Page 102 of Let the Game Begin (Kiss Me Like You Love Me #1)
“There’s some pain every now and then, but it’s fine.” He smiled at me in that sweet way of his, and I sighed in relief. It couldn’t have been easy, living with trauma caused by a maniac who was bent on harming us for some inexplicable reason.
“I saw him, you know.” He leaned back against the upholstered sofa and allowed his head to fall back, staring upward. His eyes, fixed on the ceiling, were shadowed with memories of his horrific accident. “He was wearing a white mask,” he added before I had a chance to ask him any questions.
If he’d gotten a good look at him, we might have been able to take a description of his appearance to the police.
It wouldn’t have been much, but it might have helped a little.
Instead, fate was conspiring against us.
Whoever Player was, he knew what he was doing, because he never left a trace of himself, other than the puzzles.
“He was behind me in a black Jeep. I don’t remember the license plate.
He just kept screwing with me, blinding me with his high beams.” His voice dipped to a pained whisper as he hung his head, staring at his outstretched leg.
“Other than the mask, the only thing I saw in the rearview mirror was him waving at me right before I…” He stopped and his voice shook.
I didn’t want to push him to talk to me, so I just waited and rubbed the back of his hand as I did so.
“I tried to brake before a curve that was too sharp, too deadly. But the brakes wouldn’t respond, and I lost control of the car and…
” He couldn’t finish and swallowed thickly instead, squeezing his hands into angry fists.
I regarded him intently, surprised by this revelation.
This added an additional clue to the puzzle that Neil was attempting to decipher.
How many more riddles would there be? How many of us would Player attack? And above all else: Who would be next?
“Does Neil know about this?” I whispered, squeezing his hand in mine, a muted pain weighing down my chest. Logan nodded and chewed his lower lip nervously.
“Yeah, I told him everything, and he’s pretty on edge these days.” He looked at me like he was trying to give me some sort of warning. I had no intention of trying to change his brother’s mood, but Logan still seemed worried for me.
Player 2511 had now shown himself to us, albeit while wearing a white mask, and according to the photos he sent, he’d been watching us like a true stalker.
He was hunting us. He might have been there, right outside the house, or maybe he was lurking underneath the windows of our rooms or on campus or around the cafés we frequented.
He was always watching us, like an invisible devil whose presence we could only sense but never confirm.
It felt like we were walking a labyrinth filled with insidious dangers and we were all wearing blindfolds. No one was above suspicion; anyone could be an enemy, even the nicest neighbor or most unassuming friend.
I thought about it for the rest of the night, even as I took a long, hot bath to ease some of the tension from my rigid body.
But none of it reassured me, so I got dressed and decided that I needed to talk to Neil.
The only people who knew the truth of the situation were the three of us: me, Logan and… him.
I went to his room at nine o’clock after putting on a big, loose hoodie that fell to below my butt. Underneath I wore a simple fitted T-shirt and a pair of leggings. My hair was down and wavy because I had just let it dry without doing anything to it. My face, as usual, was pale and bare.
I knocked twice on his door, feeling the usual stormy sensation in my stomach.
It felt like a full-on tropical hurricane in there.
Images of what had happened the last time I was in his room rose up in my mind like a dirty movie, creating a certain yearning sensation between my thighs.
It was a physical reaction that I was finding increasingly difficult to control.
This boy had taken my prudish soul and molded it into a creature of lust.
I took a deep breath to calm myself down and toyed with the string on my sweatshirt as I waited for him to open the door.
But I didn’t hear footsteps or any other sound that might suggest his presence on the other side of the door.
So, eventually, I pushed it open. I glanced inside: the room was empty.
Neil wasn’t there. I had no idea how long he’d been gone, and I had even less of a clue where he was.
I walked inside slowly and turned on the light.
Cobalt blue contrasted with the black that dominated the entire atmosphere, from the walls to the masculine furnishings that made the room feel oppressive.
I advanced further and looked around. I could smell his fresh scent in the air of this perfectly tidied and sanitized room.
