Page 25 of Twisted Little Game

“I like your tattoos,” he finally says.

“Thank you.”

“If you’re studying physiology, do you want to be a doctor? Physical therapist?” he asks.

Doesn’t matter what I want to be… my life is paved out for me.

“I am undecided. But yes, the human body interests me.”

He nods, his teeth coming down on his lower lip, then releasing it. “Are you close with your family?”

Loaded fucking question, boy.

“Yes and no.”

“Your parents?”

My heart aches a little. “My mother is dead. My father… I am not close with. He wishes that we were more similar.”

My father wishes I was a soulless killer.

Instead, he got me.

A son who still has a conscience… even when I do bad things.

Tate gives me a sympathetic look. “Sorry to hear that, Roman.”

I nod at him. “Are you close with your family?”

“My brother is awesome, even if he’s overprotective and I kind of hate him right now. My mom is a sweetheart and I love her with every fiber of my being, and… my dad is a legend. He’s good to me. But he probably deeply wishes I didn’t fuck up my chance to go pro. I feel like a burden to all of them.”

I shake my head. “Doubt it. It sounds like your family isn’t so bad.”

He smiles softly. “I do love them, and they love me.”

All you could ever ask for.

And you will never have any idea how complicated family is, for me.

“Nice to get to know you, Tate. Is that it for your interrogation?”

“Hey, you wanted to break the ice, too.” He drums his fingertips on the table. “By the way, next time you follow me into the gym, you should come and work out with me instead of lurking in the fucking yoga room.”

I furrow my brow. “No chance you saw me in there.”

“Saw you from my peripheral vision, trying to walk inside right after I started my reps on the rower. You were wearing a hoodie. Not a lot of people are as tall as you, Roman.”

Truthfully, I wasn’t trying all that hard to stay unnoticed while following Tate this week. I remained in the background, yes, but when I really don’t want to be seen, I never am.

I don’t even know how many times I’ve had to wait in the dark with a gun in my hands, staying steady, just in case a trade went south.

Reliable, my father calls me.

But watching Tate is nothing like my real life.

When I see him interact with others on campus, he’s kind and friendly and very sweet. He strikes up conversations with people who no one else does, like the card-swiper lady at the entrance of the dining hall, the janitor in the English building, or a timid, acne-covered girl sitting at the back of his history class.

The only place I see his rage emerge is when he’s in the gym. I lift heavy, but Tate pushes his body’s limits like he’s trying to break himself.