The Kiss Game: Dark New Adult Bully Romance (Twisted Games Book 1) Page 2

  Tearing my eyes away from the doll, I poke my head around the storeroom door and tell my mum a Mrs Hunter is here to see her.

  When I come back out, the lady is standing in front of the tailor-maid, running her fingers along the crepe. “This is exquisite.”

  “Oh… it’s not finished yet,” I tell her with a shrug. “I still have a lot of work to do.”

  “It’s for you?”

  “No… It’s for a customer. I made one similar for myself and she liked it and asked me to make one in a different color.”

  “A garish color,” she says, her petite features screwing up. “What color was yours?”

  I try to suppress a giggle and fail. It’s bright cherry red, but it’s what she asked for. “Matte rose pink… kinda dusty.”

  “Hmm. Do you have this fabric in any other colors?”

  I do. They’re through the back up high though, and with the state of the place there’s no way I can put the ladders up without taking an hour to clear the floor first.

  “Yeah, but they’re up high. My brother is dropping by tonight, I can get him to bring them down and show you the next time you pop in?”

  “Hang on,” she says, pulling her phone out of her clutch. She walks over to the counter where my mum is now standing and strokes the midnight blue fabric with one hand while the other one holds the phone pressed to her ear.

  I don’t know if she means I actually have to hang on, but after a few slow moments pass she comes off the phone and starts talking to my mum, so I go back to work.

  A flutter of excitement ignites in my stomach as I realize I may just have a second customer. And if Mrs Hunter goes through dresses at the same rate Mr Hunter goes through suits…

  Stop it.

  Trying to get my head back in the game and concentrate on the task in hand, I set about rolling the hem on the sleeve and tacking it in place.

  A little while later, I look up from behind the mannequin as the bell on the door rings again.

  Fucking hell.

  Him.

  I knew there was a possibility that this day might come, and I’ve thought about it often enough over the years. Not so much recently, but when I was little, I was terrified to the point I’d have nightmares.

  He didn’t mean it. It was an accident.

  I always told myself I’d repeat those words if I ever bumped into him. He was just a kid, he didn’t understand the consequences of his actions.

  He’s not a kid anymore though, far from it. The man standing in front of me, wearing dark blue jeans and a navy polo-shirt, takes up the full space of the door. In fact he has to duck slightly to stop from scudding the crooked frame with his head.

  He must be at least 6’5”.

  But I stand up anyway, just to confirm.

  Yes he’s definitely at least 6’5”.

  It’s not his height that makes him unusual. Well, it is, but it’s not the only thing. He’s covered in tattoos. And not just your average common-sleeve either. The man is covered. His neck, his hands. I wonder if they continue down under his buttoned up polo too? His body — the bit I can see at least — is almost as black as the inky hair that sweeps across his forehead.

  I swallow, the logical side of my brain trying to remember it’s rude to gawk at strangers while the hussy side of my brain isn’t giving two flying fucks. He’s probably used to stares, anyway. You don’t walk around looking like that and miss people staring at you.

  Ten years since I’ve seen that face, and in those ten years, Malachy Hunter grew into a big handsome bastard.

  Dark hair, heavy brows, full lips, and a shadow running along a perfectly chiseled jaw. I don’t catch the eye color because the logical side of my brain is really trying to win here.

  “Mal, can you be a darling and fetch that fabric I told you about on the phone?”

  We all look at him, waiting for him to reply, or nod, or even acknowledge the question. He doesn’t do any of that though.

  He just stares at me blankly.

  It takes me a few too many seconds to realize everyone is waiting for me to show him where the fabric is.

  Of course they are.

  I blink a few times and swallow again, trying to recover from whatever faux pas I’ve just committed, and then I clear my throat. “Uh… This way.”

  Heading though to the back room, I don’t look back to check if he’s following me. I can hear his heavy footsteps as he moves over the creaky floorboards.

