The Hating Game

There’s nothing else I can do. When the white flag of his sheets settles on my skin, the Hating Game is over. It’s primal. It’s a miracle. And it’s forever.

“Yeah, all right. Forever. What game should we play now?” I look up at him and we play the Staring Game until his eyes spark in memory.

“The Or Something Game really intrigued me. Can you show me how it works?”

He tosses the blankets over us, blocking out the entire world. He’s laughing, my favorite sound in the world.

Then there’s nothing but silence. His mouth touches my skin.

Let the real games begin.

An Excerpt from The Comfort Zone

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THE COMFORT ZONE

Coming Summer 2017

I got as far as the international baggage carousel before I began sinking back into the Carson-family-drama quicksand. My first mistake was turning off my phone from airplane mode. Actually, no, that’s not right. My first mistake was boarding in Heathrow.

I thought it would have taken some serious arm-twisting to get me onto a plane back home, but in the end all it took was my boss Margo’s words. Emma, the New York office is desperate. You’re still only on a temporary transfer to us in London, so I really do have to say yes to them. It’s only for a month. Eversham Goldstein really needs you.

I was needed? A warm fluttering filled my rib cage and I said yes. I’m a literary agent, so words are my life—and kind, appreciative words are apparently my Achilles’ heel. I wish I’d asked for a day to think it over. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t be waiting here for my battered suitcase. It’s not that I hate this city. I just don’t feel ready to see some of its occupants.

My email inbox doesn’t have any big emergencies with my authors or their editors. I do have an email from Louise, my father’s assistant. The subject line reads: Urgent—Read Immediately. I have a bad feeling that this might mess with my One-Month Survival Plan: Arrive, work, participate in the required family interactions no matter how awkward, leave. Possibly for good this time.

I look up at a departure screen nearby and automatically scan for the word London. It’s arguably an unhelpful way to deal with this, so I make myself read whatever bomb Louise is about to drop on me. The first paragraph of her email is a heavy tapestry of caveats, precautions, and instructions to not panic. All the stuff that guarantees that I will panic. There’s a honk and the baggage carousel begins to move, but I can’t look up from my phone. Not until I know what’s happened. According to Louise, Dad’s received another extortion attempt. And just like that, I’m back in Crazy Town. Breathe that crazy air nice and deep.

Someone hits my ankle with a luggage cart. It’s white-hot agony and I yip like a pup. Whoever did it doesn’t follow it up with a thousand British apologies, or even a single American one. I glower passive-aggressively at the floor, achieving nothing. It’s a painful message from New York itself: Yo, Emma! Welcome back! Want a reminder of why you left?

I have a second email from Louise, a couple of hours after the first. It’s marked “high priority” and the subject line is filled entirely with exclamation points. My stomach drops away into the abyss. Is Dad bound and gagged in a basement somewhere? Will I be drawn into a game of cat and mouse with his kidnapper in a trail leading across the city, the stakes getting progressively higher? Will my eyes glint intently behind my glasses as I deliberate between green and red wires? Will I save the day, and win my father’s love?

Probably not. A recent book-to-movie deal I brokered for one of my authors has made everything feel like a possible cinematic plot. The second scary-looking email from Louise is about a meeting and I’m weirdly crestfallen. I will never get to see The Rock cast as me. My presence is required at a compulsory security briefing regarding the extortion attempt at three P.M. Today. No ifs or buts. Recent international travel is not an excuse.

My watch is still on London time and it hurts my heart to adjust it, but when I do, I have a new problem. I am going to be late. I find my bag, weave through the scores of travelers being picked up by excited loved ones, and head for the train.

If you’re imagining my father is a senator or celebrity, you’re way off. He’s not a sports legend or old money. He’s the CEO of a property development firm and, finally, at this point in his career, he’s wealthy enough to extort from. It’s impossible to raze old buildings, build new ones, and have oodles of subcontractors on the payroll without making at least one mortal enemy a day. If I were him, I’d look at it as a major rich-guy milestone. The first time someone tried to squeeze money out of him, I bet his buddies at the country club brought out a dollar-sign-shaped cake for Dad. These days, it’s hardly worth mentioning.

Before the money, a million years ago, it was just Dad and me. We lived in a little white house across the river, nursing broken hearts over Mom and getting along as best we could. Our idea of extravagance was frozen pizzas on Friday night. I rode my bike around the block at dusk, always ringing my bike bell when I passed our green front door as my way of saying hello to Mom as she watched me from her comfy cloud above. I wonder if Dad can even remember that house. It’s a long way from where he lives today.

I haven’t seen my dad in so long, I wonder if he remembers me.

WHEN I BUMP open the heavy door to Centurion Security with my butt and drag my suitcase in, I’m sweating and tired. When I turn around, I realize something pretty typical. I’ve just flown eight hours across the ocean, changed time zones, and taken a train and taxi. And I’m still early.

There’s no one else here except for the receptionist, who is touch-typing furiously and chooses to ignore me. She is name-tagged Sheree. She looks like a Sheree. I can see my own reflection in her eyeball but she won’t look up because she’s busy and important. I’m now accustomed to being patient and polite and bottling up my resentments behind a cheerio smile, so I wait until she finally looks up at me.

“All right?” The utterly British greeting pops out of my mouth and I hear how ridiculous it sounds in my accent. “Um, hi. I’m Emma Carson. I have a meeting here.”

“Take a seat, I’ll let Greg know you’re here.” In her mind, Sheree adds, when I’m good and ready. Her typing resumes.

There’s a one-in-a-million chance that Claudia has arrived early and is in one of those closed meeting rooms.

“Has my sister arrived yet? Claudia Carson?”

Claudia’s name rings a bell with this woman. Her eyes spark and her mouth becomes a smile. She stops typing and rests her elbows on her desk. “No, she’s not here. She’s your sister? How lucky.”