Page 4 of Twisted Little Game

I don’t tell people shit, and it has absolutely fucking nothing to do with being shy. It’s strategy. Yegor has no right to know about my schedule, my lack of classes this year, or that yes, I’m prolonging my time in college so that I don’t have to do other things.

Telling people information gives them ammunition.

I never want a single soul to have ammunition on me.

“My reasons for staying at Crimson aren’t your concern. I said I don’t want the bodyguard job.”

“You will when you know what it pays.”

“I don’t care what it pays.”

Yegor rolls his eyes at me. “Why wouldn’t you do it?”

I can tell Tate Landrey is trouble just from looking at him.

Too pretty.

Filthy rich.

Probably has gotten his way since birth.

“Is this boy actually in danger?” I ask. “Why would he need a bodyguard?”

“The kid’s gotten some death threats, typical internet bullshit. Nothing’s going to happen to him. But Luke Landrey is loaded and worried about his baby brother, so he’s willing to pay. Enormously. And I’ll get a ten percent finder’s fee, of course.”

I glance back down at the article open on Yegor’s phone again.

I scroll lower, looking at photo after photo of Tate Landrey.

I tap on another suggested article about him.

This one shows photos of him on a small yacht, apparently taken at the beginning of summer, lounging on chairs and drinking with friends.

Apparently that’s part of what a “summer of therapy” is for someone from the Landrey family. Vacations off the coast of Italy.

I'm very aware of his father and brother, even if I’ve never heard of him. A generation ago, Christopher Landrey was one of the best pro football players of all time, and now Luke Landrey is one of the most famous quarterbacks in the country.

Tate Landrey actually is football royalty.

“Looks like he’s having the time of his life, doesn’t he?” Yegor says.

I shake my head. “Something about him looks sad.”

He snorts. “Sad? He’s probably fucking models and partying until sunrise each morning.”

Yegor is so fucking wrong.

Tate Landrey might be fucking models and partying, but he’s clearly not happy.

Before my mother died, she told me all the time that I had a gift. In Russian, she’d say, “Moy sostradatel'nyy mal'chik.”

My compassionate boy.

I know the look that I see in Tate Landrey’s eyes.

Even in these grainy photos of him on the yacht. I’ve seen how people lose themselves when their lives are bottoming out, empty, and they’re in free-fall… and he looks completely lost.

I don’t think my mother was right.