Getting Played Page 4

  I press my head back into the pillow and grimace. “I think it will stop when the elephant gets off my head.”

  She smiles at my lame joke. “How about nausea?”

  The queasiness seems less now that the alarm isn’t blaring in my ear, but I nod anyway.

  “That’s not unusual with a concussion as severe as yours, love. The doctor left orders. I can up your pain meds and give you something to settle your stomach.” She gives the machine at the head of my bed a once-over, then turns for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  I look at the clock over the door as she pushes through it. Almost eight. I’ve been out for seven hours.

  There’s grumbling to my right and I turn my head gingerly in time to see Dad’s bloodshot eyes blink awake. He gives them a quick rub with the pad of his thumb and forefinger and straightens up some in his chair. His white dress shirt is rumpled and his salt and pepper hair is disheveled.

  He lifts his hand and taps his forefinger on his head. “What happened?”

  With the words, a gust of stale whiskey breath leaves his mouth and turns my already touchy stomach. “I’m going to throw—” But that’s as far as I get before I’m puking down the front of my green hospital gown. The effort sets my brain on fire and the pain makes me heave again.

  I remember the reason this all happened was because I forgot to eat when nothing but yellow slime comes up. But the acid taste of it makes me gag harder.

  Just when I’m 98.2 percent sure I’m dying, the door swings open. I’m mid-retch, and praying for the nurse, since Dad has backpedaled his chair across the room at this point. So when I see six foot four of hot water polo coach, it cements that last 1.8 percent.

  I am totally dying.

  He’s got a brown paper coffee cup in his hand and he looks nearly as rumpled as my dad…which on him, only makes him hotter.

  “Jesus, Addie,” he says, lunging across the room. He sets his coffee down and grabs the semicircular barf bin off the nightstand, about an inch from where Dad had been sitting, and hands it to me. I heave into it, but there’s nothing more to come up but a horrible, retching sound. But then, as if I wasn’t already humiliated enough, to my total mortification, Marcus bolts to the bathroom, comes back with a towel, and proceeds to start pressing it to my chest and stomach to sop up the mess.

  So now my head is splitting, my stomach is heaving, and my puke wet hospital gown, that was paper thin to start with, is stuck to my chest like some sick wet T-shirt contest. And there’s no way Marcus can miss that, despite everything, my nipples are starting to poke into the wet fabric as he mops up said puke.

  This is the total opposite of invisible.

  I grab his wrist to make him stop and yank the stupid monitor off my finger in the process. The machine over my head starts screeching again and I have never wanted to be more dead than I do right this second.

  Marcus stops mopping and his expression shifts instantly from “man on a mission” to “look at that poor injured puppy.”

  “Hey,” he says, lowering himself to sit on the side of my bed and repositioning the finger monitor. A second later, the machine stops its auditory assault. “Is it your head? Are you in pain?”

  I’m not sure what prompted the sudden switch in gears until he lifts a hand to my face and thumbs a tear off my temple just before it rolls into my ear.

  Damn.

  I’m crying. The only thing that could make this more mortifying. But now that they’re flowing, I can’t stop the tears. I roll onto my side away from him. “Will you just go?” I whimper. “Please.”

  “You heard her. She doesn’t want you here.”

  All my insides contract at Dad’s gruff growl and I feel like I’m going to heave again, but I swallow it back.

  “You’re going to be okay?” Marcus asks, his voice full of concern. He doesn’t add the “with him,” but I hear it anyway. My dad’s state of drunkenness clearly hasn’t escaped his notice.

  And then it occurs to me…I’ve been out for seven hours. Have they been talking?

  Oh, God.

  This feels like that classic walking-down-the-hall-naked nightmare. The universe has just sliced me open and laid me out for Marcus to see. And I know those piercing eyes of his don’t miss a thing—all the dark sludge that I’ve tucked away in the hidden corners of my soul.

