A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)
By: Meli Raine
He whips around and faces Stacia, his sunglasses on now. “I need to accomplish my mission,” Drew answers, his words tight. “You do whatever paperwork you need, but Lindsay is done here.” And with that, he’s made Stacia as important as a plastic grocery bag carried into traffic on the wind.
He reaches for my elbow without permission and I’m walking next to him, two steps for each of his, giddy and panting as my hair starts flying behind me from the force of the wind the helicopter blades make.
“Senator Bosworth will—” Stacia’s words are cut off by the loud droning sound that comes from the helicopter engine. Suddenly, I don’t care that Drew is the one taking me away. He’s the reason I’m here. The reason I’ve suffered for four years. Later, when I’m home, I can scream at Daddy and have him fire Drew. I can yell and rage against whatever possessed my father to pick my ex-boyfriend to be my so-called “protector.”
Not now, though.
Now, he can get me the hell out of here.
I stumble right before the open door to the copter, my hip crashing into Drew’s as my ankle turns inward. I don’t fall. His hands hold me up, his muscles powerful and coiled under that suit jacket, his assured grip both infuriating and intoxicating.
He doesn’t say a word. Just picks up right where he left off, guiding me to the helicopter. I climb in and he reaches across my body to pull the seatbelt harness over me. I finally recover my wits and bat at his hands.
“I’m not a child,” I shout. He retreats, palms toward me, but he watches like a hawk to make sure I secure myself appropriately. Then he shuts the small door and hands me a set of earphones that look like catcher’s mitts. I hold them in my hands but don’t put them on.
It occurs to me that he’s observing me closely because I am his mission. Not because he has residual feelings for me. I’m a client. I’m a paycheck.
I’m a checklist for Drew, just like I was a checklist for Stacia.
Maybe I’m trading one kind of imprisonment for another.
Drew thumps the pilot on the back and we begin our ascent, Stacia below us and screaming on a phone, waving wildly at the rising chopper, her face twisted with anger at losing. I’m not sure what she just lost, and whether I’m the winner, but that smile on my face?
It widens.
I watch the island become smaller and smaller as we rise. The six clusters of three buildings each were all I knew for four years. I see the outdoor pools. The tennis courts. The rock labyrinth and the paths through the gardens. Golf carts cluster by the facilities building and the dock has a new boat there, likely filled with new candidates for “serenity work.”
Someday, I might actually miss this place.
Nah. Scratch that.
I flip Stacia the bird just as she looks up and catches my eye. Or, at least, I imagine she does.
And then we’re off, the ocean below us an endless stretch of watery ribbons that feel just dangerous enough not to watch.
“Happy?” Drew asks, pointing to my face. My smile must be pretty huge to get that kind of comment.
His eyes darken as I stare at him, not speaking. Whatever hint of a smile was on his face disappears. All his muscles go slack. He is neutral. A blank wall. Just like all the workers at the island.
I let the stare last for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. Then we shift into eternity.
Finally, I lean toward him, lowering my voice, not bothering to shout above the noise. If I say this in just the right frequency, he’ll hear me all right.
“I hate your fucking guts. Don’t you ever, ever speak to me again,” I say. “Are we clear?” I put on my headphones and maintain eye contact. I fight the urge to give him my middle finger, too.
His face does not change expression. He puts on his own headphones and maintains eye contact, not backing down from the challenge of my intensity.
And then he gives me a finger, too.
It’s one thumb, standing straight up.
Message received.
Mission accomplished.
Chapter 5
Home.
We land in California, the ride a long hour. It feels long because I closed my eyes the entire time and pretended Drew wasn’t there. My mind did, at least.
My body, on the other hand, reminded me every aching second that he was across from me. Blood rushed through me like bike messengers in a contest to see who could deliver a message the fastest. Drew spent most of his time calmly inventorying me. On the island, I’d learned to watch people who watched me. I can crack my eyelids open half a millimeter and appear to be asleep.
Drew watched me for that entire ride. And I felt every second of it.
Why? The word loops through me with an obsessive mantra. My therapists on the island would tell me that if I couldn’t get it under control, they would increase my meds and decrease my media time. I shiver, the quick twitch unnerving.
My therapists don’t have any control over me. Not anymore.
We begin to land.
I breathe in slowly, willing my mind to stop chasing itself. I exhale, imagining the pain drain out of me. My therapists told me that the pain I hold onto in my body is the source of my suffering. The medications all dull the pain.
Pain is my enemy.