A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1) Read online

  A Harmless Little Game

  Meli Raine

  Contents

  A Harmless Little Game (Harmless Series #1)

  Copyright © 2016 by Meli Raine

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  About the Author

  A Harmless Little Game (Harmless Series #1)

  by Meli Raine

  Four years ago I lost my virginity on live, streaming television.

  Too bad I wasn’t awake for it.

  The video went viral. Of course it would. A Senator’s daughter on camera? Wouldn’t you click “share”? Besides, that’s what three of the four guys in the video did.

  Share.

  They shared me.

  But that fourth guy? The nondescript one in the background in the upper left corner of the screen, just sitting on the couch? The only one who did nothing?

  Not one single thing.

  That was my boyfriend, Drew.

  And that was the last time I saw him.

  Until today, when my father—now on a path to the White House—hired him as head of security for my new team as I return home after four years of “recovering” in an undisclosed location that involved white lab coats, needles, pills and damage control.

  You see, the other three guys never went to jail. Never had charges pressed.

  Never faced consequences.

  Until today.

  Game on.

  Copyright © 2016 by Meli Raine

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

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  Author’s note: I also write romantic comedy as Julia Kent and paranormal shifter romance as one-half of the writing duo Diana Seere. Check out those books as well. ;)

  Chapter 1

  In the video I’m wearing three scarves. One around my waist as a bright, electric blue belt that cuts neatly through my white, A-line dress.

  One around my pony tail, a vibrant purple that was supposed to be the “in” color that season. Maybe even the next season. I think I was trying to be ahead of the trends. I don’t really remember why I picked it.

  Can’t we just say I liked it? Isn’t that enough?

  And, finally, one around my neck, a red scarf the color of pinched skin and flushed fever. The color of arousal.

  The color of pain.

  When I got dressed that morning I didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

  I had no idea three fashion accessories would be used to tie me up so a group of “friends” could assault me. It was as impossible as thinking that my morning coffee mug would be used to bash in my skull, or that my purse would be used to choke me. That just doesn’t happen. Shouldn’t happen.

  Boring objects in our lives should not be used to hurt us.

  But those scarves burned. They bound me. They held me in place.

  They gagged me.

  Those objects of beauty became instruments of torture.

  I don’t blame the scarves. They’re just pieces of cloth.

  The men who used them are the ones I hold responsible.

  And the man who did nothing to stop what happened was the worst of all.

  Here’s some basic arithmetic:

  Three scarves.

  Four men.

  Three attackers.

  One boyfriend.

  What do you think hurt me the most? The scarves? The hot, swollen, unlubricated flesh that violated me like I was just a fold of meat to jack off into? The wrenched shoulders and torn ACL from being trussed and tied up like something in a bad porno? The broken cheekbone from being raped from behind so hard my face smashed into the coffee table leg more times than the ER doctor could document?

  Or knowing that my boyfriend—my best friend—just sat there on the couch and watched?

  I don’t really have it in me to pick which was worse. They’re all the worst.

  How do I know any of this?

  The video, of course. You’ve seen it. I know you have.

  Everyone has seen it.

  Hell, people in Inuit villages in East Greenland have seen it. I know this because of the emails. The Tweets. The Facebook posts. The Snapchat and Instagram and even Pinterest pins that mock me tirelessly although I don’t have those accounts.

  Even now, four years later. It persists.

  Pain never dies.

  Neither does online shaming.

  Then there are the dick pics. Oh, God, the endless dick pics. When you’re a senator’s daughter and you get drugged and gang raped on live, streaming television and the taped video is later broadcast on every legitimate media web page and pirate torrent site on the planet, you tend to draw out the crazies.

  The ones who think sending you a picture of their naked, erect little sausage is like bringing candy and flowers on a date. Like that picture will make you sleep with them. Become their girlfriend.

  Become their property.

  It seems half the world thinks I “deserved” it. That I got too drunk and passed out and got “what was coming.” Um...what was coming was the three men who drugged me. Set up a camera. Created an online channel.

  And told the world to watch.

  How many people get to watch a live deflowering?

  And how many people get to later watch themselves being, as one of the guys referred to it, “devirginized.”

  That’s right. Not only was I violated by three frat guys I considered friends, but they took my virginity, too.

  They took so much from me that night, four years ago.

  Four years is a long time.

  But time’s up for those men.

  Time is finally on my side.

  “Ms. Bosworth?” The voice that interrupts my thoughts is within feet of my position in front of the wide picture window. I’m gazing out at the manicured gardens that roll out like airbrushed Thomas Kincade paintings.

