Their Vicious Games(17)

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll have to use our brains somehow,” Saint explains. She gives me one of those looks, like I’m supposed to hear something else in what she’s saying. But when I don’t, her face falls and the look she gives me is almost pitying. I chafe at that, glaring forward.

“All I’m saying is, whatever it’s going to be, I don’t like giving my phone away,” I insist. It’s like she doesn’t want to even examine the weirdness of it all. The way that suddenly the walls seem to be closing in. “Your phone… is like an extension of yourself, right? It has important parts of you on it. I don’t like that someone else could potentially have access to it.” The idea that they might actually go through my phone makes me squirm.

“Of course it bothers me.” Saint shakes her head, wary. “I expected the possibility so I have nothing on there that would give much away, but having my phone steadied me. Gave me an out. Without it, I’ll need to find another out.”

The idea that it does bother her too makes me unwind. I’m not acting out of place. I’m not crazy for thinking that the air is off.

My curiosity gets the better of me. “An out?”

“Yeah, in case I decide that this is not for me.”

I snort to myself. “So… you don’t need to be here either. Figures.”

“Do you?” she asks.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I retort.

Saint doesn’t apologize. Instead, she looks me up and down, not in a judgmental way, but assessing. “Yes, I suppose it is,” she says simply.

Instantly, the edge sharpening in my chest dulls. There’s something about her outright honesty that makes me like her instantly.

“You’re all right, Saint,” I decide.

Saint looks thoughtful again. “Yeah… so are you.”

Another sharp ding of not-right zips up my spine and settles at the base of my skull, because in that moment, Saint sounds sad about it.





CHAPTER 7





“DO YOU NEED HELP WITH your hair?”

“Does anyone have a red lipstick?”

“Shit, I broke a nail—”

“Wait, I have nail glue, here.”

Each voice layered one upon the other grates against me. It’s evening and all the girls are gathered in the same common room where we met. Instead of sitting prim and proper in white lace—the stupid dresses we took a group photo in around midafternoon—they’re all frantically putting finishing touches to the canvases they’ve made of themselves.

For a moment, if I close my eyes, I see myself back in my bedroom with Toni urging me to get ready. When I feel a touch against my chin, I imagine it’s Toni again, tilting my face up to inspect my makeup. It’s calming, brings me focus in a way that I need now. But when I open my eyes, I flinch in a way that threatens to knock me off my feet.

“Not going to even say hello to your competition? Realized it isn’t even worth trying?”

“Hello, Esme.”

Damn. I was just on the verge of forgetting that she was here too.

“Adina Walker. Now, whose dick did you suck to get here?” she asks with a smile.

“No one’s,” I say through gritted teeth.

It’s time to keep my head under the radar again. I bite my bottom lip and make eye contact with Hawthorne over Esme’s shoulder, but she looks away. She always looks away when Esme starts something.

“You shouldn’t touch people without permission.” Relief sings through my veins as Saint slides in from God knows where. She looks stunning in a rich blue cocktail dress. Her long black hair swings behind her in a high ponytail, and she looks down at me. “Sorry I took so long. I couldn’t get my hair right.”

Esme looks displeased that I have someone in my corner already, but she doesn’t let it stop her.

“I just wonder,” Esme sings. “Every single one of us has been nominated to be here. I’m childhood friends with Pierce. Hawthorne is a champion archer. This is Jacqueline—she’s the Northeast junior poker champion. Margaret—she goes to Rye Country Day—is a ranked debater. Even Saint is the daughter of a big-shot developer—”

And under her breath, I hear Saint mutter, “?‘Even Saint.’ My father could buy your entire state.”

“—but you. Who are you, Adina Walker, to merit a nomination?”

“I earned my place here, just like everyone else,” I insist. I can’t tell if I’m lying, not even to myself, but in that moment when I opened the box it felt true. I look over at the other girls with her. I doubt any of them has ever met Esme before today. She’s their competition, yet just by the strength of her personality and will alone, she’s established herself as their leader. Esme has always had an infuriating talent for command.

“I’m sure,” Esme says softly, sticking her tongue into her cheek over and over again, crass and crude, yet supposedly I’m the one who’s unworthy.

“Now, Esme…”

As if she’s descended from the heavens, Penthesilea emerges from a break in the crowd. She turns to one girl, brushing a stray curl from her face, straightening the skirt of another, like some kind of queen mother in a gown of gold on her way over to us.