Chapter Five
Chapter
Five
I sit back with my arms crossed tight as the table erupts with energy.
“Say it,” Colin teases Shay as he reaches across the table to poke her shoulder. “Out loud.”
“A vampire!” Mona giggles. Shay rolls her eyes good-naturedly.
Arthur claps Wesley on the arm. “Wonderful as always, Mr. Locke,” he grunts.
Wesley grins and rolls his shoulders in a smooth, casual shrug. “Playing is so much better in person, isn’t it?”
“Oh, you bet.”
Shay jumps in. “And the way you described Moros, Wes—I felt like I really got a sense of just how fraught everything was.”
Even Mona nods enthusiastically. “The perfect spooky setting for spooky season!”
And they all continue to gush.
Their words fade to background noise as an angry ringing fills my ears.
I watch Wesley bask in the praise and think, So he hasn’t changed at all.
He’s preening, exactly as he used to do in class.
He leans back in his chair, long fingers folded over his stomach, lips curled in just enough of a self-satisfied smile to bring out that fucking dimple.
I consider saying something that would make it disappear, consider speaking up to criticize how the combat wasn’t very well-balanced—a little too difficult for the first session, in my opinion.
And, sure, the gothic forever-night vampire setting is compelling, but it’s not very inventive, is it?
It’s not like it hasn’t been done a hundred times before.
And how fucking fitting, for my character to end up with the broken magic item.
Better to tell Wesley all of the things that are wrong with his game and his DM style than admit that once we started combat and I got in the zone, I…
I might have had just a little bit of fun.
As if he can hear that small admission amid the churn of my thoughts, Wesley’s curious eyes finally flick to mine. I’m the only one who hasn’t spoken up, after all.
One by one, the others’ faces turn to me, and the atmosphere at the table suddenly shifts.
Fuck it—I lean into it. “Can we chat?” I say each word slowly. The silence is so thick I don’t even need to raise my voice for it to carry.
Everyone is filled with a need to be elsewhere as quickly as possible.
Colin doesn’t even bother to finish his sentence in the conversation he’s having with Wesley and Arthur about necromancy mechanics; he practically skedaddles out of the room.
Arthur lumbers out after him, exhaling a noise that might be a laugh.
Shay hesitates, then places her fingers on Mona’s arm and offers to buy her the set of dice she had her eyes on upstairs.
Only Mona stands firm, her jaw set and her eyes on me, a question written in every line of her face.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll meet you upstairs.”
She and Shay file out as I prepare for the second combat of the evening.
Wesley watches me warily with his mouth pressed in a neutral line, and I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
Do I look different? Does he even remember what I used to look like?
His gaze seems to snag on everything new—the tense line of my triceps underneath my tight sleeves, my left wrist where my tattoos peek out, the hem of my cropped black shirt where it brushes my ribs—before he jerks his eyes up to mine again.
As soon as we’re alone, I finally voice the question that’s been haunting me since I first learned about this campaign. I can’t keep quiet about it any longer.
“Warlocke?” I scoff. “Really?”
His serious expression breaks; there’s a flicker of amusement in the way his dark eyes flash. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize it. It’s been my gamer tag since college. Since high school, even.”
I shake my head. “We never played any games together,” I say. Except for that one night, I think. I would have had to add him as a friend on the online gaming portals to see his gamer tag. “I couldn’t have known.”
“Would you have come tonight? If you knew?”
“No. Are you going to kick me out?”
Wesley pauses, then shakes his head. “No. Are you going to leave?”
I glance away. I haven’t decided yet, honestly. I have to talk to Mona, have to see how the next few sessions go—have to see how this conversation goes. “Not yet,” I say, then my tone turns steely. “But if I do leave, I’ll be sure to let you know why before I disappear.”
Wesley inhales sharply. “Reagan—”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I’m glad none of the old hurt seeps into my tone when I snap at him. The pain of the betrayal—a betrayal I should have expected from him—has faded over the years, leaving only disgust and bitterness.
I watch his jaw work as he scrubs his hand through his hair. It’s not messy, not really, but the Wesley of six years ago wouldn’t have let it grow out so long. I’ll never be the one to tell him that the style suits him much better now, that it lets some of those golden curls breathe.
“It was a long time ago,” he says, his voice a dull echo of my earlier words. “Wasn’t it?”
“You really won’t tell me?” Coward, I think.
“I barely remember that night, Reagan.” But he can’t even hold my stare—his eyes dance away from mine, and the corners of his lips tighten in a wince. I know he’s lying, and I’m about to call him on it when he speaks again. “Do you really still care that much about it?”
My eyebrows rise so high they disappear underneath the sweep of my bangs. He’s daring me to give a fuck, to admit that he might have mattered to me—might still matter to me. I don’t want to give him that satisfaction.
“I guess not,” I say flatly. “But I deserved to know why.”
“That’s true,” he says, surprising me. He leans forward and braces his elbows on the table. “But if it’s all the same to you”—it’s not, I scream internally—“I’d prefer to start fresh.”
I’d rather shoot myself into the stratosphere than start fresh with Wesley Locke, but—I saw the delight on Mona’s face today, the way she lit up every time Moss healed Sindra or Shay laughed.
I’m not going anywhere.
I force myself to release the tension in my shoulders, to uncurl my fingers where I unconsciously balled them into fists at my sides. It takes me a few long moments to get the word out, but then I finally huff, “Fine.”
I stand and shoulder my tote bag, but then he speaks again.
“So you’ve been here this whole time? In New Haven? I heard you got an offer from Uproar Games in L.A. after graduation.”
The reminder still stings, even after all these years; I shake it off even as I bitterly wonder, Who told him? “No, I never left,” I say hollowly. We can both keep our secrets. “I stayed.”
“Why?” he blurts out. “You were incredible, Reagan. Why did you stop making games?”
Incredible? I barely register the offhand compliment before rage boils over.
My spine goes straight, and my knuckles turn white where my fingers curl around the edges of the table.
I’m so much stronger than I was in college—in more ways than one.
I could flip it over without a second thought and send all of the miniature figurines arranged across Wesley’s carefully constructed battle map flying.
“Here’s how this is going to go.” My tone is dangerously soft—at odds with the way my body is poised to spring.
I avoid his question entirely, just like he avoided mine.
“This”—I gesture to the space between us, to the dice and character sheets on the table—“is just a game, Wesley. This is the only game we will be playing. We are not friends. We were never friends. And I am only going to see you when I have to, on Thursday nights. I’m just here because Mona is. Okay?”
I watch Wesley’s throat bob. His teeth are clenched so tight I could cut myself on the angular line of his jaw. “Okay.”
Finally, I head for the door, and when he speaks again, I barely hear him.
“I like her,” he says.
“What?” I don’t even look over my shoulder, but I pause.
“I like Sindra. She’s a good fit for this campaign.”
“Right. Thanks.”
I turn the doorknob, but I don’t open it. If anyone deserves the last word, it’s me. “It makes sense that you’d be a good Dungeon Master,” I say.
“Does it?”
I swing the door open. “You’ve always been great at controlling a narrative.”
“That’s radically unfair, Reagan. I just—”
I slam the door shut behind me.