  I turn to see the “activities director,” Stacia, looking at me with cold concern. They’re all cold here, smooth and efficient but really unemotional. “Activities director” is what this mental hospital calls a therapist. I’ve spent four years living here at the Island Meditation and Serenity Center.

  Now it’s time to leave the Island, go home, and face real life.

  “Yes, Stacia?” I ask, pretending to be serene. I smooth a hand across the ba
ck of my long, straightened hair. Today is all about keeping up appearances. Nice hair, make up, fashionable clothes, and a pleasant look. My heart feels like a jackhammer and my skin wants to run away. I make myself smile. It perks me up a little.

  A little.

  “Your helicopter is here. Senator Bosworth sends his regrets that he cannot be here at the Island for this homecoming,” she replies. “But he will see you when you land in mainland California, back home.”

  Home.

  What’s home? I’ve spent nearly one fifth of my life here, on this island off the coast of Southern California. I came here at nineteen and I’m leaving just weeks shy of my twenty-third birthday.

  Home is just this place where all the fear and mess is. And my dad, Senator Harwell Bosworth, is waiting for me there. He must be back in his state, working on a campaign. He’s two years away from running for re-election for a third term as one of the two senators from California. Big state. Big ambitions.

  And I’m a big old mess for poor Daddy.

  My “incident” happened one week before he ran for re-election last time. I have no idea if it helped him or hurt him. All I know is that he won the election back then. For four years, I’ve been sheltered from the news. Every movement, every web search, every phone call and text I make is monitored by staff here.

  I need to ask Daddy whether my scandal gave him more points in the election. Did he get the sympathy vote?

  I glance nervously at Stacia, as if she can read my thoughts. If I were to say that aloud I would be accused of being negative. Of dwelling on pessimistic “ideations.”

  I would have time added to my stay here.

  One thing you learn fast when you’re in a mental hospital: lie. Lie a lot. No one wants you to tell the truth.

  Least of all you. Telling yourself the truth takes a kind of raw courage. Few people have it. You have to be willing to look deep into your own soul and see all your flaws. All your darkness.

  All your own evil.

  I give her a sad sort of smile. That’s normal, right? For a daughter to be happy to leave but a little bit sad her dad can’t come. “I understand,” I say. “He’s a busy man, and I wouldn’t want to interrupt his work. He loves me, and he’ll see me when I get back.”

  She nods, smiling. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It never does with any of the staff here on the Island. I can see her checking off something on a list in her head. I said the right words. I kept her from stopping me. I really will go home today.

  I pretended well.

  See? I can fake being a human being.

  Just long enough to get home.

  Chapter 2

  “Your father has sent a security team to escort you,” Stacia explains, her eyes watching me. I am a lab rat to her. Nothing more. I am a creature you watch and document. If my behavior changes and I act outside the lines of what is expected, that will be put in my chart. I am always watched. Always observed.

  All of my actions are reported.

  To my father.

  Stacia’s eyes widen slightly. It activates alarm bells in me. She is waiting for an answer. I’ve hesitated a little too long. I’ve made a mistake. I smooth my palms against the tops of my thighs and pretend to yawn. I make up a non-verbal excuse for waiting to answer.

  Her eyes go back to normal as I give a small smile and say, “That’s my dad. Always caring about me.” My lips curl in as I try to look like I’m so grateful.

  One of her eyebrows goes up slightly. The movement lifts the corner of her mouth. She is pleased.

  I have given an appropriate answer.

  “Your belongings have already been packed and are in transit to your home. All you need to do is grab your handbag and any items you didn’t pack, Lindsay.” Stacia’s smile almost reaches her eyes. Almost.

  In a different world, in a different time and place, she and I would be in the same peer group. I would guess she’s only a few years older than me. Her hair is long and dark, pulled back in a sleek braid. Dark brown eyes, with eyeliner applied expertly, and long eyelashes finish the sophisticated look. She could be a Kardashian—before all the plastic surgery they’ve had done.

  I wonder what she does outside of work. Is she a partier? A quiet woman who reads and watches movies for fun? Or, maybe, she likes to hike and mountain bike.

  As her eyes go cold again, I suddenly don’t care.

  Why did I ever care?

  Stacia is the gatekeeper for me. If I can’t fool her into thinking I’m fine and ready for the outside world, I’m stuck.

  And being stuck has become unbearable.

  “All I have is my purse,” I say with a smile. I work hard to make it reach my eyes. If the staff thinks I’m faking this, I am screwed. I look outside and see the helicopter through a window. A tiny sliver of one of the blades juts out. The wind outside is a little wilder than usual. When you live on an island for four years, you learn to pay attention to the wind.

