Page 22 of Twisted Little Game

Nineteen isn’t all that far off from twenty-one, but considering his life compared to mine… there’s nothing similar about us at all.

He looks so young.

“You didn’t have independence in the city?” I ask him.

“Not really. I had fun, but everywhere I go, I’ve always been watched.”

“And did you have friends?”

He nods. “Always. I make friends fast, but they’re all busy with their own shit in the city. Most of them were football friends, and now it feels like they’re a million miles away.”

I pause for a while, and he doesn’t say more.

“You were not safe in the city, Tate,” I tell him. “I’m not convinced you’re safe here, either. You can’t shrug off death threats when you’re worth millions.”

He frowns, reaching to mess with the straw wrapper again.

Suddenly, I see myself through his eyes, as he stares down at my forearms.

It’s the first time Tate’s seen my skin fully exposed.

I’m in a black short-sleeved shirt, and his eyes are trained on the dark lines of ink that loop around my arms. He glances at the black beaded bracelet I wear that used to be my mother’s.

Holy shit.

His fingers are shaking, a little bit.

He has been bluffing more than I realized.

He is intimidated by me, and actually afraid when I tell him he may still be in danger. He is usually better at hiding it.

Something deflates in my chest.

I clasp my palm over his hands in one steady movement. He looks up at me, surprised at my touch, inhaling as his eyes go wide.

“Hey,” I tell him. “It’s okay. Talk to me.”

“You hate talking.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want. Talk to me.”

He leans back a little on his booth seat, letting out a frustrated sigh as he looks up at the ceiling. “Of course I know I’m not safe.”

It’s the first time he’s admitted it to me.

He scrubs his palms over his face, then finally looks at me again, and there’s a flash of sadness behind his big eyes.

“Are you afraid?” I ask him.

“One of the threats… one of them had a graphic, detailed description of how the person wanted to dismember each of my limbs. I can’t take it. I get messages in the middle of the night, from anonymous numbers, and I can’t fall back to sleep because I’m freaking the fuck out.”

“You are safe with me,” I tell him.

And when he doesn’t look convinced, it makes something snap inside of me.

In one fluid movement, I get up and cross over to the other side of the booth, sitting next to him.

I draw his body close against mine and wrap one arm around him, tugging him against me like I’m a warm blanket.