Fake Game (The System #3)

Chapter Ten

TEN

DEER

G uns point at me.

Empty faces surround me.

Closing in.

The room gets darker and darker.

My mouth opens to ask for help, to ask for mercy, but nothing comes out.

I clutch at my throat, scraping at it, begging it to work.

The guns cock, the clicks echoing like a death sentence.

My lips continue to move in silence.

Desperation clogs my lungs.

Their hands come around me, gripping me tight.

I thrash against their hold.

My limbs fight for release.

I try to scream and scream and—

My body crashes against the floorboards. Pain ricochets through my body. My eyes fly open.

The room spins as I adjust to the darkness, my senses slowly returning to me. I push off the floor, my elbow twinging slightly from the fall.

“Fuck.” My voice is raspy as it escapes me.

I kneel on the floor, resting my ass on the backs of my heels, and rub my eyes. Dry mascara sticks to my palm, and I let out a groan.

Right. Jackson carried me to bed, and I totally conked out.

My skin is coated in a thin sheen of sweat, and my makeup probably has me looking like the girl from The Ring .

The bedroom door bursts open, and I blink up at two haggard yet alert men—both of whom are shirtless. Jackson holds a baseball bat, while Aleks brandishes a switchblade. Their eyes bounce around the room before settling on me.

Jackson is the first one to breach the doorway, dropping to his knees before me. “What happened?” His free hand twitches, torn between reaching out to me or fisting at his side.

“I fell out of bed.”

“You were screaming like a banshee.” Aleks cocks his brow as he flicks his blade closed.

“You know, switchblades are illegal in California.” My throat burns through the words.

Fuck.

I must’ve yelled through my nightmare.

Fuuuuuck.

“Don’t deflect.” Jackson reaches out and grips my chin between this thumb and forefinger, turning my head toward him.

This time, when my throat goes dry, it’s not because of the apparent rock metal solo screaming session I had. My focus wavers as I am forced to look into the inky depths of his eyes.

“I’m not deflecting.”

“Oh?” He releases my chin and runs a finger up my arm. “Then why do you have the chills?”

“Because you’re touching me, you weirdo.”

With what little energy I have, I shrug out of his grip and begin to crawl my way to his bathroom. My hazy mind has one clear mission: deny everything.

He lets out a loud sigh. “I’ll deal with this; you head back to bed.”

“You sure?” I can hear Aleks flicking his switchblade back and forth.

“Yeah, no need for two babysitters.”

“Rude,” I mutter.

It’s only once I cross the threshold of the door and my knees hit the tiles that I force myself to stand, using the counter to support my weight. My eyes squeeze tight as I turn on the lights. When I open them, I catch Jackson’s reflection in the mirror as he leans in the doorway.

“Want to tell me the truth?”

“I want to take a shower.”

“Okay.”

I grit my teeth together and let out a groan before summoning all my strength to shove the bathroom door closed. With him comfortably out of sight, I let out a sigh.

It takes longer than necessary for me to remove my stale contacts and my oxidized makeup. I barely remember to tug on a shower cap before throwing myself under the hot spray of the shower.

My ass sinks to the floor. It’s not comfortable; the grooves in the tiles leave imprints on my bare ass. But I don’t care. I let the hot water cascade around me as I stare blankly at the glass.

I thought the nightmares had stopped since coming here.

I thought leaving my apartment behind meant leaving my pain.

I didn’t count on my ghosts following me.

Dammit .

My knees come up to my chest, and I rest my forehead against them.

I hate it. Hate that it’s still affecting me. Hate that it’s ruling my life. Hate that I’m still so weak.

Once it feels like my body has successfully turned into a burnt prune, I shut off the shower and cocoon a giant, soft green towel around my body.

My emotional battery is at nineteen percent—definitely in the red.

I lose another two percent of said battery life just applying my moisturizer.

My hand rests on the doorknob and my heartbeat begins to pound in my ears as I slowly twist it open. I only let it crack an inch before peering out. When I confirm there is no Hulk taking up residence in the bedroom, I take a step out and make my way to the bed.

I sit on the edge for a few minutes in nothing but my towel, staring at the ground as a light buzzing runs through my brain, the remnants of the nightmare still wreaking havoc on my nervous system.

Why am I such a mess?

Begrudgingly, I switch on a lamp and try to find my phone.

“Dammit.”

I must’ve left it in the living room.