  And I can smell him. The heady scent of Armani Code drifts towards to my nose, I know this because I bought Scott a bottle of the fake stuff for his Christmas and he’s never worn it, the prick, but I did have to use the body wash a couple of times when I kept forgetting to pick some up.

  I liked it then, and I like it now.

  “They’re up there on that shelf,” I tell him, pointing up in the general direction but not making eye contact. “There’s a black, a silvery grey, a burgundy and I’m sure there’s a forest green up there too.”

  When he doesn’t move straight away, I turn around to see what he’s doing. He’s looking around the room, probably thinking to himself what a dive it is. I shuffle my feet as I feel my ears turning pink. I shouldn’t be ashamed. I know it’s a mess. I tried to sort it, I told my mum this morning we needed to sort it.

  Why do I even care what he thinks?

  “Helloooo?”

  He snaps his head back towards me, a frown marring his face. That probably sounded quite cheeky, considering he’s doing me a favor. But his silent judgement was making me all sorts of uncomfortable.

  “How the fuck do you find anything in here?”

  His voice is strong, and smoky, and the tone is like steel. “We manage just fine,” I snap. “Thanks for your concern though.”

  “Looks like it,” he says dryly. He steps around me and reaches up with both hands to the highest shelf, pulling the bolts down one at a time and resting them on the waist height pile that sits where the floor should be.

  I watch him, fully aware I’m letting the hussy side of my brain win now that he’s too distracted to notice me looking at him. He’s got muscles for days under all those tattoos, and a cracking arse on him.

  Okay, that’s enough.

  It feels wrong, like I’m betraying the girl from all those years ago who used to be too scared to fall asleep because as soon as she did, she would see his face. But he doesn’t have that face anymore. I mean, I can tell it’s him, but he’s obviously changed dramatically.

  He puts the last bolt in the pile and straightens. His eyes look me up and down, as if he’s evaluating me. Since he’s staring at me, I figure I have a free pass to stare at him too.

  “You look… different,” I say casually.

  I’m trying to break whatever ice was between us a second ago. Maybe he still feels guilty over what happened? I want to let him know that I don’t hold any harsh feelings over it. Not now, after all these years. It was an accident, and besides that, life’s too short and too precious to hold grudges.

  He swallows, and I watch as his Adam’s apple shifts under all that ink. “Are we done here?”

  Okay then. No point breaking ice while this guy is blowing fucking glaciers at me. “We’re done.”

  He nods and strolls out of the storeroom without a backwards glance.

  Alrighty then.

  The bolts aren't light, so it takes me four trips to get all of them through to the front of the shop. By the time I’ve lugged the first one through the door, Malachy is gone.

  “I like all of them,” Mrs Hunter announces.

  “Do you have a favorite?”

  “No. But I’ll have one in each color.”

  I clear my throat. “Mrs Hunter, they’re—”

  She cuts me off with a raised hand. “Please, call me Lucia.”

  “Lucia, I hope I’m not being rude, it’s just what with the time it takes to measure and the adjustments and the cost of the fabric… I charge around £250 per gown.”
<
br />   She nods, as if confirming something, and flashes me a smile. “That won’t be a problem. Now, if we can arrange to get my measurements taken tomorrow at my home, I’ll give you £300 for each dress.”

  I mentally do the maths quickly in my head. £1200. College starts next week, so I’ll have to work every night to get them finished… but still. It’s not to be sniffed at. That could buy me a car.

  A shit car, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  “I’d love to,” I tell her.

  “Great, do you have a pen?”

  I fumble around under the counter trying to find one that my mum hasn’t chewed to pieces, and hand over a semi-decent Biro along with a blank receipt from the register.

  “Here’s my address. I have a meeting in the afternoon but you can swing by around 6.30pm?”

  “No problem,” I say, trying not to act too keen on the outside, while my insides churn with excitement.

  A client. Can I call her a client? Four dresses is surely a client?

  “I’ll see you then. And thanks again Ms McCormack,” she says to my mum, looking back over her shoulder as she saunters towards the door.

  The little bell chimes again as she exits and I want to squeal with excitement.

