ESCAPE: A Stepbrother Romance (These Wicked Games Book 2) (5 page)

“Oh,” I say.

She turns and walks away, leaving the door open.

“Thanks,” I call. I hear another door shut, and peek out into the hall. I look right, into the living room, which stands empty, then left, at all the closed doors.

I just want to crawl into bed and die.

I close the door, and stare at my topless form in the mirror.

I push my breasts up, then together.

Then I groan, pull out the wedgie and strip off, toss my blood-stained shorts into the garbage can, where I notice my shirt is also—Amélie must have put it there while I was at the hospital—and get into the bath. If I’m lucky, I’ll fall asleep and drown.

The next morning, in the moment between my feet leaving the bed and hitting the floor, I have a brief belief that I had a dream where Cade and I were caught.

Then my mind reminds me it was real, and I whimper in humiliation.

I look at the clock, see it’s still early, and creep down the hall to the bathroom, where, since I don’t have a toothbrush, I scrape my tongue with my teeth and rinse my mouth with mouthwash.

Then, stomach growling, I head quietly to the kitchen. If I can just get out of here before I have to see Amélie again, that would be good.

And I’ll have to find some way to find which room Cade is in.

I feel an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, not at all related to hunger, at the thought. For all I know, he could be in bed with— No.

Not after what she saw. She’d be too weirded out.

Right?

But, why should she? It’s not like we’re related. There’s nothing wrong—

I reach the kitchen and Amélie looks up at me from the table, wearing a very pretty, pale pink nightie. Her hands are wrapped around a mug of something hot. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

“There’s hot chocolate if you want some.”

My stomach lets me know it most definitely does. “Thanks.” I’m unaccountably relieved to see her. Because if she’s here, it means she’s not with Cade.

“Top right,” she says when I just stare in search of a mug.

Of course, it doesn’t mean she didn’t sleep with him last night—while I was alone in my bed.

Well, not
my
bed.

“I’ll get it,” she says, seeing me struggling to reach that high. She reaches over my head and grabs a mug. “My little sister’s about your height. It’s the same when she comes by.”

I force a smile and take the mug. “Not as tall as you?”

“Not yet. She’s only seven though.”

I try not to groan. To prevent this, and any further conversation which might go in directions I’d like not to travel, I pour the hot chocolate.

The first sip is almost like an orgasm.

In some ways, it’s better.

I moan.

Amélie sits back down and tilts her head at me. “So, you and Cade.”

My face turns hotter than the chocolate, and I stutter some things that are trying to be words, but are falling short.

“It’s not like he’s your brother. Not really. Right?”

“Um.” I sip my hot chocolate and try not to choke.

“How long?”

I swallow. “What?”

“You and him.”

I shake my head. “No. Not us.”

She cocks her head to the side. “Really?
Avoir l'air amoureuse.
”

“I don’t speak French.”

“No, you don’t.” She goes back to what she had been doing, which I now see is watching a video on her tablet.

I look around the kitchen like it’s the Louvre. Anywhere but at her.

Not that she’s paying me any attention anymore.

I take another sip. God it really is good. I wonder what kind it is, but can’t bring myself to ask her. Who
knows
where
that
could lead.

I blow on my drink, and decide to leave the kitchen. This apartment has a view, so I’ll view it.

Before I can even get past the couch which delineates the kitchen from the living room however, the front door opens.

Amélie and I look up at the same time, and see Cade, hold two bags in one hand.

I rush to him.

She beats me there. “Are you okay?
Tu sais que tu m'as manqué
. Where were you?”

He heads to the kitchen, ignoring her, dropping a bag at my feet as he passes me. “Get dressed.”

When he gets to the kitchen, he sets the other bag he was carrying onto the counter. “I saw your phone was broken.” He points at the bag. “I forgot to get your old one. I convinced them to transfer it without you there, but they couldn’t find your account. I gave the number, but the name didn’t match.”

“It’s my mom’s.”

“Still? They didn’t shut it when—” He stops himself. “We can call a guy I know when we get to the airport. He said he can do it over the phone.”