My head throbs and I contemplate throwing in the towel—figuratively and literally. Instead, I muster up the little energy I have left and poke my head out into the apartment.

All hope fizzles out when I spot a light coming from the kitchen.

I’d really hoped he’d given up and gone to bed.

Maybe, if I walk quietly enough, he won’t hear me.

Gripping my towel tighter, I take a tentative step into the hallway. Jackson’s back is to me, fiddling with something on the stove. Well, I’m eighty percent sure it is him. Without my contacts in, he looks like a misshapen blob from this far. One of the downfalls of being near-sighted.

I tiptoe my way to the couch and squint, trying (and failing) to make out shapes in the dim light—praying that my phone is somewhere easy to grab.

My jaw clenches as a sweep of the coffee table reveals nothing.

I begin stuffing my hands between the couch cushions, but there is nothing except crumbs and kernels.

Where the hell is it?

I get on my knees, pressing my body flush against the floor as I stretch my arm under the couch as far as it can go without my shoulder dislocating.

“Looking for this, Sparkles?”

I freeze, hoping that if I don’t move, I’ll just disappear into the ground.

There’s a light thud, and I raise my head to see my phone bounce on the couch cushion beside me. The sparkly wrist charm dangles like a taunt.

“Thanks.”

I sit up to look at Jackson, but he’s already walking back to the kitchen. A river bubbles deep in my stomach at his retreating form, urging me to follow.

“What are you doing?”

“Making warm honey milk.”

I scoff. “I’m not a child.”

He turns around and looks at me over his shoulder briefly. “Who said it was for you?”

My mouth pops open as a flush creeps up my cheeks.

“Kidding. It’ll help you sleep. If you want it?”

My chest sparks briefly, like a match that’s too old to truly catch fire.

“I mean, if you’ve already gone to the trouble.” I try to come off nonchalant.

Looping my phone around my wrist, I pad over to the dimly lit kitchen, hauling myself onto one of the barstools.

Jackson grabs a mug from one of the cabinets and slowly pours the saucepan of milk into it. He turns around, and just when I think he is about to offer it to me, he pauses.

The front of his brows pull together in the slightest crinkle, and I see something close to shock filter through his gaze. After a beat, it’s gone, and he slides the mug across the counter.

“What?”

“You look different.”

My hands halt inches away from the mug and my blood turns to ice. A thousand rocks drop into the depths of my gut. Within mere seconds, I have my hands covering my bare face.

“Oh my Gods.”

“I said different, not ugly.”

“That’s not the point.”

I can’t believe I slipped up.

Through the slight gap between my hands, I see him come to rest his hip on the edge of the island. He crosses his arms over his chest, but I can’t see his face—I can’t see his reaction.

Self-consciousness eats away at me like hungry piranhas trapped in an aquarium. I was so caught up in sneaking out to grab my phone that it didn’t even click that I’d removed my Deer mask.

Jackson’s knuckles knock against my own. “Deer. What are you doing?”

“Hiding.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have any makeup on.” I don’t afford him any more of an explanation, not when it sounds…silly.

It feels like a million bees are buzzing under my skin as panic begins to take root. He’s going to see the truth I hide beneath my carefully painted lies. All my fears will be written in the hazel color of my eyes, the crystal blue barrier no longer hiding me. It’s hard to pretend when you’re practically naked.

“Your milk’s going to get cold.”

“I like cold milk.”

He lets out a sigh. “I’m not looking at you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

I crack a peek between two of my fingers, and sure enough, he has turned his back to me. It still feels like a thousand needles are being pricked into my skin, but they’re blunt needles now.

My shaky hands grip the mug before me, grateful for some sort of stability. I slowly raise it to my lips and take a sip of the sweet, warm liquid—it tastes like being wrapped in a soft, knitted blanket. It barely scratches the surface of my unease, but it begins to drip into the cracks, filling me with a touch of comfort.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jackson’s deep voice breaks the silence.

“My makeup is like your masks: without it, I’m not Deer.”

“I meant your nightmare, but that’s a good start, too.”

My chest pangs with regret at revealing a shard of myself that he didn’t ask for.

It’s an effort to keep my grip on the mug when all I want to do is shut down, to sink into the abyss.

“Deer?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m trying here, but I need you to respond so I know you’re okay.”

“Can’t we just sit in silence?”

The sound of me taking another sip of milk crackles through the air as I wait for his response.

“Shield?”

“I thought you wanted silence?”