  “Please,” is all I can manage as the tears flow thicker. I pray for the bed to open up and swallow me whole. But, of course, it doesn’t.

  Nothing is going my way today.

  Chapter 3

  Marcus

  I’ve known this girl for, like, five minutes. She’s asking me to leave. Begging me, really. I should just go.

  But I don’t trust her father.

  When he showed up in the emergency room smelling of cheap whiskey, my first thought was, “Something Addie and I have in common.”

  My dad’s a functioning drunk. But as the evening progressed and Addie’s father stepped out of his daughter’s hospital room more than once, it became clear he isn’t. Functioning, that is. The third time he left the room, I followed him. He went straight to his car, where he pulled a bottle from under the seat to feed his habit.

  We’ve said about five words to each other since he got here, enough to establish who I am and that he distrusts me as much as I do him.

  I have no clue where this protective pit bull is coming from, except that Addie reminds me of Blaire in so many ways. She’s all the soft parts of Blaire without the sharp edges.

  Social awkwardness runs in my family. I’ve spent my whole life trying to pretend the awkward gene skipped me. I learned to play the game, because that’s what anyone who wanted to survive in high school did. I went to the right parties, hung out with the right people, hooked up with the right girls. I let other peoples’ expectations define me.

  And I watched Blaire, one year behind me in school, do the opposite. She didn’t let what people thought of her dictate how she lived. She didn’t have many friends, and she spent a lot of time alone with a book.

  And I was jealous.

  I envied that she was brave enough to do what I couldn’t: be her own person, live by her own compass. I might have been popular, but it was only because I was a coward.

  Addie has Blaire’s strength.

  And she’s hurt. And sick. And crying.

  And all of the above are my fault. I goaded her in the pool. I thought she could handle it. Hell, I knew she could handle it. I’ve watched her rise to every challenge I’ve thrown at her since the season began three weeks ago.

  God, I hate seeing her like this.

  But this is really none of my business. If she wants me to leave, I have no choice. “You’re sure?” I ask with a glance at her father.

  “Yes.” Her voice cracks on the word.

  “If there’s anything you need…”

  “She asked you to leave,” her father grumbles, still slumped in his chair. He can’t even seem to muster the will to actually rise to the occasion.

  “Anything, Addie,” I say with a glare in his direction.

  When there’s no response from the bed, I turn for the door. But just as it’s swinging closed behind me, I hear her father half slur, half growl, “What the hell happened?”

  I catch the door just before it clicks shut and listen through the crack.

  “I hit my head,” Addie answers with a hitch in her voice. “I thought that would be obvious from the stitches in it.”

  I can’t stop the smile, glad to hear she still has some fight in her, and more than a little relieved she’s not afraid to stand up to her father.

  “Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost me?”

  “Won’t the insurance cover it?” Addie asks, her voice lower.

  “We don’t have any goddamn insurance!” he hisses under his breath. “I couldn’t afford the premiums. Let it drop three months ago.”

  There’s a long stretch of silence before she says, “I’ll pay for it. I’
ll get a job.”

  Her father blows out a long breath. “I didn’t ask for this, Addaline.”

  His voice is a low growl. Defensive, as if he thinks she’s blaming him for something.

  “I know, Dad,” she says, suddenly sounding so small…so unlike the reserved girl with the surprisingly sharp wit I’ve watched for the last few weeks.

  “Can I help you with something?” a voice says from behind me

  I stumble back from the door, and find a nurse standing there with two syringes on a small tray, giving me the eye.

  “No, thanks.” Not unless you can tell me what the deal is with Addie and her father. “I was just leaving.”

  I feel her watching me as I push through the door to the stairs. I head for my car and crank the engine. But then I can’t make myself leave. I fist my hands on the steering wheel and drop my forehead onto it. What is it about Addie that has me so twisted in knots? I got her to the hospital. She’s not going to die. That’s the end of my responsibility to this girl.

