Wicked Games (Fallen Royals Book 2)

The portrait of Caleb is half completed, and I’m running out of time to finish it. December has arrived, which means the due date is quickly approaching. It’s starting to resemble him, although it’s missing his eyes and lips. The two most defining features, and… difficult. I’ve been hemming and hawing over how exactly to do it.

At the beginning of the project, Caleb was simple in my mind: vicious. The devil incarnate. A bully barely holding on to his demons. The slant of his mouth reflected that, but the closer we got… I painted over it, determined to start it again. Perhaps not a smile, but something similar.

A smirk?

He has moments of softness and kindness. He has demons, but there’s light in him. He’s a liar and a jerk and sweet and the most heartbreakingly beautiful boy I’ve ever laid eyes on.

How do I paint a liar’s lips?

How do I paint the devil’s eyes?

Len enters the dining room, where I’ve been hunkered down since school got out an hour ago. “I hate to interrupt, but you have a visitor.”

She tips her head toward the front of the house.

“Who?”

“Go see for yourself.” She takes my brush from my fingers and sets it down. “This will wait a little while. Go on.”

I exhale and stand, sweeping invisible lint off my thighs. I walk through the kitchen, toward the front door, and catch a glimpse of my mystery visitor in the living room.

My foster sister sits on the couch, her leg jiggling.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurts out, throwing her arms around my shoulders. “I was cruel to spring that on you at your Fall Ball.”

I hug her back tightly, leaning into her. The vanilla scent surrounding her is familiar. It brings back memories—most of them good.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I tell her.

“No, I really do. I’ve felt guilty ever since, but I couldn’t bear it if you spent one more night with that monster.” Her attention goes over my shoulder, then back to me. “Can you come with me? Maybe go for a ride?”

“You have a car?” Something dark flutters in my chest.

“My foster parents taught me how to drive.” She bounces on her heels. “Isn’t that cool? I just was able to get my permit last week! It’s kind of against the rules, but they don’t mind if I take the car out by myself. I just have to promise to be careful.”

It stings like lemon dripped into a fresh cut.

Luck of the draw. It’s always that way with foster care. Kids either get lucky or… not.

And I’m not saying I’m unlucky—I’m just saying…

I have a flash of Caleb dangling his keys out in front of me. An offer to teach me to drive. I sat behind the wheel and didn’t even touch the gas pedal.

Without a doubt, I know I can’t get in the car with Claire. It’s not the principal of the matter, it’s the raging jealousy. I don’t want to see what kind of car her foster parents let her drive. She wouldn’t brag. Her excitement is genuine.

But that doesn’t make it easy to swallow.

“Let’s sit on the sun porch,” I offer. “It’s warm this time of day.”

Lenora lets out a slight exhale behind me. I suppose I’m not the only one who was uncomfortable with that offer.

“Fine,” Claire huffs.

I roll my eyes, and we go to the sun porch on the side of the house. It’s a three-season porch generally, with big glass windows all the way around, but like I said: this time of day, when the sun’s been heating it all afternoon, it’s pleasant.

I sink into one of the cushioned wicker chairs, and Claire mimics my movement.

“How are things besides learning to drive? How’s Hanna?”

Her face softens, and she grabs my hand. “I’m sorry, Margo. I just feel awful that I gave you that clipping and told you I recognized Caleb, then left.”

Claire might’ve been the catalyst of my realization, but Caleb dug his own grave.

“You were just trying to help.”

“Still.” She pouts. “I miss living with you. I miss seeing you at school. We ended up so close to each other. But now I can see you so much more. And, well, I wanted to show off my driving skills. I couldn’t get away before now.”

Claire, the wild child. Always a rule breaker. I don’t bother pointing out that she shouldn’t be driving alone with a permit, and she especially shouldn’t be driving someone else around without a license. A little thing like the law wouldn’t stop her.

“How’s Hanna?” I ask again.

“She’s good. She’s really enjoying that school. She’s made some friends, which used to be difficult for her. I think she doesn’t feel like such an outcast in the uniforms. There’s no bias. Even her shoes are new, and our foster mom makes sure her hair is done up really nice every morning.”

“That’s nice,” I murmur.

There were a few instances of Hanna coming home sobbing, some mean girl in the grade above picking on her for her threadbare shoes or shirts. To hear that’s not happening anymore…

“She’s at Lion’s Head’s middle school, right? Caleb and I are going to the championship game. Are you going?”

“Oh my gosh, Margo. I got asked out on a date!” Her cheeks pinken. “I don’t think I’m ready for it, though. He’s nice and all. He wanted to go to the football game together. Do you and Caleb kiss?”

I blink. “Um⁠—”

“I just don’t know what to expect,” she murmurs. “Do guys expect to kiss on the first date?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I can’t say I’ve gone on too many first dates.”

Let’s just call it none. Caleb made sure of that, and he doesn’t count.

