Gamed (A Standalone Romance Novel) (Bad Boy Romance) Read Online Free Page A

dozen case studies the moment the
thought of suicide crossed her mind.
    And still, she did
it. The thought made me dizzy, and I let myself slip to the floor.
    I leaned back
against her bed and felt the sharp edge of something stick me in the back. Reaching
under her bed, I pulled out a photograph album she had made her senior year of
high school. I opened it up, welcoming the sweet relief that happy memories
brought.
    The first picture
was Sienna leading the cheerleader charge onto the football field. Except it
was not her red-lipped smile or glowing golden hair that caught my attention. In
the far background was a tall blond boy leaning on the fence next to a gangly
girl with long wavy hair.
    Owen Redd liked to
watch the football games from the sidelines instead of the stands. He liked
chatting with people more than yelling silly epithets at the field. One time,
Sienna had begged me to bring her a different pair of shoes, and I had bumped
into Owen at the fence.
    Instead of
football scores and finals, we talked about Halo and Assassin's Creed . He didn't laugh
when I asked questions about strategy. Instead, he explained in detail the
successful maneuvers he had done.
    Sienna laughed
when she found us. "Aren't you two the perfect pair? Too bad Redd looks
better on me."
    She knew. Sienna
knew that night at the football game that I had the most helpless crush on
Owen. I could still feel the thrill of his hand accidentally brushing mine as
he described good sequences.
    I never understood
why they were together. Sienna was more annoyed than enamored by most things
that Owen loved. He mocked her cheerleading. And I remembered when she got him
voted prom king, he was so irritated that he brought her home and left without
saying goodbye.
    At the thought of
goodbye, I slammed the photograph album shut. How could I say goodbye to my
sister?
    #
    It was easy to pretend I was still in high school. The house was quiet when I
emerged from Sienna's room. It could have been any one of hundreds of nights
when our mother had retreated to her room, my father had shut himself in his
office, and Sienna was out. She was always busy, always doing something.
    The only one that
was ever around was our cook. I found her in the kitchen looking the same as
she had for decades: a white shirt, black pants, and a red apron. Her riotous
black curly hair was secured in a prim bun and blue eyes sparkled as she sang.
    "No one told
you," I said, the weight pushing me back onto a stool.
    "I sing when
I'm sad, too," the cook told me. "It helps. Wanna try?"
    "You know I
can't carry a tune. Sienna is – was the singer."
    The cook put down
her red spatula and propped her fists on her hips. "You know you never
have to refer to her in the past tense, don't you? Sienna’s memory is just as
alive as anyone else outside this room if we talk about her."
    "I don't feel
like talking, Charlotte," I said.
    "And you
don't feel like singing. How about baking?" Charlotte asked.
    I smiled. I loved
to bake. It did not hurt that it was the one thing I did better than Sienna.
    Sienna had come
home from a cheerleading meeting one year and announced an impressive list of
things she was going to personally bake for their fundraiser. After two minutes
of baking, in which flour got in her hair, she crushed a raw egg in her hands,
and the top fell off the ground cinnamon, she declared that baking was a waste
of time.
    That night,
Charlotte taught me to bake the easiest, silkiest, and best buttery sugar
cookies. We decorated them with a light lemon frosting and glittery sprinkles. Of
course, Sienna took all the credit and they sold out in minutes.
    "We're going
to need a good dessert table for the, ah, for the guests," Charlotte said.
    I nodded, my voice
gone again. She meant we needed desserts for the reception that would invariably
follow the funeral. Still, Charlotte's practicality was comforting as I settled
into the regular routine of the sugar cookie recipe.
    "It doesn't
feel real.