  Finally, I drop the car into gear and pull out of the parking lot. But as I drive away, I can’t shake the feeling that Addie needs more from me than a ride to the hospital. I just don’t know what it is.

  It’s Friday and Addie’s still not back in school. She was released from the hospital two days ago. I know this because I went by her room and she was gone. So I’ve spend the last two days resisting the temptation to find her home address in the school office. I feel the overpowering need to check on her and make sure everything’s okay. She seemed to hold her own against her father, but there’s no telling what kind of a drunk he is. They’re not all as passive as mine.

  But showing up at Addie’s doorstep feels a little over the top.

  I sit in my truck in the faculty lot, staring at my phone. I’ve got her phone number. She gave it to me in the park when I asked her out. I grimace and rub the back of my neck at the memory. As stupid as I know it sounds, using this number, even for something as innocent as checking on her health, feels like I’m doing something dirty. I wouldn’t have it if I hadn’t tried to pick her up in the park.

  Christ. Thank fucking God for Deanna. If she hadn’t called me away, God knows how much worse that would have been. Maybe I would have made an actual move. Or invited her back to my place.

  I cringe as a shudder scrapes like fingernails up my spine.

  I’d purposefully avoided having any kind of interaction with Addie the last few weeks of practice. It just felt safer. But when I saw her swimming Monday, it was like every scrap of common sense I have abandoned me.

  I cringe again when I remember standing behind her in the water, how hot she felt. And how soft. God, she was soft.

  Touching her was stupid.

  But…I glance at my phone. All I’m doing is sending a text. Just to find out when she’ll be back. Nothing sordid.

  I start typing, but then delete it.

  I shake my head at myself. She’s obviously forgotten about the park. She’s barely said anything to me in almost a month, except when she flipped out because I was making her captain.

  Man up and send the fucking text.

  I start typing again.

  At the knock on my window, my phone flies out of my hand, hitting the roof of my truck with enough force to leave a small tear in the cloth liner. My gaze snaps to the window and Deanna is standing outside, giving me a curious look.

  I fish my phone off the floorboards behind my seat, then shoulder open my door and climb out.

  “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal son.”

  Deanna plays her accent up when it suits her. Which apparently is now, because her drawl as she said that was impressive.

  I shove my phone in my pocket and wipe my sweaty palm on my pants. “Hey, Deanna.”

  “You’ll be at the gym again tonight?” she asks with her hand on the door, blocking my progress.

  “Working, yeah. Had to pick up an extra shift after practice because, you know…” I flip her a smirk as I scan the parking lot and find it student-free. “Some bitch from Texas stole my job.”

  She laughs out loud, her eyes narrowing to slits before they open wide and zero in on mine again. “So what can I do to make it up to you?”

  “Move back to Texas?”

  She laughs again. “How about we settle for drinks tonight?”

  “Maybe,” I drawl out, not sure of the reason for my hesitation. “If it’s busy at the gym I won’t be off until late.”

  She moves toward her pretty white BMW and I follow. “The gym’s never busy on Friday night.”

  I nod as she clicks open her car, knowing she’s right. “Yeah, okay. See ya later.”

  I head to the pool as she pulls out and wait until I’m in the empty locker room to root my phone out of my pocket. I know my interest in Addie is driven by guilt. I feel responsible for what happened and the fact that she and her dad are now strapped with medical bills they can’t pay. It’s my responsibility to at least be sure she’s okay.

  I set my duffel on the bench and type in the text. Just a simple “How’s the head?”

  My thumb hesitates over the send button, but I swear at myself and push it.

  A second later my phone vibrates with a text and it takes me a second to gather the courage to look. But when I do, I find it’s an error message telling me I dialed an invalid number. I check the number and realize the prefix is the same as Mom and Dad’s landline.

  A fucking landline. Which means I have to call.

  And then it occurs to me if they’re that strapped for cash, she might not have a cell.

  I take a deep breath and start dialing, but I’m only halfway through when I notice my hand is shaking.

