Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter
Twenty-Six
On Saturday night, we’re at Wesley’s apartment. Colin’s away for the weekend, visiting this mysterious girlfriend of his, and Wesley was only too happy to host.
I don’t know what’s got me feeling so worked up tonight.
We’d spent most of the evening in bed, and though Wesley had tried to draw me in for a cuddle afterward, I’d slipped out from under his arm and returned to his computer, feeling wide-eyed and awake.
Now I perch on his desk chair wearing his sweatpants and nothing else while he lies naked on top of his comforter and watches me with sleepy eyes.
I try to focus on Vadrien when he kills again; text unscrolls at the bottom of the screen as Vadrien monologues to himself despairingly after taking another life.
Suddenly, I say, “I think you need to voice some of these lines.”
Wesley laughs. “I don’t have the time to hire a voice actor—or the money.”
That gets my attention. I spin to face him. “You’re kidding, right?”
He blinks, confused. “I’m…not? I make fine money helping Arthur for now, but—”
“Not what I meant. You need to voice some of these lines, Wes. Who else would be Vadrien?”
He glances toward the ceiling, looking thoughtful. “I’d never thought about it before,” he says eventually. “I don’t know how to act.”
I can’t even spare a glance for the game anymore; he has my full attention. “You have to be joking, Wesley.” I go to sit on the edge of the bed and fold one leg underneath me. “Yes, you do. You do it every Thursday.”
His smile turns crooked. “Poorly.”
“Very convincingly.”
“My accents are terrible.”
“They’re not!” I’m honestly offended. “Vadrien’s is so good.”
He traces his thumb along the underside of my breast, looking distracted, then drums his fingers thoughtfully against my side. “Colin tells me I sound like Count von Count.”
I snort—loudly. “From Sesame Street? I promise you don’t.”
He clears his throat and affects a posh British accent. “You really think I manage all right? This isn’t some cheeky setup to make me embarrass myself recording for Blood Pact so that Afterwards inevitably wins?”
“I don’t need to cheat to win, Wesley,” I say dryly. “If anything, I’m helping level the playing field by giving you excellent advice.”
He hums thoughtfully to himself. “Hmm. Voice acting.” He glances sidelong to me, his stare still heavy with suspicion—or something else. “Wasn’t really my department back at Hurricane.”
“Of course not. But was any of this?” I gesture back to where Blood Pact still glows on his screen.
The big game studios excel by recruiting people who are experts in very specific areas, then putting them all together to make a great game.
It’s why Blood Pact is so impressive to me.
Wesley may have spent the last six years only animating for Hurricane, but he’s clearly kept his other skills sharp enough to create something this compelling on his own.
I’m opening my mouth to say as much, but I can tell he’s already moved on. He’s watching me with a glint in his eye, and he winds his arms around my waist and tugs me forward to lie on top of his chest.
His voice shifts to a deep Irish brogue. “You really like this, darlin’? I’ve been practicing this one, too, for another idea I have.”
I try to school my expression to seriousness even as my heated cheeks give me away. “Okay, yes,” I admit. “You should save that one for our next campaign.”
It takes me a moment to register what I let slip so easily.
Our next campaign.
Shit.
I can’t help the way I go stiff, tensing on top of Wesley. My eyes bounce away from his face, but he only tightens his grip and spins us to the side until he’s the one on top and our legs are tangled in the sheets.
He dips his head and nudges his nose along the side of my jaw until I turn my face back to his.
He’s smiling, and his eyes have gone half lidded and thoughtful again.
I open my mouth to take it back or make an excuse to get back to work, but he silences me with a kiss.
As his hands weave into my hair and his hips press mine down into the mattress, I start to forget what I’d been so worried about in the first place.
Wesley brushes his lips against the shell of my ear.
“What about this one, hm?” Wesley whispers sweet nothings in a dramatically thick Boston accent, and my chest immediately seizes with a laugh.
“Is this still working for you? Is this what you like?” He nips at my earlobe; I can hear the grin in his voice.
“Oh my god, Wes, stop,” I wheeze, trying to squirm out of the cage of his arms. “I want your voice. I don’t want you to be anyone else when you’re with me.”
He hovers over me, his elbows to either side of my shoulders. I think he’s about to tease me again, but then he asks softly, “You’d really play another game? With me?”
I would, I think, but I feel a twisting ache in my chest, like I’m missing something I haven’t even lost yet.
