Playing (Inked Hearts 2)

I don't want to hear that tone.

The one that reminds me that Grandma is sick. I still don't know how sick she is, how little time we have, what exactly it is, but I know it's bad.

Even Grandma gets that tone.

It's not like her. Nothing scares her. When I was little, Mom would threaten to hire a babysitter if Grandma kept teaching me dirty words. And that was only the tip of the iceberg. Mom didn't like the ridiculous stories we made for my dolls. Or Grandma curling my hair. Or letting me use her lipstick.

Mom wanted to protect me from growing up too fast.

But Grandma never backed down. She insisted that this was what I needed. Even when Mom really did hire a babysitter—the world's most boring babysitter, who made me watch wholesome kids shows and refused to let me make my own almond butter and jelly sandwiches.

Grandma held her ground until Mom caved.

I play her voicemail. Soak up every bit of strain and worry in Grandma's voice as she insists I need to call my mom, give her a proper update.

I will.

Soon.

Tomorrow even.

Grandma gives the best advice. She'll know what to do about this. She'll know the exact steps I need to take to get from lovesick puppy to over him. She always knows.

Only soon...

No. I'm not thinking that. Not

yet. I don't even know if it's true. She might have years left. A decade even.

I place my phone on the couch face down and sink into the leather.

That same page is there in my Kindle. I have no idea what it says. I don't want to. I don't want anything.

Eleven ten.

It's been nearly three hours.

Is that enough time to go back to her place?

My head fills with awful images. They're at the bar in some cozy booth. He's spreading her legs and sliding his hand between them.

They're outside, in some dark, dirty alley. He has her pressed against the wall. Her back is arched. Her skirt is at her waist. He's sliding his jeans to his knees and growling something in her ear.

They're in the backseat of his car. She's under him. There's no space. His legs are hitting the seat. Her head is pressed up against the door. But neither of them care. That's how good it is. How much they want each other.

I force my eyes to my Kindle. The words refuse to enter my brain. It's mush. Meaningless. Nothing.

Eleven fifteen.

I'm nearly due for my medication.

For bed.

I need my routine. It's what keeps me together. That's why I work the same days every week. Eat the same thing every morning. Take the same post-lunch walks. Read for an hour before bed every day.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Too much is going through my head. All the things I want that I can never, ever have. Grandma being well. My parents respecting my decisions. Brendon.

A normal, healthy relationship with a normal, healthy guy. Hell, even a friendship where I don't have to hide all the ugly things in my head.