Page 88 of Twisted Little Game

They laugh together, but I can’t fucking take it.

I hate the way Niko is referring to me and Roman like we’re a goddamn couple.

Because we’re not.

Even if I wanted it, even if there was some world where everything was different, Roman would never let that happen.

“Okay, we’ve had enough,” Ollie says, starting to screw the cap back on the green apple flask.

“You know what? Give me another shot,” I say.

“Excuse me?” Roman says.

I ignore him, going for the flask and tipping it in my mouth again. Right as it’s about to pour out, Roman steps over, yanking it from my hand.

“Enough,” he says. “You trying to get blackout drunk or are you just unaware of how much vodka you’re consuming?”

I squeeze his arm hard.

The liquor is starting to hit my blood.

Do I feel better? No. But at least I’m feeling something else. Every time I look at Roman, I think of that mugshot. I think of the broken heart he must have had when that same family really did end up killing his mother.

I don’t want you to worry.

Ollie reaches back to grab Niko’s hand, gesturing toward a tent deeper into the fair.

“Tate! Cider donuts, over there,” Ollie says.

I tear my gaze away from Roman’s and walk off ahead.

13

Roman

Tate and Ollie go for the flask again five minutes later, and I’m so close to stepping in and ripping it from his hand for a second time.

Is Tate trying to punish himself?

Or punish me?

He keeps checking his phone, then shoving it away. He’s trying to forget his life, and it’s so clear to see. Ever since he got to Crimson College, he’s been on a one-man mission to forget his own reality, but it’s reached a new high tonight.

Niko and Oliver get distracted by the tarot card reading booth, Tate starts throwing rings at the ring toss, over and over, surprisingly super accurate while he’s drunk.

Clouds move through the night sky, gradually covering the stars in a blanket of grey.

I lean against a tree trunk between two stalls and I watch him.

A few minutes later, a guy with blue shaggy hair walks up to Tate while he’s throwing rings at the ring toss booth.

“Holy shit, you are fucking good at that,” he tells Tate, smiling wide at him.

“Guess I’m a natural with hand-eye coordination,” Tate says, looking back at him with a bleary, faraway expression. “Hey, Kian. Sorry I hadn’t texted you yet. I was going to, in a few minutes…”

“Don’t sweat it,” Kian says.

Kian looks like he must be a freshman or a sophomore, and his hair is clearly freshly dyed, the cobalt blue radiant. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that says in rainbow letters “Ready to play.”