Page 14 of Ruthless Game

But that wasn’t true. I’d wanted nothing more than to find her, even as I tried to forget her. But her last words to me had burned themselves into my brain, words I couldn’t erase no matter what I did.

I never want to see or hear from you again. Don’t bother trying, because after this, you no longer exist. This is the end of us, Max. I hope you’re happy.

I could recite it in my nightmares.

But if I told her that …

If I told her that …

Then I’d lose any power I had. She’d walk all over me, and I’d be back at square one. Worse, because with her inches away from me, I didn’t even have distance as a buffer between us. No way to keep myself from falling under her spell again. And this time, if I let myself, there’d be nothing left.

“You’re right, Starburst. If I’d wanted to find you, I would have. You weren’t worth the energy,” I lied.

She looked like I’d shot her puppy. But instead of responding, she unlocked the door to her apartment.

Before she could slam it in my face, I grabbed it, pushing it open and following her inside.

“You’ve got to be faster than that, Starburst,” I mocked.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “Stop calling me that. You lost the privilege of calling me by any nickname when we broke up, but especially that one. Don’t make me hate you anymore than I already do, Lawson.”

Lawson.

I didn’t know what burned worse, Emma saying she hated me, or calling me Lawson, when she’d always called me Max. I chose to ignore whatever fucked up feeling was in my chest right now and glanced around the apartment. It looked nothing like the Emma I remembered, who loved soft pastels and frilly shit. This Emma had black and white abstract photographs I couldn’t make sense of on the walls of her studio apartment, and black and white sheets and pillows on her bed. There was no color, no softness. Instead, the apartment screamed bleak, cold desperation. Distance.

Loneliness.

Instead of feeling remotely sympathetic, I got angry. What the fuck did Emma have to be so depressed about, that she had to express it in this overdramatic, trendy way? Was this just regular college ennui? She had a family who loved her and a future that came with one hell of a safety net. And if she was lonely, that was her own goddamn fault.

“Pack,” I snapped, crossing my arms and watching her.

She pulled a suitcase out from under the single bed and flipped it open, folding clothes hung in the wardrobe and stuffing them into the suitcase. I ignored her, wandering over to the desk to see the books piled there. Textbooks on child psychology and public policy. This much studying? But then Emma had always been smart, and a hard worker. Working with Childhood Survivors of Trauma. Torn Apart. The Whole-Brain Child. The Lost Children of Wilder. What Happened to You?

The last title stuck with me. I flinched, like Emma had asked me that herself.

When I’d sweet talked the admissions office to fast track Emma’s transfer “application,” I’d had her transcripts sent to Reina, but I hadn’t bothered to look at them, so I hadn’t known what she was studying. Emma had always talked about wanting to become a child psychologist who also worked in public policy. I was so lucky, she’d always say. Jeffrey and my parents gave me a home, but so many of those other kids never get that opportunity. They get lost in the system, or deal with horrible foster families. I want to help the ones who don’t get lucky.

I’d always admired how noble that was. I had no interest in helping anyone else, I just needed security.

“So you’re still angling for that do-gooder life,” I remarked. “Working really hard to make that tarnished halo shine, Angel.”

She twisted her head to look at me over her shoulder. Pure loathing was etched across her face.

“Some of us care about other people, Lawson. You should try it, I hear it’s good for your complexion.”

“She has jokes.”

“She speaks truths.”

I locked eyes with her, unwilling to back down. She thought she’d win the war between us, but I wouldn’t let her take victory in a single fucking battle. Even naked ones.

“At least I don’t pretend to care about people,” I mocked. “What’s worse, being openly callous, or pretending to be compassionate when you’re really a selfish bitch?”

There was a puh sound, like I’d knocked the wind out of her, and she turned her head away, busying herself with folding sweaters in a second suitcase.

Sorry, I wanted to say. Emma, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.

I bit the insides of my lips so hard, I broke skin, tasting blood. It was the only way I could stay quiet. The urge to make up for hurting her was an old one. Muscle memory, like she’d said earlier, when she saved me from becoming roadkill. It was the dumb kid inside me who cared, and he’d be nothing more than a ghost once I got what I came for.