Page 6 of Wicked Games

I open my suitcase so I can put my clothes away. “About as well as I expected. He’s only threatened to kill me once so far.”

“That’s progress.”

“I wouldn’t get too excited; he was only here for two minutes before his guard dogs dragged him away.”

She wrinkles her forehead. “I don’t know who’s worse, Killian or the twins.”

“Killian,” I say without hesitating. “The twins at least have an excuse for being assholes. Killian is an asshole because he’s an asshole.”

She snickers. “And what’s their excuse? They share a brain, so it’s not their fault?” Her smile drops, and she looks around the room anxiously. “Why do I feel like talking about them in here is going to summon them or something? It’s like they’re listening to us.”

“I didn’t check the room for bugs, so you never know.” I stick the last pile of clothes in my dresser and push the drawer closed with my hip. The dresser is probably as old as the building, and Ican’t help marveling at how well kept it, just like everything else in the house, is considering it’s spent the last hundred years in a frat house.

“Do you really think he’d bug the room?” she asks nervously.

“I doubt it. I imagine they say and do enough shady shit in here that bugging the place wouldn’t be in their best interest.”

“True.” She purses her lips thoughtfully.

“What?”

“I just don’t understand why you had to room with him in the first place,” she says. “I mean, I get the whole concept of putting family members together after a tragedy so they can support each other through it, but Killian isn’t your real brother. And there’s that whole thing where he hates your guts and wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I don’t get it either. I tried bringing that up when the grief counselor was going on about how important it is to lean on family to get through tough times.” I huff out a laugh. “He didn’t appreciate it when I said I’d rather slide down a banister made of razor blades and land in a pool full of vinegar than room with Killian.”

She makes a face. “Thanks for putting that visual in my head.”

“Anytime.” I zip up my suitcase and stick it against the wall so I can deal with storing it later.

“So, how are you doing?” she asks, her tone careful.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah, fine.” I unzip my duffle bag and pull out more of my stuff to put away.

“So you’re over it?”

I shoot her a flat look. “Do you really think forty-eight hours is enough time to get over burying more than half of my living relatives?”

She winces. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

I let out another sigh and go back to unpacking. “I know. And to answer your question, no, I’m not over it.”

“I’m sorry.” She shoots me an apologetic look. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say right now. I want to be a good friend and help you through this, but I have no idea how to do that.”

“There isn’t really a playbook for this kind of thing,” I tell her as I arrange the contents of my bedside drawer. “I know you want to help, but there’s nothing anyone can do. I just need to bury it deep in my subconscious like all the other shit that’s happened in my life, and I’ll get over it.”

“Is that really the best idea?”

“No.” I close the drawer and put the paperback I’m currently reading on the glossy surface of the table. “But it’s either that or let the grief cripple me, so I’m going with option A.”

“Do you think maybe you should talk to someone, like a therapist or something?” she asks tentatively.

“No,” I repeat and slide the paperback closer to the edge of the table so I won’t have to look at her and see the concern and pity in her eyes.

“But—”

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