A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)
By: Meli Raine
Drew’s above me in seconds, stripping off his suit jacket, putting it under my feet and saying my name, over and over, so soft it’s like butterflies kissing my face. He’s unbuttoning his dress shirt and bunching it up, putting it under my neck. I stare, eyes fluttering, scaring away all the beautiful little soul mates who were kissing me moments ago.
Tears form in my eyes and pool until they break, pouring down the sides of my face, dripping into my ear. I roll on my side, hip grinding into a small stone in the grass, and I pull my muscles in, becoming a tight little egg, as if I could form a shell around myself and never let the soft, vulnerable parts touch air.
Wouldn’t that be nice? Too bad it’s impossible.
“Lindsay? You hurt?” Drew’s fingers hover over me. I can tell he wants to touch me, and God help me, I want him to as well. I’m sick, aren’t I? Wanting someone so desperately who betrayed me?
I cannot let go of that thought.
I try and I try and I loop, infinitely perplexed by how something so simple can take over my mind. Easy, right? Walk away. Don’t look back. He’s an asshole and I am worth more. So much more.
Why do I miss him so much? Why do my instincts override my own self-preservation?
The sob finally breaks open, bursting like a bubble that gets too big, the surface tension stretched until it cannot hold. My body shakes, the effort to stay so curled up getting to me. I press my cheek against the palm of my hand and just break down.
I fall apart.
I die.
Not literally, but it feels like it. Too many pieces of new information. Too many expectations. Too much isolation and too much pain being so close to Drew with a thousand questions and nothing but sheer torture between us. And four years of silence.
His hand touches my shoulder, the gesture kind, and oh, Lord, please forgive me, but I turn toward it, seeking comfort. Seeking a shred of humanity in this sea of nothing but pain.
He reaches for me and sits on the ground, pulling me into his lap and soon I’m in his arms. I collapse. I thought I already had collapsed, but it turns out there’s another layer. Drew smells so good. He’s hot and sweaty and it’s a little stifling, sniffling into his chest. I don’t care. He smells like Drew. The old Drew. The Drew I knew a lifetime ago. The man I loved with every fiber of my being until he turned into someone I didn’t recognize.
Someone who didn’t protect me.
His fingers caress my back, right where my ponytail rests between my shoulder blades. He’s whispering low, soft sounds that are meant to give me comfort. I take it all in, my sweat-soaked shirt pressing against his ribs, my bare calves scratching against the wool of his suit pants. He’s warm and has arms like walls, tight and muscled, a fortress where I can finally, desperately find sanctuary and safety.
“It’s okay, Lindsay,” I realize he’s murmuring. “It’s okay.”
It’s not. It’s really, really, not okay. In fact, right now my entire life is the opposite of okay. But his crooning is so sweet, so needed right now, that I let him say all these words that I know aren’t true just so I can spend a few more minutes in his arms.
My mouth betrays me.
“It’s not okay. It’s never been okay,” I mutter into his white, cotton shirt.
He stiffens, muscles going tense. Drew’s sigh feels like an admission of guilt. “I know. I—I just don’t know what to say to make this all better for you. I hate seeing you like this. I hate knowing you’re coming back to all the bullshit and you don’t know anything about what you’re in for.”
I sniffle. That’s a lot to take in. My fingers clutch the sweaty fabric of his shirt and I stay still, hoping he’ll say more.
He doesn’t.
If I close my eyes and just listen to his heart beating double time, with my ear pressed against his chest, can I make the world go away? Can I hold time in check like this? What if we had a pause button? A big old red button you could push when life turned into a giant tornado of pain.
Pause until it all ended, and then resume life.
Drew pulls back. A light breeze passes between our separated bodies. My knees burn and I look down, seeing raw skin, red blood filling in like a kid with a red marker and a paint-by-numbers kit. I let go of his shirt and look up at him, a wave of self-consciousness hitting me. This is the part where I look into his eyes and see pity. The part where he’s just doing his job. Comfort the client. Make sure she’s not hurt. Do your job exactly right so you get paid.
That’s how this works, right?
Except, when I look at him, it’s like finding out there are eyes made of nothing but love.
“Everything I thought about coming home is wrong,” I say, staring back with eyes that feel like hollow craters. If only his eyes could fill mine. “I thought I’d come home and pick up my life. It might be a new life, but it would be a life. Away from the drugs and the mandatory group therapy and individual therapy and art therapy and—fuck all that therapy!”
One corner of his mouth twitches as I say this, his head tipping to one side, his eyes more compassionate than I ever remember. I spent years hating him. Years.