  “Can you believe that?”

  My mum shrugs. “More money than sense, if you ask me. And that goes for her husband as well.”

  “I didn’t know he’d remarried,” I remark. I watch her carefully to see if she’ll take the bait.

  Malachy and Scott used to be friends, years ago when we were kids. I vaguely remember his mum, not that I can picture her face or anything about her really, but I can’t help wondering what happened to her.

  She just shrugs. “Me neither. I never thought to ask.”

  I check the time on my phone, 3.15pm, and curse myself for getting so sidetracked. I mean it was worth it, but it’s no good gaining new clients if I can’t hold on to the ones I’ve got.

  Wasting no time, I go back to the bright cherry red tailor-maid and pin like I’ve never pinned before.

  I’ll worry about Lucia Hunter tomorrow.

  Chapter 2

  Malachy

  This music is too fucking loud.

  I open up the double doors that lead out onto the balcony and watch the smoke dissipate around me into the cold night air.

  Grass. Cigars. Snouts. That new vape shit. Ross is smoking cherries, and it’s turning my stomach.

  But the air outside is crisp and fresh. It’s September, one day blazing sunshine, the next day icy rain. The forest surrounding the house doesn’t know which fucking color it’s supposed to be.

  I like this month the best though. Chaotic and unpredictable.

  Taking the last smoke out the crumpled up packet, I inhale a few sharp breaths while I try to get the thing to light in the wind. The taste of burning tobacco fills my mouth and the familiar feeling of alright-ness works its way around my body.

  The music is more bearable now with the doors closed. It’s just a thump, fighting to be heard over the branches crashing together. The music is losing. The wind has turned the forest into a sea, the outline of the trees in the silvery moonlight rolling like waves over each other.

  I should hate that forest. It’s the place I was when my life changed forever. I don’t hate the forest though, in fact, I respect it.

  It taught me that humans are vile.

  Even the good ones.

  Ten fucking years since it happened, and I recognized her the second I set foot in that shop.

  The same treacle black hair and big green eyes.

  She’s older now. Her face is different, but the expression plastered over it hasn’t changed a bit.

  We manage just fine, thanks for your concern though.

  Same exact look as when she told me I didn’t have to hit her full force.

  I didn’t fucking hit her full force.

  But of course, everyone said I did. They also said I slapped her so hard I split her head open. And then they said I smashed her over the head with the rock.

  They said worse things than that, too.

  They said things that eight, nine, ten-year-olds shouldn’t even know about, but can easily be overheard and repeated.

  The exhale of smoke catches in the back of my throat while I chuckle to myself, remembering how hard I tried to make people believe me.

  I was the boy who cried wolf though. People knew I was no golden child. I was mouthy, I was wild, and I was rougher than what most parents wanted their kids hanging around with. When I smashed poor little Grace McCormack’s head in with a rock, well they didn’t have to pretend to tolerate me anymore.

  No one had to pretend anymore.

  I open up the double doors and this time I don’t close them behind me. The fucking cherry steam-train is at it again and you can see the thick clouds in the light of the muted TV.

  “Shut the doors, it’s freezing!” a little blondie shouts. I can’t even remember her name and I doubt Josh can either.

  “Maybe put a wee bit clothes on, sweetheart,” I mouth to her as I slouch my arse back on the cool leather couch. She’s at the other end, legs spread over Josh’s lap, tits all up in his face. Josh just laughs — he’s fully clothed, so he’s obviously not arsed — but he pacifies her anyway and starts sucking on her nipple like it’s producing fucking syrup for him.

  I go back to scrolling through the channels on the muted TV. There’s fuck-all on at this time other than juicer commercials and stomach vibrator demos. But I’m not in the mood for a party tonight — if you could even call this a party.

  Behind me Ross, Craig and a few of the other girls we met at the club are making a fishbowl with all sorts of shite. It looked green when I came in but it’ll be dishwater by the time they’ve finished.