How much of this is a game to him? Will he still want to play once he’s resecured his spot in the industry? Will he still create things of his own?
I lift my chin. “Maybe I’ll start DMing again instead,” I joke, avoiding the question.
His answering sigh is so small and so quiet that I barely catch it. It’s just an exhale and a shift in his shoulders as he deflates slightly. Then something in his eyes changes, and he’s playful again.
This is safer ground for us, I think. I won’t pretend that I’m not craving a different sort of distraction.
“I don’t know, Reagan. I think,” he says slowly, his tone low and goading, “you like it when someone else is in control for once.”
I release a sarcastic laugh. “Oh, so you’re that kind of Dungeon Master, huh?”
“Is that the kind of Dungeon Master you want me to be?”
“Oh my god, shut up—”
But then he laces his fingers with mine and draws both of my arms above my head. He leans forward until our noses are touching, until he’s putting just enough pressure on my wrists to pin them in place.
It’s such a terrible joke that I’m ready to buck him off of me, but after a moment’s hesitation, I savor the ache as it builds in my shoulders, in my core. On second thought, I hook my ankles together behind his back and draw him closer.
I’ve started to enjoy Sunday mornings like this.
Wesley and I are up so late that we sleep in, which works well, since the sun is already high in the sky and warming his backyard by the time we’re ready to enjoy our coffee.
He pulls out two chairs for us and sets out a couple of throw blankets, but at the last moment, he hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me into his lap.
He’s nuzzling my hair when he asks, “Have you been to Vermont before?”
I sip my coffee and pause to peer at its milky brown color. This is my first time staying over at his place, and the first time he’s made me coffee. How’d he get it right? “A few times, in college. Nali really likes skiing.”
“Do you?”
I smile and shake my head. “I’m more of a lodge girl.”
“Really? You give me snowboarding energy.”
“You know, you’re not the first person to say that.”
“Will I see you again? Before the trip?”
His fingers have started tapping out a rhythm on my thigh. The gesture distracts me, reminding me of the other times his fingers have settled into twitchy patterns—when he’s brainstorming a new idea, or when he’s working himself up to something.
Wary, I bite at the inside of my cheek. “Maybe not,” I say, genuinely apologetic. “Mona and Mom have a lot planned, and I told them I’d help out this week.” God knows how much I’d rather spend that time working on the game, or letting Wesley distract me from it.
Only a few more months of this left.
Wesley nods. “At D&D, Mona made it sound like something you two wanted to avoid. I get that.” Then he takes in a careful breath, and my shoulders tighten on instinct. “You could come with me if you want. Instead.”
“To Thanksgiving?” The coffee, which Wesley made perfectly sweet, turns bitter on my tongue.
He nods. “At my grandparents’, in Massachusetts. It’s on the way to Arthur’s cabin.”
I already know what I’m going to say, so I don’t know why I’m entertaining him when I ask, “Is it, like, a big family thing?” Mine always are—by turns warmly welcoming and stressfully dramatic.
Wesley’s thumb toys anxiously with the handle of his mug. His smile is a little sheepish. “No, we—we keep it really low-key, honestly.”
I nod slowly. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse. I can’t decide what turns my stomach more: the thought of Wesley with me on his arm, introducing me to dozens of family members, or the intimacy of a tiny table where we’d have to carry the conversation for hours.
It doesn’t make a difference. My answer would be the same.
“I’m not ready for Thanksgivings, Wes.”
He presses his lips together. Takes a slow sip of lukewarm coffee.
For a moment, I think that’s enough. We’ll let the awkward moment pass and move on to the next thing. It’s been our typical way of handling these things. But then, when he turns his face to me, I see his eyes have gone hard.
“What are you ready for?”
I blink. “I thought we were just giving this until the competition.”
“And then you brought up playing again.”
I purse my lips. I hoped he’d let that go. “We were joking, and it just—slipped out.”
“But what if I want to play again? Or hold your hand in front of our friends?”
My head’s reeling so violently I feel like I might fall off his lap. “You also said you wanted a new job, to get back out there. You can’t have both, Wes.”
“You don’t want that, too? You’re too good not to want that, Reagan.”
Uncertainty swirls in the pit of my stomach.
I’ve had too many people telling me that lately, reminding me of my old wish-upon-a-star dream that did nothing but let me down and distract me from what really mattered.
It feels like no one recognizes how hard I’ve worked in spite of it to build a life for myself that’s smart and secure, a safety net I can catch everyone I love in, if I have to.