These Vicious Games (Seattle Undeground)

Chapter 15

“Behind every sweet smile, there is a bitter sadness that no one can ever see and feel.” - Tupac.

Past

His hands were bigger. Calloused and startling, beautiful. He’d let me measure my hand against his when I couldn’t sleep at night. When the shouting was too much to bear and I was scared of what was to come.

He was older, not by a lot, a few years, but he always seemed so grown. Wise beyond his years. His eyes spoke of horrors he never confessed. His body rough with more scars than I could count. But his smiles. Only for me.

He’d sit in my bed at night, the door locked as hell waged war beyond the doors. His arms crossed over his chest, ankles crossed and above the covers. I’d read him love stories I’m sure he didn’t care for but never complained.

His scent was always a comfort. Dark decisions and tobacco. Something that was so him, I always felt safe when I smelled it.

He was my light.

“Promise we’ll always be friends?” I asked.

His head tilted, mouth smirking. “Friends?”

I held my pinky out, “Yes. Promise.”

His larger pinky wrapped around mine. “Promise.” He whispers.

Present

I wake with a gasp.

I had a memory from before.

What does it mean though? My older brothers had been gone by then. I know this because logically it’s impossible. They’re years older than me. I had to be in my mid to late teens at that point. Plus, my little brother was still small, it couldn't have been him. Especially not with the age gape

So, who was the boy and why were we hiding in a locked room?

I scoot to the edge of the mattress, grabbing the file I stole from under the bed.

Opening it, I read.

Constance Pearson

Birthday: October 17 th , 1995

Birthplace: Seattle, Washington

Birthmarks: A small brown birthmark on the underside of her right thigh.

I pause, eyes narrowing. Who needs to know where my birthmark is? Oddly creepy.

Illness: Psychogenic amnesia.

Cause: The patient suffers psychogenic amnesia due to…

A knock on the door makes me freeze, stuffing the papers back in the folder, I stuff it under my pillow. Plastering on a fake smile, I call, “Come in!”

Francis opens the door slowly, peeking his head in. “Miss, it’s time for breakfast.”

“Thank you, Francis. Let me get freshened up.”

He nods, closing the door.

My smile falls and my fingers graze over the folder. It felt as if I was reading a medical file. One I don’t remember getting or ever seeing before. I rub my temple, why can’t I remember anything? It couldn’t have been that bad.

Begrudgingly, I lift the covers off, going to the closet and grabbing a long flowy skirt, tucking an off-shoulder shirt into it. I brush my teeth, running my fingers through my hair in hopes it’ll chill out a little bit.

When I sit down at my usual spot, Francis brings me my medicine. I smile and thank him. Something slams on the table causing me to look up and see roses stuffed in a human skull. I narrow my eyes at it. That can’t be real, can it?

My eyes meet Attius, his face and shirt have blood on them. He pulls his black gloves off with his teeth, throwing them down. His eyes are like live wires, so hungry and animalistic. He turns, stalking out of the room.

“Francis…”

He sighs, reading my thoughts. “I’m afraid so, Miss. From his latest…hunt. He did that this morning. Not like him to miss the fifteenth but something important must have come up yesterday.”

I blush, looking away. Surely Francis doesn’t know what happened. I’m not sure I would ever be able to look him in the eyes again if he does.

Francis sets down my fruit and yogurt, a side of toast and an iced espresso on the table. “What are your plans for today, miss?”

Reading that damn file for one. “Just going to my library. Read a book. Maybe play the piano.” I shrug. Lying to Francis didn’t feel great, but he would surely turn me in. “May I ask you something, Francis?”

“Sure, miss.” He folds his hands behind his back.

“The flowers….” I point to the still bloody skull. “How should I… take that?”

Francis twists his lips. “Honestly, miss. I’m not sure. Atticus has always been a little…”

“Dreadful, grumpy, animalistic?” I supply..

“Yes.”

“How long have you known him?” I ask.

“Don’t chit chat with the prisoner, Francis. It’s beneath you.”

I turn my glare to the man in question, narrowing my eyes. “I’m beneath no one.”

Atticus sits, eyes dancing. “I must have dreamed yesterday, then.”

I blush fiercely, throwing my satin napkin down and pushing my chair back. “I’m full.” I announce. I stand, walking out the door.

Making my way to my room, shutting the door behind me. I walk to the bed, hands patting for the file and coming up empty.

“Looking for this, Little Bird?”

I turn, my eyes narrowing on the folder clasped between Atticus' strong fingers. “How did you know I had that?”

“As if I don’t know every single detail about my office.”

“Why can’t I have it, exactly?” I perch my hands on my hips.

He slowly walks towards me, dropping my file to the ground as he grabs me by the waist, pulling me closer. His hands bunch in my skirts and he looks down at me. “Did you ever think that you don’t remember for a reason. Why not leave well enough alone?”

I raise my hands to his face, touching him freely as he’s touching me. Skating my finger down his scar. “Shouldn’t that be my decision?”

“No, little prisoner.” He shutters as I reach his jaw. He lowers his face closer to mine, his breath mingles with mine, slipping into my mouth and filling my lungs. “Now get your fucking hands off me.” He hisses, pushing me away.

I stumble back, my body colliding with the bed behind me. I feel as if I have whiplash with his stupid hot and cold mood swings. He should probably have his doctor friend prescribe him something for that. I watch him snatch the papers up, stuffing them in the file. “Get ready to travel. Someone will be in to pack your bags.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

But he doesn’t answer. Just slams the door behind him. Leaving a storm cloud in his wake.

Atticus narrows his eyes at the tights and oversized T-Shirt I’m sporting. A braid falling over my shoulder. I raise an eyebrow when I take a seat across from him in his private jet.

“Where the fuck did you find these clothes from?” He questions.

“Let’s see. These are my fluffy slippers I wear to walk around the house. These tights were in my dresser and this shirt,” I smile, “Is yours. And I found the hat in Francis' closet.”

“You went through my things? Again.”

“Don’t be all growly, sunshine,” I found it in the laundry room. “Besides,” I slide my glasses over my eyes. “Why do you care?”

“Take it off.” He hisses.

“No.”

He reaches over and I smack his hand. “I said, no. Do not touch me.”

His eyes narrow at me. He’s the one who’s unamused now. “Did you forget you're my prisoner?”

“Did you forget your promise?”

His eyes widened slightly. “What?” He whispers.

I give him a bland, annoying look. “You promised to kill me. Yet, here I am, breathing.”

He clears his throat. “Don’t tempt me.” He mumbles, resting his head into the seat.

I wonder if maybe I’m growing on him and that’s why he hasn’t taken me out yet. Only time will tell.