Mind Games (Mind Games, #1)

“At least you didn’t bring a Reader. I hate them.”


He laughs. “Me, too. You know the trick to Readers, though?”

“I swear in my head over and over again.”

“That’s a good one, but they get used to it pretty fast. If you can’t focus on pissing them off, then always have a really obnoxious song going in the background of your brain. And if you need to make them feel so uncomfortable they stop listening, think about sex.”

“Sex?”

“Sex.” He is so beautiful I want to crawl across my chair and onto his and have him give me specifics to think about. But he is and has always been and will always be wrong, and I can’t ignore that.

Can I?

“Should you really be giving me tips on how to bypass the people your father has spying on me?”

He smiles, and it’s his sharp smile that I think he only uses with me. “You’re my star pupil, remember? Just because you have to do what he wants you to doesn’t mean you can’t keep parts of yourself secret. It’s about balance, Fia. Balance and patience and time.”

“You’ve never struck me as the patient type.”

He leans back, puts his arms behind his head, and closes his eyes. “Like I said. Secrets.”

James was right. I love dancing. I love it so much I almost don’t crave the alcohol being passed all around me, the drugs I see people taking. I almost don’t wonder how much better the dancing would be if I took something. When I’m really dancing, when I’m in the middle of a crowd in the dark with the pulsing lights and pounding beats, I can lose myself in a way that’s easy to get back from.

I love it.

We’re somewhere in Germany. I don’t know where; I don’t care. Eden goes out most days and sightsees. I sleep in our obscenely expensive hotel suites and wait for the clubs. James has meetings, makes sure I eat enough, and prods me to do the occasional “assignment” (learning how to operate pretty much any common tech platform, for instance), and then we go dance.

I send Annie postcards that Eden buys for me, since it doesn’t matter what they look like anyway, and pretend like I’m the one visiting mountains and castles and historic squares. Annie will like that. I hate that someone else has to read them to her, though. I hope it isn’t Ms. Robertson.

“You aren’t going to get ready?” Eden asks, eyeing me as she puts on another coat of lip gloss.

“Shoes. Skirt. Top. Ready.”

“I mean, let’s do something with your hair. Put it up. Twist it. And you could rock more makeup. You’re not really selling it.”

“What am I supposed to be selling?”

“Guys are pretty hot for you at these; I can feel them out for you, if you want.”

“Do I strike you as particularly lusty?” I lay my emotions open, imagine them washing over her. I am the ocean we lived on for two months. I am empty. I am nothing.

“Stop it. You’re so creepy.” She stalks out of the room, muttering about missing Annie, and I smile.

Later I’m in the middle of the floor, lost, when someone takes my arm. I open my eyes, surprised to see James grinning at me. I’m shocked. He’s never come to dance with me before. I move closer to him, excited, but he shakes his head and pulls me away toward the bar.

“I’ve got a game for you.”

“A game?” I don’t want to play a game. I want to dance. I want to dance with James. He’s always finding little reasons to touch me—a hand at the small of my back, a flimsy excuse to take my hand in his and look at it—but he’s never done more. I want more. I don’t know what I want from him, exactly, just that I always want more.

“Do you see that guy over there at the bar?” He points to a barrel-chested man, midtwenties, nice clothes designed to show off how nice they are.

“Yes.”

“Steal his phone, bring it to me, and then get it back to him without him noticing.”

“That is the worst game I’ve ever heard of.”

“I want to see if you can do it. I need five minutes with his phone. And then I’ll dance with you.” He smiles, his best, broadest, biggest manipulator of a smile. He doesn’t use that smile on me. Until now.

“What makes you think I want you to dance with me?” I turn, angry angry angry. Fine. He wants a phone? I’ll get him a phone. I pull back against the wrong buzz, disconnect from it, focus on this. Phone. I need that phone.

My hips take on a life of their own as I weave through the room. I pretend I am walking on the boat (I loved the boat) and let my memories sway the room for my alcohol-free brain.

“Josef, there you are!” I laugh and wrap my arms around from him behind, let them wander like a drunk girlfriend’s might. “Have you been hiding from me?”

He turns (mean eyes, he has mean eyes, but his eyes aren’t mean toward me right now) and smiles, bemused.

I take a drunken step backward, let my mouth form an O. “You aren’t Josef.” I giggle. It grates on my ears; it is a horrible sound.

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