“You’re leaving?” Amélie asks, following him into the kitchen.

Cade doesn’t answer, and I can’t help feel smug satisfaction at this.

I pick up the bag of clothes and do as he says, any worry about leaving the two of them alleviated. For now.

I shut the bathroom door and pull the clothes Cade got me from the bag.

And am disappointed.

“The fuck?” I mumble.

I hold the pants out in front of me. It’s not that they won’t fit, or will be uncomfortable. No, it’s that they’ll be
too
comfortable.

For the pants are sweatpants. And not even the kinda cheeky/sexy ones with things like
JUICY
across the ass. No. Just plain sweatpants.

I’m even more disappointed to find a sports bra and sports underwear.

Not even granny panties. No, that would be too intimate.

I pull off the oversized shirt Amélie gave me—which in comparison to what I’m about to don is illicitly sexy—and stare at my naked body in the mirror.

And suddenly get horny.

The door’s not even locked. Cade could come in, catch me like this, catch me…

I start touching myself, looking at my hand, my lips.

I grab my boob with my other hand and squeeze, imaging it’s Cade’s large hand instead of my own.

My finger slides in my wetness, up and down. I grind my palm hard into myself.

I jump at the sudden knock and spin to face the door.

“Mags. Are you ready?”

Suddenly I feel like an idiot. Like some pervert. I’m naked and touching myself, and all he has to do to catch me is—

“Almost.”

There’s silence for a moment, and I stare at the handle, expecting it to turn, praying it doesn’t, yearning for it to.

“Hurry up.” Then I hear his footsteps walking away.

I let out a breath—of relief or exasperation, I can’t say—and wipe my hand on Amélie’s shirt before putting on the underwear.

I actually don’t look half bad in it. I’d
almost
have the courage to wear it to the gym, or jogging.

At night.

I do like how they smooth everything out, even if the bra isn’t doing my boobs any favors by smoothing
them
out.

I put on the rest of the frumpy attire and look at myself once more.

The t-shirt isn’t too bad. Kinda tight, and I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than frumpy, in my case.

Still, with Amélie in her sexy nightie, and Cade, though disheveled, looking sexy as ever, I’m almost too embarrassed to exit the room.

I consider digging through the trash for my trashed Hooters shorts.

But they’re a bloody mess.

I go out to the kitchen, bracing myself for the comments on my appearance, for the terribly-concealed giggles.

Amélie and Cade look up at me. Amélie’s eyes look puffy, but since she’s not wearing makeup, I can’t tell if it’s from sleep, and they were like that earlier, or if it’s from Cade, and a new development.

Cade looks me over. “Good. Our plane leaves soon.”

“We’re leaving now?” I ask.

Amélie asks something very similar at the same time, though I couldn’t hear her over my own voice.

Cade doesn’t answer either of us. He picks up a glass of something dark from the counter, downs it in one swallow, then sets the glass down with a clack. “Don’t forget your phone.”

Then he turns and walks out the door.

I look at Amélie, and have to look away when I see she’s about to cry.

I can’t feel sorry for the bitch.

I just can’t let myself.

I grab the bag with my new phone, hurry after Cade, and don’t shut the door behind me.

Cade says nothing to me all the way down to the car.

I try to think of some way to start, to bring up what happened. But I can’t make up my mind on whether I should.

I don’t want to ruin whatever chance might remain, if any does.

And I still don’t know what’s going on with them.

Cade looks around as we get into the car.

It’s only when I sit in it that I realize I’ve been in it before. “Thought this was hers,” I say, putting on my seatbelt.

Cade stares at me.

I feel like a little kid who’s just told the older kids she still believes in Santa.

“I just…” I trail off, unsure what to say.

“Sorry. I didn’t sleep. She’s letting me use it.”

He puts his own seatbelt on, then checks behind us before pulling out into the street.

“So,” I say, trying to ease the awkward silence, “how does it feel to drive yourself around?” I want to ask why he didn’t sleep, but somehow that feels too pushy. God, I never used to be this awkward around him. But then I never used to be in love with him.

