A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)

 

“Doctor? What doctor?”

 

“Stacia.”

 

I see red. “Did Daddy give you permission?” Now I’m just lashing out. I storm past him to find a very surprised Silas just outside the door. He’s reading a bulletin board advertisement for some band.

 

“Ms—”

 

I cut him off by flipping him the bird. He makes a sound of surprise, like he’s hurt. I don’t care. Walking out of the bar, I fling open the main doors, take a right— And start running.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 21

 

 

 

 

 

I’m really not equipped for the twelve-mile run back home. I’m wearing casual leather shoes, for one thing, though they don’t have any heel at all. Also, I have on a cotton t-shirt, a jangly metal necklace made from reclaimed copper water pipes, and dressy yoga pants. I wasn’t exactly worried about looking like a fashion plate when I left the house this morning.

 

Clearly.

 

I don’t sprint. I make a sharp left-right-left and find myself parallel to the town’s main park, a lush affair that uses so much water that there is a group on the corner, picketing twenty-four seven, in an effort to “drought shame” the town. In her rare letters to me, Mom’s described this phenomenon, how the ongoing drought in California is dredging up all kinds of local social, political and economic problems.

 

I run right past a group of people with protest signs, and keep going until I find one of the larger side streets that will eventually take me to the main road to get home.

 

After a few blocks, I’m sweating.

 

Within two miles, I’m drenched.

 

By three miles, I realize I’m not alone.

 

Either Drew or Silas is following me. They’re both dressed in full suits. Idiots. I’ll have to have a private talk with Daddy at our meeting tomorrow and insist that if I have to have a security detail, they’ve got to dress more fashionably. Jeans and t-shirts are fine. This Men-in-Black look has got to go.

 

“Go away,” I call back.

 

“Can’t,” a man’s voice shouts. “It’s my job.”

 

“To stalk me?”

 

“To protect you.” Damn, he’s suddenly close, voice louder, spooking me.

 

I come to a dead halt. Whoever’s behind me slams into me. I’ve left my knees unlocked and my thighs tight and coiled, ready for impact, so he bounces off me and falls to the ground.

 

Whoever he is, he’s back up before I can turn around.

 

Drew. It’s Drew.

 

Of course it is.

 

“Fuck off, Drew,” I say, giving him the finger, and taking off at a massive sprint, running as if I’m being chased.

 

He keeps up with me, legs like a robot’s, face impassive. At the island, physical activity was encouraged. Every three months they held an island marathon.

 

Guess who won? Not just my age group. Not just the women’s division.

 

Overall.

 

Every marathon, eleven in a row.

 

I slow my pace and decide that nine more miles is a great workout for me. My eyes drift down to Drew’s wingtips.

 

Oh, this is going to be fun. My loafers can outrun those wingtips.

 

Three more miles and we’re on a secluded path, running along a dried out river bed, once-lush greenery turned to brown, decaying stalks.

 

When I ran on the island, I had a mantra that flowed through my head in beat to my pace. It went: I-am-do-ing-fine.

 

I-am-do-ing-fine.

 

I-am-do-ing-fine.

 

I would repeat it thousands of times as I peeled off the miles, and habit makes it consume my overwhelmed thoughts. Six miles isn’t enough to kill off the flashes of despair that begins to hit me like sucker punches.

 

My friends all turned against me.

 

My father drugged me to shut me up.

 

Everyone thinks I’m a whore who asked three guys to fuck her at the same time.

 

Drew just sat there during the video and let them hurt me.

 

My own mother didn’t make time to be here my first few days back.

 

The ache rises up beneath my collarbone, a bubble of pain that will burst and hurt, tearing through my fragile chest like napalm. I know Drew’s behind me, but he’s keeping a respectful distance between us. He must be soaked completely through that suit jacket. Serves him right.

 

I start to laugh at the thought but my breath chokes in the middle on a sob that is so big it feels like I’ve swallowed the planet. Like it’s a big ball lodged in my throat, something that I can’t breathe around. It’s cut off all the air and I am dying, gagging, unable to breathe or think or— I fall, staggering off to the side, slipping between two bushes down a small little grass-covered hill. I roll on my side, then over and over, three times, until I stop. I only stop because of inertia.

 

And I still can’t breathe.