“Well, if you go, you can meet me there.”

I have the sense of time lost between us, and I don’t know how to get it back. So much has happened since September.

“Maybe,” she hedges. “I’ll have to accept the date first.”

“Is he a nice guy?”

“I said he was.” Her expression flickers from uncertainty to annoyance. “I just don’t know if he’s a good kisser.”

“Jeez, Claire, is that all you care about?” I laugh. “Do you remember when we first met?”

“How could I not? Hanna and I weren’t expecting anything other than a shitty foster home that’d been coerced into taking both of us. We got the surprise of our lives when you joined us.”

“Me, too.” Reminiscing doesn’t help that sinking feeling in my chest.

“Are you and Caleb together?” she asks suddenly. “I only ask because there are a lot of rumors at Lion’s Head about the ERE hockey captain. It’s actually shocking how much people gossip. I’d love to dispel the rumors for you.”

I squint at her. “In a way…”

“That means you’re fucking him, right? Even though he’s an awful person?”

“Seriously?” I get up. I need something—a glass of water to drink or chuck at her head, I’m not sure.

She follows me through the dining room, pausing in front of my easel.

“Wait,” she says. “What’s this?”

“A painting.” I continue on, making a beeline for the fridge. I pour two glasses of water and carry them back, and she’s still staring at it. “Claire.”

She jerks. “Yeah?”

I force a laugh. “I know it’s bad, but there’s no need to gawk.”

“No, it’s pretty good, actually. Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.” She bounces on her heels. “Why are you painting Caleb?”

I narrow my eyes. “How do you know it’s him?”

“Because I’ve seen him, dummy. And who else would you paint?”

“We had to partner up for an art class,” I tell her. “He has to paint me, too.”

She takes a sip of her water. Then another, and another, until the glass is empty. “I thought you might’ve painted him a little more gloom and doom. Based on what happened anyway.”

“A lot has changed.”

Between both of us. I don’t know what I’m doing right now, with her. I don’t know how to navigate this conversation. It’s dancing around, out of my control, and every time I think I’ve got a grasp, she throws a curveball.

It’s the kind of shit she used to pull with our foster parents, although she once said she had no idea she was doing it.

Her attention tears away from the painting, to my face. “A lot has changed for you?”

She must feel the same way I do—that we’ve slipped away from each other. We used to be inseparable. Now look at us.

“I should get going,” she says abruptly. “Return the car before my foster parents notice I’m gone.”

Ah, see? She didn’t actually ask them.

Same old, same old.

“It was good to see you.” I wrap my arms around her. It takes her a second to hug me back, but I ignore the hesitation. It’s just normal weirdness. “Next time, bring Hanna.”

Claire giggles and pats my cheek. “Sometimes I think you like her more than me.”

I rear back. “What? No.”

Her expression turns serious. “You’re always asking about her.”

I do—because Claire is solid in front of me, and I have no way of knowing how her twelve-year-old sister is. One of us has to bring her up, or else I’d never know.

“I’m sorry you think that means I care more about her than you.” My voice is stiff, and I’m suddenly glad that Claire is on her way out. I take the glass from her hand, set it down next to my painting, and lead her out. At the front door, I pause. “I hope you know it isn’t true.”

Her face falls. “I know. I just get moments of jealousy sometimes.”

I stifle a sigh.

She throws her arms around me one more time. Her lips touch my cheek briefly, and then she pulls away. I stand in the door and watch her trot to the sleek black car parked at the curb. It’s fancier than I imagined.

She revs the engine and takes off, tires squealing, and it proves that not getting in the car with her was a smart decision.

I return to my painting. My groove is thrown off, so I don’t even try. I cover the paints on my palette with plastic wrap and leave it where it is, determined to try again tomorrow. Instead, I flop on the couch and close my eyes. There’s pain in my chest from her judgment, like a steady second heartbeat.

I just need to put it out of my mind.

Past

Two scrawny girls entered the house. They carried black garbage bags with them, and they held on to each other with grubby fingers. I tried not to analyze their stringy, greasy hair, or the way the older one’s eyes darted around.

She found me hidden on the stairs, but she didn’t say anything. Her attention just snapped back to my foster mom and the case worker standing next to them.

I was rather abruptly yanked out of my last home and placed with Cindy and Jeff. I’d been here a few weeks and was settling in well according to Ms. McCaw. I sometimes had nightmares of people in gray suits forcibly removing me from the home. One or two nights, I woke up sweating. But they had been kind to me so far, and the nightmares were easing.

But now… more kids.

Cindy mentioned it the other day at dinner. Two girls were on their way from upstate New York. A ten and fourteen-year-old. She pointed her fork in my direction, making me promise to be good. Kind. To show them the ropes.

We had chores and a curfew, which wasn’t just for out of the home. If we weren’t in our bedrooms by nine, there was a promise to remove our door. I said we, but really, it was just me for a few weeks. They were certified respite housing, too, but no one came through while I was adjusting to their household.