Annoyance flashes through my veins, but it’s quickly replaced with a short laugh that tumbles past my lips. And though I can’t see his face, I can see the way his cheeks move back, almost in a mimicking smile.

“Come on.” He pushes off the counter and makes his way out the balcony door.

Like a string is connecting my body to his, I follow the pull and trace his path with my own soft footsteps—careful not to spill my mug in the process.

This late at night, the air carries a bite in the breeze. The hairs on my arms stand up as I’m reminded that, for some Gods forsaken reason, I’m still in my damn towel. I really wasn’t thinking anything through tonight.

Jackson leans against the railing, and I come to rest next to him, our position a mirror of the other morning.

The sky is a deep midnight blue, bordering on black, with hazy clouds. The darkness calms my nerves in the knowledge that even if Jackson were to glance over at me, I would be hidden in the shadows.

I can hear a plane landing somewhere, but I have no hope trying to figure out where it might be when I can only see a foot in front of me. The city lights shine dimly in the distance, but to my broken eyes they just look like a muddle of sparkles across the dark expanse.

A cube of ice settles in the center of my chest, slowly melting and dripping into my system. The city is so large around me, and yet I’m stuck in a small corner, refusing to leave out of fear. I can’t even begin to understand the person I have slowly become—someone so at odds with who I should be, someone who fears living when they should be thriving.

“I couldn’t sleep for a week after we got swatted.”

I drain the last of my milk, a thick pool of honey at the bottom coating my tongue as I silently listen to the deep rumble of his words.

“None of us could. I’m pretty sure I made Aleksander watch a million reruns of FMA Brotherhood as we survived off delivery pizza and ramen for a few weeks. Parker even flew back to London for a month while we got our security sorted.”

“Really?”

“What? You think Aleksander just keeps a switchblade by his bedside for fun?”

“He could be using it as a letter opener.”

I feel Jackson give me a look from the corner of his eye, and I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from making any more snarky remarks.

“Point is, you can talk to us.”

My nails tap against the ceramic in an odd staccato.

“Or you can just let it eat you alive, up to you.”

I pause, pressing my lips together as I glare up at him.

This time, he looks down at me and his stare drowns out all the sound around us. He reaches a hand out, tugging on a loose wave of hair. “There’s nothing wrong with wearing a mask. I would know. Just make sure you take the time to breathe because it can become stifling back there, and you don’t want to suffocate. Sometimes, you have to let people in so you can take a break for fresh air.” He releases my hair and turns to head back inside without so much as another look. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind you.”

My lips part, tempted to ask him to wait, to stay, but the words get stuck in my throat. I am already imposing on him, living in his apartment, sleeping in his bed. I don’t need to take any more from him.

But my guilt is quickly replaced with regret as I’m left standing in the cold, alone.

Always alone.

I feel too exposed out here, awareness prickling its way up my body. But when I head back into the quiet apartment and lock the balcony door, the resounding click echoes in my bones, hollowing me out. My ears hum with the sound of a thousand dragonflies as I stare absently through the glass door, a million thoughts crashing into me at once.

I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.

Everything is going wrong.

My breathing picks up as my brain feels like it is being plunged underwater.

“Deer?”

A strong hand curls around my own, which is still clutching the door handle. I blink and startle back, my shoulders bumping into a hard chest. That strong hand comes up to curl around my bicep and steadies me.

“Are you okay?”

The pure concern in his voice, it’s something I’ve never heard before, and it cracks a shard open within my battered, armored soul.

“No.”

The word is barely a whisper through my lips, but I know he heard me because his grip tightens on my bicep ever so slightly. Without saying anything else, he pulls me against his bare chest, his arms wrapping around me.

My brain short-circuits.

His skin feels hot against my cold body, and I let that warmth seep into me. I let it spread through my system and fill in the broken cracks of loneliness and guilt and fear.

I’ve always acknowledged that Jackson is massive, but never as much as in this very moment. I feel tiny compared to him, and the way his body cocoons mine makes me feel safe—the safest I’ve felt in weeks. Which is weird, considering how at odds we normally are with each other.

Jackson and I aren’t close, but right now there’s a connection in the way my heart begins to alter its beat to match the rhythm echoing through his chest. The steady thump grounds me.

He doesn’t say anything else as he rubs soft circles against my skin.

Just this once, I’ll let myself accept the comfort.

Just this once.

I’ll let someone into my shiny castle to see how it is crumbling inside.