Page 22 of Fair Game


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A longer pause. “Like, someone attacked you? Why?”

“Had a problem with what I was doing. Didn’t like the look of me. Who fucking knows?” His voice is starting to lose its shape. He’s been fighting the painkillers for a long time, and they’re winning.

Lydia yawns, and it carries over into the beginning of her sentence. “What were you doing?”

Nate hesitates. I wonder if he’s running calculations in his mind. Deciding what he should tell Lydia, and when, because if she’s living here, she’ll find out.

“I was working the street.”

“Like…” The comforter rustles as Lydia turns over. “Selling? Something?”

“You could say that.”

“Selling drugs?”

A heavier pause. “…no.”

“But then what—oh.”

Nate doesn’t say anything.

Lydia doesn’t say anything.

I put my foot out to head downstairs.

“I’m sorry you had to do that. And that somebody attacked you.”

“Um.” Nate’s either barely awake, or he’s choked up. “Thanks. I guess.”

“I’m not, like, a judgmental mean girl. If that’s why you don’t want to live with me.”

Nate mumbles something.

“What?”

“You’re getting your princess shampoo all over the place, and it smells too damn good.”

“Oh, please. Like you’re not getting your…I don’t know what it is. Body wash all over the place.”

“It’s not mine.”

“Ugh, whatever. It smells good, too. You don’t have to hate me for it.”

“’S not personal.” Nate’s putting up a serious effort against his painkillers. “I just don’t like cute girls.”

“Good. I don’t like hot guys.”

“Go’t’sleep, princess.”

“Shut up…Nate.”

I’m almost certain he doesn’t mean to give in, but a long, slow breath says he couldn’t stay awake anymore.

I’ve just reached the bottom of the stairs when there’s a gentle knock at the door. I open it to find Charlotte on the stoop with one of the agents. He gives me a professional nod and keeps a lookout while she comes inside and I lock the door behind her.

Then my best friend puts her arms around my neck and hugs me like we didn’t spend almost an hour attached to each other at the hospital. “Hi. How are you?”

“Not great.” I mean it to be funny, but it sounds high-strung and miserable instead. “I really needed you to come over.”

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