A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)

 

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, jumping up. The chill from the loss of his heat is like another betrayal. I’m not sure who betrayed whom, though. Am I betraying myself by feeling all this for him after what he did?

 

I am breathing so hard it feels like sandpaper lines my throat and nose, but I stay on the ground, face down, knowing if I turn over he’ll read every emotion I have for him in my face and I will be revealed for the fool that I am.

 

“Lindsay! You okay? Do I need to get a medic in here?”

 

“This isn’t a war zone, Drew. A medic?”

 

“You sure about that?”

 

“What?”

 

“That this isn’t a war zone?” He sits down on a giant round rock on the edge of the path, planting his elbows on his knees, drinking from a small water bottle in his hand.

 

I turn my face, the smooth, cool dirt like a caress. I look at him. Study him. He’s become the kind of man I always imagined he’d become. So strong. Commanding. Powerful in a graceful way, like he owns the world and has authority because it’s natural for him. Not because he’s ambitious, but because he’s called to step up to the occasion.

 

“You see any guns around here, other than the one on your belt?” I mutter.

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“Yeah. I do.”

 

He blinks at me, his breathing slowing down, his body relaxed as he stretches his calves. They’re so defined, the muscles curving into a heart right above the Achilles tendon. I remember touching those legs. Running my palms along the sleek muscles. Exploring his body back in a time when every touch was a promise. When undressing was an exciting game. When being naked together in bed was about boundaries and crossing them one by one in a playful passionate way, as we made our way towards an intimacy that needed to be cultivated.

 

Four years is a long, long time.

 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he blurts out.

 

Huh?

 

I finally roll up and sit, my knees red and scraped. I brush them off and look at him. His eyes burn with so many questions. I’ll bet mine do, too.

 

“You already did,” I reply.

 

He winces. I stand. This conversation is dangerous. Being alone on this path is risky. Drew won’t hurt me. I know that in my soul. The danger and risk isn’t the normal kind.

 

The danger and risk is that I’ll let myself fall for him again.

 

Fall for a guy who let those monsters do unspeakable things to me.

 

How messed up am I to still want him? What kind of woman still has feelings for a man who would do what Drew did to me? Am I that self-destructive? The therapists on the island said yes. They told me that while it was normal to have feelings for Drew, it wasn’t normal to hold on to them.

 

I cling to those feelings. Four years of clinging makes my fingers ache, and yet here I am. Here I am, now, alone with him and looking at him with a pleading in my eyes that must scream out to him.

 

Tell me why.

 

Tell me why.

 

Tell me why, damn you.

 

He flinches. Maybe I really do have telepathic powers, because he stands, his breathing picking up again, his face twisted with emotion. His eyes are dark with a mixture of protectiveness, rage, and a desire so strong it makes me hold my breath.

 

When his hand touches my scraped knee, I gasp. When his other hand reaches for mine and clasps it, I flood with heat. My pulse quickens and I keep my eyes down. If I look up, I’ll reach out for him. I’m two different Lindsays inside right now. I’m the angry, betrayed Lindsay who wants Drew to suffer like I have.

 

And then I’m the sad, lonely Lindsay who just wants my best friend and boyfriend back.

 

I can’t look up. If I look up, if I meet his eyes, if I squeeze his hand and feel his skin, if I move one millimeter I’ll fling myself into his arms and beg him to love me like I thought he did.

 

Before.

 

Before.

 

I stiffen.

 

“I—” He starts to talk. I look up and pull my hand away, standing.

 

And without another word, I limp off, back to the house. He follows. I can feel him. But he doesn’t say another word.

 

I can fix my own damn knees, thank you. I can tend my own wounds.

 

I can protect myself.

 

I don’t need Drew.

 

I don’t need anyone at all.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 13

 

 

 

 

 

“You’re in charge of your own personal schedule, Lindsay,” Anya says with an apologetic tone, “but your father insisted I set up this informal coffee date with Jane so you could transition back to your regular life. He felt Jane would be a good entry point.”

 

Transition. Entry point. My father turns friendship into management jargon.

 

“Jane,” I say, nodding. Jane is Anya’s daughter, and we were in the same loose, larger circle of friends for a while. Jane’s the person who found me, tied up and bleeding, after— Well, after.

 

Anya just smiles and waits with anticipation, as if I’m supposed to say more.