Not consciously, in any case.

“I always drive myself.”

This is going well. “So you’re not one of those billionaires who has a team of drivers to take them everywhere?”

He glances at me. “Are you okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine.”

“Mags. I may be tired, but I know you.”

I feel a smile pull at my lips.

He glances in the rearview, then over at me. “Don’t worry about Amélie.”

I want to ask what way he means that. Whether I shouldn’t worry about her seeing us, or whether I shouldn’t worry about them. There
being
a them at all.

“Where are we going?”

“The airport.” He looks behind us like he’s going to change lanes, but doesn’t. “We’ll be in the air within the hour.”

“And out of this hellhole?”

I see him smile. “Yeah.”

I feel a weight lifted from me. If he’s so anxious to leave, he can’t possibly still have feelings for Amélie. If he did, he wouldn’t leave her.

Except, I can’t push away the gnawing worry that he would.

“What do you keep looking at?” I ask when he looks in the rearview mirror yet again.

“Nothing.” He looks again.

I laugh the laugh of a parent whose kid denies they stole from the cookie jar as crumbs fall from their mouth. “Cade.”

He glances at me again. “It’s nothing. I’m just being paranoid.”

I shake my head and give up.

We drive for several minutes, and I try to ignore his constant checking behind us.

My phone buzzes. I take it out and look at it. I grunt.

“Who’s that?” Cade asks as he looks behind us again.

“Cynthia keeps texting me.”

“What is she saying?”

“That she’s worried.”

“Don’t reply.”

“I won’t.”

He looks behind us again.

I shake my head and look out the window.

Then he says, “Huh.”

“What?” I ask while still looking out the passenger window.

“I was wrong.”

“About w—”

Cade slams on the breaks and jerks the wheel left.

I scream and look first at him, then at the road, just in time to see the truck we’re about to slam into.

“Fuck!” Cade hits the steering wheel, then checks behind us.

“We need to get out of the road,” I say, stunned I can say anything at all. I stare at the deployed passenger airbag, now deflated, trying to figure out if it was the noise airbags or the collision that is making my ears ring now.

The guy in the truck gets out and checks the damage. He looks to us.

“Just drive away,” I say. I don’t mean it. But I’m suddenly very uncomfortable. Like something black and rotten is settling in the pit of my stomach.

“Stay in the car.”

“Cade—”

He struggles to get his seatbelt off, then opens the door and gets out and slams the door behind him.

I can’t hear what he says, but I can hear the other guy, saying we came from nowhere, that he had the right-of-way.

I hit the button to roll down my window, but nothing happens. I reach for the key to turn the car’s power on, but don’t find on. Just a start/stop button. I press it experimentally, but still, nothing happens.

Quietly, I crack open the door to hear.

“—just take care of it here,” I hear Cade say.

The man shakes his head, and puts his phone to his ear. “I’d like to report an accident.” He looks around, anywhere but at Cade, ignoring him.

Knowing Cade, I see where this is heading and quickly get out and go to his side, taking his arm. “Hey.”

He looks down at me, then back at the man.

I shake my head. “Don’t.”

When we were growing up, Cade got in a lot of fights. I guess it’d be more accurate to say, he ended a lot of fights before they could properly start.

I was always surprised that anyone would even pick a fight with him, given how tall he was, and how strong he looked—and at the time, his reputation. But kids are dumb, I guess. Especially boys.

And so they kept falling to his fists.

But this was the grownup world, and the reputation he had to protect now was not of his fighting prowess—at least not for any physical fight.

Before I have a chance to see whether my interception has worked, a police car pulls up, lights flashing.

“That was fast,” I say.

“Too fast,” Cade mutters.

“Finally,” the guy says. The way he says it is odd. Like a forced line.

Two officers get out of the patrol car, and slowly make their way to us, hands resting on the butts of their guns.

“Shit,” Cade says.

“What?”

He shakes his head.

I see movement and turn in time to see a fist flying toward us.

It collides with the back of Cade’s head and sends him stumbling forward.