  “Then you’re ready.”

  My heart nearly floats out of my chest and gets carried off on the breeze. Does this mean I really get to leave? Have I truly made them all think I’m whole and healed?

  I can’t think about the fact that I’m not.

  I’m really, really not.

  But as long as they think I am, that’s what counts. Four years after being raped by three men and let down horribly by a fourth, I should be healed. I should be better. I should be ready to pick up the pieces of my old life and move on.

  Stacia certainly thinks so. She clicks the pen over and over, her hand hovering above the clipboard in her hand. I know what those papers are. I keep my hands straight by my side. I control my breathing. I keep my face neutral.

  Then I realize she needs more from me.

  Just one more little show of appropriate emotion before I can be released.

  I reach down and pinch myself where the tender skin of my hip meets my thigh, and bite down on my inner lip as hard as possible. I shudder, and tears spring to my eyes.

  I sniff. She looks at me, surprised, and I give her a shaky smile. The shakiness isn’t fake. I really am shaking.

  Because I’m worried she won’t let me go home.

  “Of course,” I say, filling my throat with the emotion she expects. “Of course, it’s hard to leave after four years here. Heck, that’s—what? Almost a fifth of my entire life? A sixth?” I take in a deep breath and ignore the raw taste of cut flesh in my mouth. My breath tremors as I exhale. “It’ll be hard to leave this place behind. But I have to. It’s the only way I can grow.”

  Click.

  Unclick.

  Click.

  Unclick.

  And then Stacia takes the ballpoint pen and makes an efficient flick of her wrist.

  Checkmark.

  She signs the paper at the bottom, unpops it from the clipboard, and walks over to me. She smiles. It seems genuine.

  “Let’s get you out to that helicopter,” she says, mouth widening.

  My inner joy mingles with the sound of heavy, quick footsteps, coming down the hallway. We both turn our heads to follow the sound.

  “Ah,” Stacia says. She’s clearly been expecting whoever is coming. “It’s the head of your security detail. Your father said he has a new man with tremendous experience in protecting foreign dignitaries in dangerous situations around the world. He’s perfect for a senator’s daughter. You’re going to be safe no matter where you are, from now on, Lindsay.”

  I hold back a snort. I know that’s not allowed. Instead, I tilt my head, like I’m trying to understand what she’s saying. Except, I actually know what she’s really saying.

  Daddy doesn’t trust me, so he’s assigned me high-level babysitters disguised as bodyguards.

  “What a relief,” I say, continuing to fake it.

  The steps halt, the door opens, and—

  In walks my second biggest nightmare.

  Chapter 3

  Short, clipped chestnut hair. Brown eyes the color of well-w
orn leather, eyes that blaze with intelligence and a guardedness no one could ever breach. He’s bigger than the last time I saw him, four years ago. Broader. More muscular. He’s a controlled, contained man who has a James Bond air to him.

  And he’s looking at me right now with eyes so cold they might as well be icebergs.

  “Lindsay, let me introduce you to Andrew,” Stacia starts.

  Drew. Oh, God, it’s true.

  “Andrew Foster will be your new security specialist. He and his team will keep you safe.”

  I snort.

  He stares.

  Stacia’s eyes leap from Drew to me and back. “Is there a problem?” she asks, brows turning down. That’s more emotion than I’ve seen in her for four years. Her gaze darts between me and Drew, assessing the situation. No matter what, I lose if she decides something’s going sour here.

  Even if Drew is the one gone bad.

  “No.” Drew and I say the word at the exact same moment, in the same tone of voice. It sounds like a sharp clap, a single sound that shatters noise.

  “You two know each other?” Stacia asks, her fingers caressing the paper. Without that discharge form, I can’t leave. If Drew ruins this for me, it will be the second time in my life he’s fucked up.

  The first time was four years ago when he let three of our friends rape me.

  And while this situation right now doesn’t have quite the same horrific consequences, I’d prefer he not ruin my escape.

  Without answering Stacia, Drew looks away from me and opens the door. “Ms. Bosworth?” he says, gesturing for me to walk out.

  Ms. Bosworth.

  It’s like that, is it? You date a guy for three years and one day, you’re just a client. A Ms.

  A stranger.

  I freeze. Stacia’s eyes narrow and she takes in Drew. He cuts quite a figure. Besides looking like a giant marine in a suit, he’s wearing an earbud with a small microphone. The outside of a gun holster presses against the bottom of his suit jacket. He looks like a Secret Service agent.