These Vicious Games (Seattle Undeground)

Chapter 28

“The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you.”

-David Foster Wallace

Past

"Constance, no matter what you hear or what you see, you have to run. Run and never look back. I'll find you; I promise."

His body covers mine, fingers sliding my underwear back into place. I blink, tears still spilling. “Are you ready?” He whispers. “When I jump up, you run. Run until you can’t anymore.”

I clutch his shirt, my eyes looking between his, “Come with me.” I plead.

“I can’t, it’s you or me. And you’re too pure to live in that world.” He moves over me.

“What world?”

“We don’t have time.” He pleads with me with his eyes to understand, but I don't. I want him to come with me.

He jumps off me and before I can blink, he’s on his dad, knocking him off the chair and tackling him to the ground.

I scream, curling myself around my knees as I bring them to my chest. “Atticus!”

He looks at me with so much fear my heart thunders in my chest. “Run!” He roars right as the knife comes down on his face, over and over again, blood pouring around his eyes. “Fucking run, Constance.”

And so I do. I run until I forget who I am.

My body trembles as I sit in the shower, body laying on the tile as I allow the shower to pour over me.

I can’t tell if I’m crying or if it’s the water, but my cheeks feel hot. My chest is constricted and I can’t breathe. I gasp, trying to take in any air, but it feels impossible.

My fingers digging into my skin as I hyperventilate.

I can’t function, not with what I know. He sacrificed himself so I could escape and I have no clue what lies ahead for him, but judging by the picture I found in his desk, I know it wasn’t good. It couldn’t have been.

Why? Why would he do that for me? One more year and he could have left and never looked back, but instead he…

I can hear a distant calling of my name, the rapid pound on the door. I believe it’s Francis.

After the visit to whoever that woman was because she was no mother, I locked myself in the guest room and I haven’t come out since.

“Miss? Are you alright?”

I can’t get any words out, I can barely catch a single breath as I allow the scene of Atticus' young, bloody face looking at me and telling me to run.

What a coward I was. How could I leave him like that? Allow him to suffer for me. And he was doing it the whole time. Walking me to and from school. Locking me away in my room while he stood guard. When did he sleep? Why did he even care enough to protect me from his father, my mother?

Questions on loop like my own personal hell. Plunging me deeper and deeper into the numb abyss I long for.

I sink into that feeling. Drifting away until something pulls me. Brings me back and grounds me.

Strong arms wrapped around me, my body curled in his lap as he rubs my throat soothingly.

“Good girl. Look at you listening for the first time ever.”

His voice soothes me, rocking me like a lullaby and bringing me back to the present.

I blink the fog away, my eyes connecting to the mossy green I’ve spent loving since I was fifteen.

My hands touch his face, my fingertips tracing the scar. “I’m so sorry.”

He looks confused until realizing that I’ve remembered. He grabs my hand, bringing it to his lips and laying bites on the tips of my fingers. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Why?” That's all I can ask.

His face grows stony, and he looks as if he’s putting up walls.

“Please,” I beg. “Please, just tell me why?”

He licks his lips, our eyes melting into one another, “Because I loved you. I’ve loved you longer than I’ve been legally allowed to.”

My heart skips, butterflies trapped in my stomach, flapping excitedly. Because he loves me. Even though he shouldn’t.

He shouldn't love me, he shouldn't want to have anything to do with me. “You loved me?” I ask.

“Loved, love, obsessed, it doesn't matter.” He says softly.

“It matters to me.” I slowly begin unbuttoning his wet shirt. Pushing it over his mountainous shoulders and soaking up the sight of his skin and muscles. I’ve never seen him without a shirt.

I allow my hands to fall over his neck, down his chiseled chest and back over the bulging muscles of his arms. I touch every uneven blemish of scars on his body. Way too many for a man of his age.

My hands fall to his belt, slowly undoing it. Suddenly, he lifts me, standing as he kicks and battles with his slacks to rid himself of them and his boxer briefs.

Atticus lifts me above him, sitting me on his shoulders so my intimate part is positioned at his mouth. My back slams into the tile, and his mouth comes down on me, making me cry out and wiggle against him. My hands balance on his head as I hold on for dear life. His free hand trails up my body, latching onto my breast, kneading and squeezing until I’m coming, soaking his face with my release.

Gently, he lets me fall down his body, capturing my throat and spearing my mouth with his hot tongue. His other hand wraps around my leg, hooking it over his hip before thrusting in.

I gasp around him, my nails sinking into his skin. He bucks into me, my back sliding up and down the tile wall with every thrust.

I grip his chin, peppering kisses up his jaw over the scar that reaches under his eye. He shudders , his thrust growing lazy and slow. He captures my neck, turning my head so our noses brush. He kisses me slowly, almost lovingly as he rubs his tongue against mine. His other hand trails down my stomach, rubbing my clit to the rhythms of his thrust.

“Atticus,” I whisper-gasp.

“Are you going to be a good girl and cum for me?”

“Yes.”

“Suffocate my cock in your tiny little pussy? Hmm, Little Bird? Are you going to milk me?”

“Yes, yes,” I chant, feeling the climb of my orgasm before it washes over me, taking him with me as he growls into my ear.

Our release drips down my legs but he doesn’t stop, he keeps slowly fucking me against the wall. Sending me over again, and again. Until I’m so sensitive I’m crying.

“I want you to remember what I feel like.” He whispers.

Spent and in the master bed this time, I lay in Atticus’ sleeping arms. But I can’t sleep. Instead I pull the sheet down to his waist, placing hard hickeys in the shape of a heart on his chest. But as I move down his waist, I pause. My fingers running over the music notes. And with clarity, I realize it’s my song… the one I wrote for him and he has the full song.

“What are you doing, Little Bird?” He murmurs, eyes peeking open to look down at me.

“You… you have the song I wrote.” I say dumbfounded.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches me as I study the ending of the song. Mesmerizing it whole.

I grab a black dress shirt of his, slipping it on and padding barefoot to the piano in the living room that overlooks the city.

I place my fingers on the piano, looking up in time to see Atticus sitting on the top of the piano in a pair of sweats and nothing else.

Atticus sits on top of the piano, listening to me play his song. “I’m not worth the time and energy to write a song for.” He says once I’m done.

I scoff, “You’re everything to me, Atticus.”

My fingers rejoice, playing over the keys and when I hit the final notes happy tears leak as I hear the familiar song in its entirety

“It’s been you the whole time. The song stuck in my head and permanently glued to my soul,” I look up at him, smiling.

It’s always been him.