The king-sized bed in the center was covered with a dark comforter.
The same one I’d clutched in my fingers while his body dominated mine, turning me into a slave of pleasure.
It seemed that I could still feel the powerful thrusts of his hips, the shocking strength of his hands, his irregular yet controlled breathing that never managed to outstrip the limits he’d imposed upon himself.
I could feel his brutish lips and his electric tongue—I relived all of it, and all of a sudden, an exhausted feeling came over me, forcing me to sit down on the bed.
My breathing sped up as I reviewed the indecent memories, and my eyes darted over to the sleek bedside table with its skull-shaped ashtray.
Next to it, however, was something new. It appeared to be a small notebook or journal.
I picked it up and examined the matte brown cover that featured no design or words to indicate anything about it.
I opened it, though I realized that I had already violated Neil’s privacy the moment I let myself walk into his room.
He would have screamed at me if he ever found out. I shuddered at the idea, but it did nothing to lessen my curiosity, so I began to page through the notebook. I was astonished.
“Damn…” I whispered, seeing precise and perfect architectural drawings.
The first was of a series of ancient Greek columns, the second a temple, the third was our house, rendered exactly true to life.
There were also measurements, geographical features, numbers and notations that I understood nothing about.
Nevertheless, the precision and organization of it was impressive.
I leafed through the rest of the notebook, occasionally brushing the incredible drawings with my fingers and thought about good he was at this. Neil enjoying drawing, and he appeared to have a real talent for it.
“Keeping your skills a secret from the world, huh?” I said to myself, smiling I turned a few more pages until I stopped on a drawing of the pool house.
He had rendered it perfectly, just like all the other buildings.
Does he want to be an architect? It seemed so.
I didn’t know much about the discipline, but I was convinced that he had a true gift and that his hands were capable of creating incredible things.
I put the notebook back where it had been and stood up from the bed, looking over at his bookshelf.
It wasn’t like the rest in the house but was instead composed of a series of L-shaped ledges mounted together to form an irregular and original shape on the wall.
Each piece scattered across the wall was painted to match the other shades of the room.
I had noticed it before, of course, but never paid much attention to it—I hadn’t imagined Neil as someone who owned many books or had much interest in reading.
But if he knew Nabokov and the other authors he’d quoted during our conversations, he was probably concealing a deeper well of knowledge that he chose not to flaunt.
My suspicions were confirmed as I browsed through his books—his collection spanned everything from Octavio Paz to Salinger, with a stop at Ian Fleming.
I spotted Nabokov’s Lolita and whole lot of Bukowski.
Neil had several of his books: Women ; Tales of Ordinary Madness ; Absence of the Hero ; Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions, and General Tales of Ordinary Madness ; Notes of a Dirty Old Man …
I raised an eyebrow at the last one and gave a tiny smile.
Then, I spotted another one: “ Love Is a Dog From Hell ,” I read aloud and grew serious again.
Maybe this was why Neil loved this author so much: he was a transgressive man who entangled love with sexuality and had a great capacity for describing erotic male fantasies but in a deeper, more poetic way.
“Bukowski’s his favorite.” I started at the sound of Chloe’s voice and the book I’d been holding fell to the floor.
“Oh my God. I’m sorry, I was just…just…” I crouched down to pick up the book and put it back where it belonged while the baby of the house approached me with an amused smile on her face. Who could say what my face looked like; I was such an idiot.
“You don’t have to explain yourself, Selene.
My brother doesn’t talk about himself, and it makes people curious.
” She folded her arms over her chest and studied Neil’s odd bookcase, rearranging a few of the books I’d touched.
“Better not to leave a trace, though. He doesn’t like other people going through his stuff,” she murmured, making sure to keep her voice low.
“I came here to talk to him but then…well…” I didn’t even know what to say. There was no excuse for my disrespectful behavior. I should never have gone through the door of his room without his permission.
“I won’t say anything.” Chloe gave me a knowing wink, and I sighed in relief.