  I should be over there with them. I know I’m sucking the soul out of whatever this is. It’s Friday night, last one of the summer break, and there’s no logical reason for my black mood. Seeing her face took me right back there and brought up a whole lot of shit inside me that I’ve kept buried for years. But she’s just a girl.

  I’m over her.

  And I don’t know why the fuck I’m letting her affect me like this.

  The music turns down to almost nothing and now I can hear Blondie whinging as Josh goes to town on her tits.

  “Malachy, you wanting some of this?”

  I get up from the couch and walk over to the bar. It’s not some makeshift tiki shit, it’s proper solid oak, finished in lacquer with carved panels. The stools were handmade to match the pool table that sits behind it, a big imported 8ft fucker in two tone maple with mother-of-pearl sights.

  It’s my favorite room in the entire house.

  My old man had this room designed years ago, back when they actually had friends to entertain.

  Now he’s gone most of the time, he spends his weeks away on business and his weekends at the golf club. Lucia’s always here but fucked if I know who her friends are and what she does with them. Probably shopping or some shit — certain it’s not fishbowls, tits and pool, anyway.

  So the place is basically my own now, to do with as I please.

  Not that this is pleasing me tonight.

  Nodding my head towards Craig who’s stirring the bowl with the bottom end of a plastic cup, I clear my throat and try to wave away the thick plumes of cherry. “Looks like shit.”

  Craig shrugs but doesn’t stop stirring the swamp-green bowl. “Probably tastes like it as well. But, few shots of this and you’ll be forgetting all about her.”

  The little brunette in the black dress leans in close to him and watches me — eyes fucking dancing — while she speaks into his ear. “Oh, who’s her?”

  “Just some bitch we knew when we were kids, he’s got himself all bothered after—”

  “Right-Craig-that’s-plenty.” I don’t even pretend I’m joking, he’d know I wasn’t anyway.

  I sit down at the bar on the opposite side to where Craig’s
standing. Ross and a redhead sit on my left-hand side. He chugs on his vape, and the thing crackles and pops, and in my head I push it so far down his throat that he smells cherries in his shit for weeks.

  “Why don’t you let me help you forget all about her?” Another brunette, clearly shares the lipstick and the box dye with her pal, Brunette One, who’s nibbling Craig’s ear but still glancing at me.

  What the fuck, man.

  I turn around and give this brunette my full attention. She’s pretty enough. There’s not a single thing I could point out as being wrong with her, other than maybe her eyelash is hanging off a wee bit on one side.

  But even I’m not cunty enough to let that bother me.

  “What’s your name?”

  She smiles before she replies, lowering the lashes I was just fixated with. “Dani.”

  “Dani,” I swallow. “You look like a nice lassie, but I’m not in the mood.”

  “We can fix that easily enough?” She inches towards me, like she’s scared but feeling brave, and puts her hand on my shoulder.

  I could fuck her, I know that’s what she’s after. Any other night and maybe I would fuck her. But tonight I wouldn’t be seeing her face — I’d be seeing someone else’s.

  And that’s not fair.

  “I don’t need fixing doll, I need to be alone.”

  She giggles in my ear like I’ve just cracked a joke.

  Ross catches on to our conversation and puts the big brushed steel dildo down on the bar for the first time all night. “Plenty of room for you over here…” He glances down at his lap, where Redhead is sitting watching us, her expression cracking just slightly when she realizes she might have to share.

  I look back at Brunette Two, who’s name I’ve already forgotten. A smile plays on her lips. She wants me to tell her no. A wee fight over her might do wonders for her self-esteem, which might even teach her some self-respect.

  Doubt it, though.

  “Give me three minutes alone with you and if you still want to be alone, then I’m not gonna cry about it,” she says. She slurs her words at the end and I laugh like she’s the one who’s just cracked the joke.

  I don’t reply though. Instead I reach over the bar and pull a fresh twenty-pack out of the carton, lighting one up. Then I go back to scrolling through the channels on the smaller TV that sits just behind Craigs head.