I saw a therapist once a week, talking about the issues I had. I’d been carrying around a runaway label for about a year, and it hung heavy every time Ms. McCaw spoke it into existence. She didn’t get it, though. I had to get out of that house.

Not this one, though. Threat of bedroom door removal or no, they were nice.

“Margo!” Cindy called.

I jumped up and ran down the stairs, pausing at the bottom. I put my hands behind my back and picked at my fingernails where she couldn’t see.

“This is Claire and Hanna,” she introduced. “How about you show them to their room? The one connected to yours.” She smiled at me. To the case worker, she said, “As we showed the woman who did the home inspection, we have a jack-and-jill bathroom that the girls will use.”

She left out that they just removed the locks on the outside of the doors.

“I can show you, if you’d like.”

“Not necessary,” the case worker said. “You know the drill. Girls? Call me if you need anything.”

“Sure,” the older one said.

I didn’t know if she was Claire or Hanna. She grabbed her sister’s hand.

With wooden legs, I led them up the stairs. Once we were out of earshot, I whispered, “I’m Margo.”

“Claire,” the older one answered. “And this is Hanna.”

“Margo is an old lady name,” Hanna blurted out.

It broke the tension I didn’t realize was forming.

Claire and I grinned down at Hanna.

“Yeah,” I said simply. It wasn’t worth arguing. “This is your room.”

Bunk beds in the corner, pink curtains covering the window. It was definitely meant to be a room for girls. Claire and Hanna wandered in, dropping their bags by the beds. They exchanged unspoken words.

Hanna went to the window while Claire turned toward me.

“You get your own room?”

I shrugged. “We share a bathroom. My room’s on the other side.”

She appraised me, then stomped through the bathroom and into my room. I followed her. She stopped dead, threw back her shoulders, and turned to me. “Switch with me.”

I regarded her. Did I seem like a pushover? Too many kids had tried to force me out of things that were mine. I rubbed my wrist, where my bracelet used to sit. I lost that a few homes back and still felt the ache of its absence.

“No,” I said, inching past her. It was my room, the first one I’d ever had of my own. And I was not about to let some skinny kid walk into my home—and all over me.

I tried not to flinch at my line of thoughts. Did I really just call this place home? Even in my own head, it was alien.

“No?” Claire echoed. Her lips pushed down. “B-but why⁠—”

“Because I was here first,” I snapped. “You don’t get everything your way.”

Her chin wobbled, and she stared at me. Her eyes filled with tears.

All at once, it stopped. She shook her head and inhaled a deep breath, then stuck out her hand. “Fine. Truce.”

I shook her hand, if only to maintain a bit of peace. No use starting a war on their first day.

Hanna shoved into my room. Her attention latched on to our hands. “Claire didn’t cheat you out of this room, did she?”

I snorted, and Claire groaned.

“Has she done it before?” I asked Hanna.

The younger girl laughed. “She’s good at getting her way.”

“Not here,” I said. “I’m not a pushover—and neither are our new foster parents.”

Claire just smiled. “Yeah? Well, you passed. But they haven’t met me yet.”

Famous last words.

Present

I wake up to Robert sitting on the coffee table, facing me.

He glances over at me when I stir. “You okay? You were muttering in your sleep.”

I sit up and take the water bottle he extends in my direction. “Yeah, I think I was dreaming about the first time I met Claire. She tried to trick me out of my room.”

“This was at your last foster home?”

I nod and take a sip. “She was always on the wild side. Some kids get to be like that. You know.”

“Our last foster was like that,” he says. “She liked to push our buttons.”

“With the curfew,” I mumble.

“And other things.” He smiles at me. “Don’t let that dissuade you from going through a wild phase. Although I think dating Caleb might give Len enough of a heart attack to last until we’re old and gray.”

I crack a smile. “Yeah, he’s…”

Robert mirrors my expression. “I get it. I’ve had him in a few different classes and never had a problem with him. It’s just the perception of him that Len has an issue with, and possibly his last name. That, and he purposefully tried to turn us against you—which isn’t going to happen.”

“Lapse in judgement,” I hedge.

What else are we going to call it?

“Your social worker called,” he says. “She’s going to swing by this evening and chat with us. I invited her to stay for dinner.”

I tense. “Why do we need to talk to her?”

“It’s nothing bad,” he assures me. “We just want to see what the next steps are to make you a member of this family. Len asked about it a few days ago, but we wanted to have the chance to talk to you.”

“It still seems…” Out of reach.

“Impossible?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

He looks down at his hands, then back up at me. “Len might have a harder time saying this, but I don’t. We love you, Margo.”

We love you. The words echo inside me, banging around my chest. It hurts, but it isn’t bad pain. It’s a sore muscle stretching for the first time. A heartbeat I thought had died long ago.

But there’s always another shoe to drop.