Page 29 of Twisted Little Game

By the time I get to the gym, I need relief, and instead I get a fucking shit sandwich, straight to my face.

Outside the long rows of lockers in the gym, I check my phone and see something I really wish I didn’t see.

A couple of my friends from the city have forwarded me a link to an article.

Tate Landrey Tell-All: Sex, Booze, and Every Decision that Led to His Downfall.

My hand is already starting to shake as I tap the link.

Apparently, one of my former friends took it upon himself to get a payday from a tabloid, divulging “secrets” about me for this interview.

Some of the things he says about me aren’t even true. He claims I was fond of getting my dick sucked while rolling on Ecstasy pills, but I never once needed drugs to enjoy that.

Other things he says about me are very much the truth, though.

He told the gossip blog that one of my exes stole money from my family’s credit card, which is true.

He also said that I fell in love with a married man, getting fucked by him in a hotel every day during lunch, which is true… but I didn’t know the man was married.

The whole article paints me as a fuck-up. A total failure, with no self-control.

The article claims it got this information about me from an “anonymous source and former friend of Tate Landrey,” but I know exactly who did it. My friend Ryan, who was straight, but got very handsy with me one night while we were drunk. He freaked about it the next day, and told me to never spend the night at his place again.

I close my phone and drop it in my backpack, shoving all of my shit into the locker and slamming it shut.

I take off toward the punching bags at the corner of the gym.

And I fucking wail on one.

I slam my fists into the heavy bag over and over again, not taking a break, pounding with all of the force of my body.

My injured hand had been healing, and was almost painless, but as my fist connects with the punching bag, the pain returns, first in my knuckles and then in the smaller bones of my hand.

“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath.

I don’t stop.

My muscles ache and burn, and I feel my eyes start to sting. A couple of tears slide down my cheeks, and I just keep punching until the healing wounds on my hand break open.

When I see the bright red blood on the punching bag, I step back, heaving over and finally taking a moment to breathe, before I go right back in again.

And a moment later, a warm pair of arms comes up behind me, pulling me away, covering me like a human blanket.

Of course you were watching.

You saw everything, as I unraveled.

“Talk to me,” Roman murmurs behind my ear. “Just talk.”

He immobilizes me, clutching his arms around my torso. He brings me toward the wall nearby, and I reach my good hand up to steady myself on it, breathing deep.

Again, I’m so aware of all of the eyes surrounding me. We’re in a campus gym, and I’m certain there must be people on the far side of the gym glancing over at us, wondering what is going on.

But Roman doesn’t seem to give a fuck.

He holds me from behind, and his hands roam below my shirt, stroking over my lower back.

“I’m here,” he says, and I can feel his breath near my ear from behind.