, because they all look the same to me. I personally think he’d be better investing in a decent dry-cleaner, but since the guy practically pays our mortgage, I wouldn’t say that to his face.
Pinning up the crepe again, I head back over to the counter, intending to get to the bottom of exactly how midnighty the fabric is. I can see she’s fretting and we all suffer when my mum starts fretting. And by we, I mean me.
“It looks midnight blue to me. Why don’t you just see if he likes it before you make a start?”
“Hmm. I suppose so. Good idea. He’ll be in later to collect an order anyway.” She nods as if it’s decided and we both go back to what we were doing before midnight-gate erupted.
My client, a woman in her early forties, is coming over tonight to collect the dress for a party she’s attending tomorrow evening. Which means if I don’t have it ready for a fitting by tonight, I’ll have no time to make adjustments.
I’m trying not to stress, but I could really do with my mum fucking off for the day and leaving the running of the shop to me. Her clients are mostly older gentlemen, mostly with more money than fashion sense, and mostly very happy to let whoever is on the other side of the counter decide what they need for them.
I could probably deal with ten of my mums clients quicker than I could deal with one of her meltdowns. But I wouldn’t tell her that, of course. And as much as working with her does my box in, I’m grateful that she has this place and lets me do as I please with it.
It’s nothing fancy by anyone’s standards. We have two rooms and a bathroom, so we use the back room for storage and work in the front room. My mum maintains this is good for business, says the customers love that small-business, personalized service charm and we’d lose that if we upgraded things. I say we could at least give the place a lick of paint and keep the lightbulbs freshly changed… but what do I know? I’m just starting out, after all.
The woman who I’m making the dress for was a fluke. It was my high school prom six weeks ago, and I’d worn a dress I made myself. It was a matte dark rose color — nothing fancy, just a beautiful cut and clean lines. But Madison Blake’s mother had noticed it and asked me where I got it from, and when I told her I made it myself, well, she just had to have one.
“Do we have anything through the back that’s closer to black?”
Fucking hell.
I don’t bother pinning the crepe this time, because I don’t intend to engage.
“I’m not sure, probably. What about a nice dark charcoal? You’ve done one of those before and he seemed happy enough.”
“Hmm. Can you—”
“I really, really need to get this dress finished. Mrs Blake is coming at 6pm.”
“Oh. Right. Of course, I’ll go have a look myself,” she says, shaking her head and disappearing through to the back room with a swish of her star and moon print skirt.
That’s bound to keep her occupied for a good half-hour. Surely.
I’m almost finished tacking when the bell above the door rings, signaling someone’s come into the shop.
“Hi, welcome to McCormack’s. Can I help you?”
This woman doesn’t look like our regular customers… she’s a woman for starters. And she�
�s young, probably not even ten years older than me. We don’t tend to get many young customers — the young hipster trendy types go to Tyndrum’s across town for their ankle-grazers and bow-ties. So she can’t be a wife.
“My husband has a suit due for collection but unfortunately urgent business has called him away. I’m here to collect the suit, and he’d also like to order another two if possible?”
“Oh, okay. Can I take the name please?”
She smiles, showing a set of perfectly straight white teeth. “It’s for Mr Hunter.”
Well, was not expecting that. Mr Hunter has a son two years older than me, he’ll be around nineteen now, same as my brother Scott, which mean’s she’s definitely the second wife. Or maybe the third.
I need to stop being so judgey.
“If you hold on a second, I’ll fetch my mum, she’s just through the back.”
“Sure.” The woman gives me another warm smile and I find myself not wanting to take my eyes off her. She’s beautiful, in a doll-like way. Petite and fair and blonde, and almost frail looking. But not in a bad way, just in an unusual way.
They say opposites attract, don’t they? Maybe that’s why I’m fascinated by her. This woman is everything I could never be. Her clothes are flawless. Her nails are polished. Everything about her is poised and elegant. We’re worlds apart, which is ironic as fuck considering I’m the one called Grace. Meh.