“It’s fine. It’s not your fault.”
“I know, but I still feel bad.” I sigh. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Silence stretches between us. He clearly wants to ask me something, but what?
“Actually, I need to talk to you about something,” he says. “Can you maybe go with me somewhere at lunchtime?”
Normally, there’d be no way I’d go to lunch with West, but a lot has changed over the course of a week. Plus, we’re technically supposed to be fake dating.
“Yeah, sure,” I reply. “Honestly, we should probably have lunch, anyway, since we’re technically supposed to be dating.”
“True,” he agrees. “All right then, I’ll meet you at your locker after fourth period. It can be our first official date.”
“Fake date,” I correct.
“Mmmhmm,” is all he says. I start to ask what he means by that when he adds, “Crap. I’m here. That was a shorter drive than I wanted. I gotta go.”
“Okay.” I prepare to hang up, but it feels like something else needs to be said. “If you need anything, text me, okay? I keep my phone on me in class, even though we’re not supposed to.”
“You little rebel,” he teases.
I shake my head, throwing back at him, “Like you’re one to talk.”
He laughs. “I guess we’re perfect for each other.” Before I can ream into him for that, he says, “Bye, Lex. Talk to you soon.”
We hang up then and, for a moment, I just sit there, highly aware of how light I feel after talking to him. I’m not sure what that means, but I feel like it might mean something, which really freaks me out for a lot of reasons.
It has me worried. Not just that I’m starting to feel things for West, but that because, starting today, I have to start making West fall in love with me so I can break his heart.
What if I break both of ours in the process?
My stomach churns at the thought. And that churning sensation only magnifies when I receive a text from the blackmailer.
Unknown: Are you ready to start the game?
“What damn game?” I mutter, hovering my fingers over the keyboard as I deliberate what to say.
Me: You keep saying we’re playing a game, but how am I supposed to know how to play if I don’t even know what game I’m playing?
Unknown: That’ll be revealed in time. Right now, the rules are pretty simple: do what I say and no one will get hurt.
I swallow the lump wedged in my throat. Maybe I should just tell the police; let myself deal with the consequences.
Unknown: Oh yeah, and as an added enticement, I thought I’d throw this in there. Your brother is currently under scrutiny by CPS. If you don’t want a ton of child neglect reports to flow in, I’d recommend doing what I say.
Anger burns underneath my skin. How dare he bring my family into this? How dare he threaten them?
Me: Don’t you dare bring my family into this.
Unknown: I won’t as long as you do what I say.
The muscles in my jaw pulsate as I reread the messages. It dawns on me then that this is evidence. Evidence that I can prove I’ve been blackmailed.
I need to tell Loki.
Swallowing hard, I make my way down the stairs where Loki is pouring a cup of coffee. He’s dressed in a button-down shirt and pants—his work clothes.
“Don’t forget that you’re supposed to paint the store after school today,” he tells me as he sets the coffee pot down. “And then, this weekend, I want you to help out at the store.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath and step farther into the kitchen. You can do this. You can do this. You can do this. “Loki, there’s something I need to tell you.”
He glances up at me with a frown on his face. “What happened?”
I hate that he thinks something happened, but I guess it kind of did.
This is all my fault. If I’d just stayed out of trouble, then the blackmailer wouldn’t have all this dirt on me.
“I’ve been getting these messages.” I swipe my finger across the screen of my phone and move to open the messages. Then my heart nearly bottoms into my stomach.
They’re gone. The entire thread.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I mutter under my breath as panic flares through me.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. But, as I stare down at my screen, I realize that, yes, this is happening. That either I somehow deleted the thread or the blackmailer did.
“Nothing. Never mind,” I tell Loki as I back out of the kitchen.
He looks at me with concern. “Lex, are you okay?”
“Yep.” I plaster on the fakest smile ever then whirl around and rush out of the kitchen, panic soaring through me.
When I reach my room, I shut the door and let out a shaky breath. Who is this person doing this to me?
“God, I hope West finds out something soon,” I mumble.
Until then, I guess I’ll play the game.
Or at least pretend to, something I’m unfortunately good at.
2
West
If I didn’t need answers, I wouldn’t be here. I’m exhausted, slightly hungover, and have a lot of other stuff to worry about, like figuring out how Blaine is attached to this blackmailing thing with Alexis, and figuring out what I’m going to do about what Jay did to Alexis. Because I’m going to do something. Killing him was the first thing that came to mind, but I don’t think I’m a killer. I’m definitely up for tormenting, though. I just need a plan.
First, I need to focus on getting through breakfast with my parents. That’s the thing, though. They might not be my parents. But this is the only way to get to the bottom of if they are, who they are to me, why they adopted me if they clearly hate kids, and who in the hell are my real parents.
Sucking in a deep breath, I climb out of the car then head inside one of the few five-star hotels in Honeyton. It has a restaurant attached to it that serves bottomless mimosas, which is why I’m assuming we’re here—my fake mother has a thing for mimosas. And wine. And pills.
When I peer in the restaurant area, though, I can’t spot them anywhere, so I dig out my phone and send Loraine, aka my questionable mother, a text.
Me: Where are you? I’m by the restaurant, and you’re not there.
Loraine: We’re not meeting at the restaurant. We’re meeting in one of the rooms. Take the elevator to the six floor and go to room 618.
“What the hell is she up to?” I mutter as I make my way past the front desk and toward the elevators.
The receptionist behind the desk scrutinizes me as I pass, her gaze scrolling over my nearly all-black outfit, my unlaced boots, my facial piercings, and my bloodshot eyes.
I used to not look like this. I used to dress preppy like my parents wanted me to. It’s crazy because I’m the same person I’ve always been, yet put on some nice clothes and people treat you differently, like you’re a better person if you look put together on the outside.
That’s a bunch of bullshit. My parents are proof of that. They’re two of the most put together people on the outside. On the inside, though, monsters live; one full of rage and anger, the other numb, cold, and uncaring.