  It’s just the money thing. That’s why I’m jittery. I’m not quite sure how to approach the subject, considering the conversation I overheard was meant to be private. I don’t want to embarrass her.

  I click off my phone. I need to think this through a little better.

  But then it hits me. I don’t need to bring it up at all. I can help her and she never even needs to know.

  I lift my phone and dial.

  Chapter 4

  Addie

  My own scream wakes me.

  I lay wide-eyed in bed, panting for air, as the screech of twisting metal and the smell of oily black smoke fade from my senses. My heart is still running the Kentucky Derby as I untangle myself from the sweaty sheets. I slide up and lean against the headboard, bending my knees and resting my forehead on them as I catch my breath.

  My shrink said the nightmares would stop eventually. I only have them two or three times a week now instead of every night. But on nights like this, I feel it happen all over again. As I sit here in the aftermath, my ribs ache from the bruise of the seatbelt, and I feel blood trickle down my arm from the gash on my shoulder. Acid rolls through my stomach at the knowledge that not all of the blood is mine.

  Other than my rasping breath, the house is quiet. The soft purr of Dad’s snoring wafts up the hall from the living room. In the background, the TV is playing something with explosions. After living in the Ford for most of the summer, I feel lucky just to be waking up in an actual bed.

  But it’s not my bed. It’s not even our house.

  Aunt Becky calls herself a travelling salesman. She’s really a sales rep for Tawashi Electronics. Her territory is the Pacific United States, which means she’s got a loop she travels every few months to shops up in Oregon and Washington, down the coast to San Diego, through Arizona and Las Vegas, then home again. She’s been gone most of the two months we’ve been living at her house. She left over a week ago on her current trip and she’s not due back for another two.

  So Dad and I have her house to ourselves for now.

  I’m trying to keep up with the mess because I don’t want her to regret taking us in. But I’m also glad she’s gone. She’s three years younger than Mom, but other than the fact Becky wears her curls loose, like me, and Mom’s were always pinned up ont
o her head, they could be twins. I can’t look at Aunt Becky without feeling a stabbing pain in my chest.

  But other than their looks, Mom and Becky couldn’t be more different. Where my sarcasm was lost on Mom, Becky is full of it. In some ways, she gets me better than Mom ever did. But in all the ways that matter most, she’s not Mom.

  When I come out of my room, it’s almost noon. Dad’s still snoring on the recliner and The Wrath of Khan is playing on the TV. It’s probably another Star Trek marathon on AMC.

  Only about half of the time does Dad actually make it to his bed. I’m just thankful that I haven’t had to retrieve him from the local bar since my stint in the hospital. Twice in the week before I smashed my head, the bartender called to tell me someone needed to come for him. In a screwed up sort of way, it feels good that someone’s looking out for him. Makes me feel like it doesn’t all fall on my shoulders. But, since I technically don’t have my license, and we have only one barely-working motor vehicle, it means I have to schlep down there on foot to round him up and load him in the car when the bartender cuts him off. It’s only maybe three quarters of a mile to Sam Hill Saloon, but I haven’t felt up to the walk. My head’s still pretty fuzzy.

  I shuffle to the kitchen and dump the last of the coffee into the coffee maker, then, once it’s brewing, pour a bowl of store brand Cheerios. But when I go to the fridge for milk, I remember I used the last of it yesterday. I go back to my room and pull on some warm ups, tug on a sweatshirt, slide my feet into my flip flops, then head for the door with what little cash I have.

  Just as I’m pulling it open, the phone rings. It’s one of those old fashioned ones, attached to the wall in the kitchen with a cord. And it’s loud.

  I glance at Dad. He stirs in his recliner and I bolt for the kitchen and snatch the phone up before it wakes him fully. Dad’s like a toddler. He’s just easier when he’s asleep.

  “Hello?” I say, a little breathlessly.

  I’m expecting school, or maybe my doctor, so when Marcus’s deep velvet voice says, “Hey, Addie,” my knees go soft.