Page 89 of Twisted Little Game

I watch as Kian leans in to give Tate a quick hug hello, and my fingers twitch. They start competing on the ring toss a moment later.

It’s obvious right away that this guy is harmless.

But it’s also obvious that he’s flirting with Tate.

Tate never looks around or scans the area to see where I am, like he normally does. He’s purposely trying to act like he doesn’t give a fuck, and with every passing minute I feel a tension radiating from him, threatening to snap.

It has to be why he keeps looking at his phone.

Tate never usually does that.

He isn’t distractible like other people.

He focuses on exactly the person in front of him, and nothing else. But tonight he’s going for his phone like it’s a habit, his face falling into a frown every time.

What is different with you tonight?

And why can’t I fucking stop worrying that there’s something wrong?

They walk from booth to booth, trying out different games. Kian squeezes Tate’s arm after he makes a particularly good throw on the apple-shot game, and I think of how easy it would be for me to break his bones. First the tibia, then maybe each tiny, fragile bone in his hand, one fracture for every time he’s touched Tate tonight.

Innocent boy, I tell myself. You don’t hurt innocent people.

I can tell Tate’s getting drunk by the way he shouts when he gets a good shot. He leans against the pole of the tent a little too much.

But then Tate stumbles on his foot, tripping over a little rock on the ground. When he sways, he catches himself, and doesn’t fall.

The blue-haired boy looks at him and laughs.

“Hey,” I call out, finally stepping out of the shadows toward the two of them.

I drape my arm over Tate’s shoulder, pulling him in close to me. “You want to head over to the photo booth?”

Tate doesn’t look up at me, but he doesn’t pull away from my touch.

He smells like green apple, and his cheeks are flushed with rosy pink slashes.

He leans into me, the side of his body pushing up against the front of my torso. I’m hard from the moment I feel his warmth.

My cock can’t handle being near him anymore. I’ve lost all control of my brain’s link to the rest of my body.

At least a hatefuck is understandable: the person pisses you off, but you still want to fuck them, only for their body.

This isn’t like that at all.

This feeling is much worse.

I don’t hate Tate even a little bit. I hate how I feel. It’s like I want to merge with his body, to possess him, while I also want to punish him for everything he’s doing to hurt himself tonight. He has to know he drank too much.

I don’t want to cage him.

But I also have to have him.

With me, and me only.

“I’m Kian,” the other guy says to me, holding out his hand, and I’d forgotten he was standing there at all. “Nice to meet you.”

“Roman.”