Playing for Keeps (The Game #2)(22)
Author: Emma Hart

“You’re cocky, Meggy.”

“I learnt from the best.” I smile sweetly at him as we get up.

Braden laughs, wrapping an arm around my shoulders again and squeezing me. “I miss being kids. It was so damn easy.”

Me too. No work, no future to worry about, no feelings to hurt.

No lies to tell.

Chapter Twelve – Aston

“Remember where you’ve been to see how far you’ve come,” I mumble to myself, pushing the psych paper aside. “Yeah alright, Gramps. Fuckin’ helps if you’ve actually got somewhere, though, doesn’t it?”

I push the heels of my hands into my eyes, rubbing harshly. Hear something enough and it’ll be burned into your body, scarring your skin and tattooing itself in your mind. It doesn’t matter how long ago the words were said. It just matters that they were.

Thirteen years and I don’t feel like I’ve got anywhere. So what if I’m not the scared little boy in the corner anymore? He’s still inside. He’s still afraid, still shivering. He’s still bruised, he’s still broken, and he’s still beaten.

Just because I appear not to give a f**k doesn’t mean I actually don’t. Not everyone is what they seem, and I’m one of those people. I don’t even know who I am, because I spend so much time fighting against who I don’t want to be. I have no time to be who I want to be. I have no time to be who I could be.

I spend too much time fighting against the memories that are buried deep down. But it doesn’t always work – occasionally they creep up on me faster than I realize and consume me, taking me back to the place I hate more than anything. It’s always voices – always whispers lingering on the edge of my consciousness. Sometimes a whisper is worse than a scream.

Just like her … No good for anything … Worthless …

I shove away from the desk, my chair getting caught on the carpet. It tips backwards as I stand. I ignore it, slip my feet into my sneakers and grab my wallet.

I need to prove them wrong. I need to prove myself wrong.

I ignore everyone on my way out of the house. If I speak to anyone, if I stop, if I think for even a second, I’ll be back in my room still swirling in the same pool of f**king self-doubt.

My engine whirs to life, and I pull away from the frat house. There’s a bar just outside the city, set away from the roads leading to the interstate, and it only takes one glance at the bar to know it’s a run down, no ID, shabby place.

The kind of place my mom would have worked at. The kind of place she would have been picked up at. The kind of place her dead body was found at.

I push on through the city traffic full of perfect people driving back to their perfect families in their perfect little goddamn houses.

You’re not worth anything.

I flick the radio to “on” and Trapt blares out, the beat of Headstrong fueling the feelings running rife through my body. A mixture of anger, determination, frustration, and a sliver of helplessness.

Because they still control my life. No matter what I do or where I go, the bastards that controlled my early childhood control me even now.

I take the turn off to the small road that will lead me to the bar. The road is deserted, no cars, nothing, until the bar comes into view. The parking lot outside is half full with rusted, run down cars that need more than a fresh coat of paint. My car looks out of place here.

I look out of place here.

I am out of place here. Mom wouldn’t have been; this would have been her idea of heaven. Here is where she could have arranged a meeting with a rich guy – the guy that would probably pay over the odds and then some, all because of the privacy.

I pull a cap onto my head and get out of the car, staring at the exterior of the bar. The sign is slightly broken, one of the lights flickering pathetically against the darkening of the sky behind it. Eighties music hums from inside, and a woman’s voice screeches. A scratchily written sign proclaims a karaoke night.

I push open the door and get hit by the smell of stale smoke and beer. A woman in a barely there outfit passes in front of me, a tray raised above her head as she weaves her way through the patrons gathered about the bar. It’s far from busy, but everyone is focused on the thirty-something woman trying to sing in the corner of the bar.

I adjust my cap and order a beer. I was right. This place doesn’t care about ID. A beer is put in front of me and I hand over the cash. No-one gives me a second look apart from the waitress cleaning glasses at the opposite end of the bar.

Her eyes flick up and down me and she runs her tongue across her lips. Her clothes barely cover any skin, leaving her body on show.

It’s all you’ll be good for.

Her bleach blonde hair is flicked over her shoulder as she bends over to put glasses away, causing every man at the bar to look at her ass.

You’re just like she is.

She straightens, sending me a suggestive smile. She’s not much older than me, maybe one or two years. I drink some of the flat beer as she meanders across to me.

“What’s a guy like you doing in this bar?” She leans forward, resting her elbows against the sticky wood. Her tits squeeze together, almost popping from her top.

You’re nothing, just like her. It’s all you’re good for. You’re worthless. Useless. A pile of shit. You’re just the son of a whore, born to be a whore.

There’s no stirring in my dick, no attraction toward this waitress flaunting herself right in front me. There’s no desire at all, except the one to get the hell out of here.

“You know what?” I push the glass toward her and stand. “I have no f**kin’ idea.”

I don’t wait for her reaction, instead I turn and leave the bar within minutes of my arrival. No-one notices me getting out except her. I was invisible.

My car is comforting. I rest my head against the steering wheel, fighting against the constant voices swirling in my head.

“I’m not,” I say quietly. “I’m not like her. I’m not like her!”

And I’m not.

If I was, I’d be waiting for that girl to finish her shift so I could f**k the shit out of her. That’s what my mom would have done, except she would have sold her body for money or drugs. She wouldn’t have thought about what she was doing or how it was affecting those around her.

But I am thinking. And I’m not waiting for the waitress.

I’m driving away from the seedy, run-down bar full of everything that’s bad.

I’m heading back to Megan. To something good.