Badly Behaved

His eyes widen, his head pulling back. “Jameson...”

“Never mind,” I backtrack quickly, the thought too much. “It’s—I don’t want to know.”

“Have you not been paying attention?” he says suddenly, and my eyes snap back toward him. He steps closer, his hand coming up to gently cup my cheek as he keeps our gazes connected. “Did you not hear anything I was saying?”

“Beretta...” My head aches, it’s pounding, and I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t want to want to hear anything, but I’m a dumb girl, and I do.

“He has never wanted anyone like he wants you,” he repeats his earlier words with a calming exhale. “We could feel it, sense him and his need for you. Why do you think we didn’t take you that first night, like we normally would?”

“That’s kind of an egotistical question to assume you could have,” I breathe.

He chuckles, nodding. “Yeah, but we’re damn good at convincing.” He grins and I too smile a little. “But I’m serious. He held off. He never holds off.” Beretta eyes me, waiting to see if I understand, but I don’t. “Jameson, he was anxious. You made him anxious, something he hadn’t felt in two years. He was damn near foaming at the mouth, that’s why we grabbed you. He had to feel you, to touch you in some way, right fucking then, but after that, he needed time to see what you were about, to see where your intrigue would lie.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you wanted in on the game three punks play with pretty, willing rich girls, or if you wanted him.” Beretta’s hand glides down my jawline, and his lips curl tenderly. “Didn’t take long to figure it out.”

My chest aches and my mind is a mess as I try to comprehend what he’s telling me, to grasp the situation he’s trying to lay out for me.

Of him and them.

Of them and me.

Of us.

Oh my god, there is an us...

My skin prickles from my neck down to my toes, realization reaching beneath my ribs and clenching the thing in my chest tight.

Too tight.

This is too much.

I wasn’t supposed to... we weren’t meant to...

There is an us.

My eyes snap up to Beretta’s and slowly, I back away, setting my full, steaming drink on the small table as I pass it.

His brows crash, and he begins to shake his head, to beg me not to run, not to deny what’s so clearly understood.

He’s ready to slump over, to fall to his knees in defeat, for his friend.

But then I lift my hand, reaching for his and his tightly wrung face falls, and the hopeful look that fills his eyes is nearly heartbreaking.

Beretta doesn’t hesitate, he walks straight up to me, runs his fingers over my knuckles, and threads his with mine.

“That first time outside the club...”

Beretta nods, squeezing my hand, and suddenly so many things make sense.

That night wasn’t for Ransom. That was for me.

They did that, showed up and took me outside, led me into darkness and brought me out of my mind for me.

To help me escape.

To help me breathe when I felt like I was suffocating.

They were there for me and I didn’t even realize it.

I was never just a girl in a game to them.

They care.

Beretta looks toward the house, but he doesn’t lead us inside.

I do.

The game room seems farther away than ever, and once we reach it, I find them inside, as I figured they would be.

The French doors are open and Ransom’s bent over the pool table, his head turned the opposite way as he sets up his shot, a devastating, lost expression on his handsome face.

Arsen sits in the chair adjacent to him, just inside the room but still close enough to be his shadow of support, pool stick loosely laying between his legs.

We take a single step inside, and as if we’re wearing bells, both of their heads turn toward us.

Ransom’s body grows visibly rigid, and it tightens the muscles in my own, but Beretta pulls his hand from mine and glides behind me as Ransom slowly straightens his spine.

Arsen looks over my shoulder, right as Beretta’s warm breath fans along the slope of my ear. His fingertips feather down my arms, making me shiver, but his touch is not for my benefit. It’s for the bronzy-haired boy thirty feet before me.

Ransom scowls, his eyes flying from one of us to the next, over and over again.

Behind me, the door is closed, the flick of the lock making my pulse jump.

Ransom’s fingers curl tighter over the wooden cue, his frown doubling the longer he stares.

And then Beretta is next to me. So, with my eyes locked onto Ransom’s, I lift my hair and turn sideways.

Beretta wastes no time, his fingers finding the zipper of my jumpsuit and the soft sound might as well be broadcasted over the house speakers, it echoes so loudly in my mind.