A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)

 

He tastes like cotton candy and campfires, like smoky wood and the sweet ache of a kiss that you want to feel all day, every day, for the rest of your life. By the time the first kiss ends we’re breathless, the heat from our exhales turning into a cocoon.

 

My body craves him, drawing close, arms around his waist and holding him so he can’t leave me. Rock solid, with muscles rooted in place, he isn’t going anywhere. I relax and tip my chin up for another kiss. I’m rewarded with fire and ice, with the warm wetness of a determined mouth that needs to tell me without words how much I mean to him.

 

Now we’re naked, entwined in silk sheets on an endless, soft bed, the brush of his hair-covered legs against my own smooth calves so different, so refreshing. I touch my nose to his chest and inhale, the deep breath bringing him into me, memorizing his scent like an imprint.

 

His hot palms cup my breasts, making me moan his name.

 

The wind swirls outside the open window, and large, jagged rock formations bounce moonlight into the room, like an otherworldly mirror that illuminates the perfection of this ethereal moment. I look into his eyes and frown, puzzled by what I see.

 

They are empty.

 

My wrists whip behind me like someone retracted them, like I am a mechanical beast with a button you push to make me move in ways that aren’t quite human. My shoulders scream with pain from the sudden change and now I am on my knees on the bed, legs spread by ice-cold fingers that feel like knife blades against my skin.

 

I scream, but no sound emerges, because my mouth is filled with rope.

 

And the eyeless man reaches between my lips and pulls the end of the hemp ribbon, tugging as thousands of feet of shiny cloth come out of me, endless, eternal, infinite, like lies lined up in the weave of the fiber, queued for all time.

 

I can’t breathe. Can’t gag can’t move can’t think— But worse.

 

I can’t die.

 

SLAP!

 

“Jesus, Lindsay, wake up!” The voice is high, feminine, a sound I know but haven’t heard in so long. My cheek burns with the strike, the edge of her fingernails scraping against my earlobe. My nose fills with a perfume I remember, and I lean forward from instinct, burying my cheek in the soft bosom of a body that I expect will comfort me.

 

She goes rigid.

 

A hand pats my hair like one comforts a stranger, like tapping the beat of a song. “It’s okay,” my mother soothes. “You were just having a nightmare.” Her French scent is a mix of rose and cotton, of sugar and covert cigarettes, and as I sniffle into her chest I know she doesn’t really want me in her arms, but I am going to take what I can get while I can.

 

Scraps have to be enough.

 

“Mama,” I say, willing my body to relax, ignoring my throbbing cheekbone. I haven’t called her Mama since I was four years old.

 

“You’re awake. Good.” She peels me off her and puts two feet of distance between us on the bed. Her eyes meet mine and they’re filled with worry. She’s wearing no makeup, her face a shiny sheen. A recent chemical peel? A new overnight moisturizer? Who knows. She looks like a baby owl, without her fake eyelashes.

 

She reminds me of Aunt Karen, her sister. Mom makes fun of Karen for “letting herself go,” even though Aunt Karen runs 5Ks and is a defense lawyer in Iowa, Mom’s home state. Karen doesn’t do Botox or chemical peels or liposuction or any of the other procedures Mom has used to keep herself young.

 

Young looking, at least.

 

Right now, she resembles my aunt just enough that I throw my hands over my face and burst into tears.

 

Mom sighs, her hand on my knee.

 

“You were screaming about a rope, Lindsay,” she says softly, leaning forward. “Were you dreaming about hanging yourself?”

 

“God, no.”

 

“Because that would be so selfish,” she adds.

 

There’s nothing quite like a mother’s love.

 

In her hand, I see a white smartphone, her long, burgundy fingernails gripping it like a weapon. “Should I call Dr. Coulter?” she asks.

 

“Dr. Who?”

 

“Dr. Coulter. Your therapist from the island.” The expression on her face makes it clear she thinks I’m acting like a petulant teen. I have no idea who this Dr. Coulter is, though.

 

“Dr. Coulter—oh!” It hits me. “You mean Stacia. No. No! No, Mom. I don’t need her.” Why does everyone insist on calling Stacia the second I have a problem?

 

Mom makes an incredulous sound.

 

I press my hand against my heart. “I’m fine.”

 

“You’re anything but fine, Lindsay. I heard those screams. You were still dreaming when I walked in, clawing at your mouth.”

 

“Where’s my security detail?” I ask slowly, ignoring her words. If I challenge her, she’ll turn it all around and make it my fault, so why bother. I know the drill. Mom cares about Daddy’s political career. Until the incident four years ago, she cared about my future.

 

Now it’s all about damage control.