Being with Brett reminds me of a little game called Russian roulette.
You know how it's played. One revolver. Five blanks. One round. Spin the cylinder, put the gun up to your head and hope like hell you've landed on one of those five blanks.
Every time I smile at him, laugh at his jokes or clap him on the arm after a good run I risk having the revolver land on that one fatal bullet. I risk him finding out just how much he means to me. Yet I keep spinning the cylinder and I keep pulling the trigger.
Dear old dad will beat me senseless if he ever so much as guesses I don't want to marry a weregirl and father a horde of cute babies. I don't want that.
I want Brett.
"Lukas?" he asks. I look up from my spot on my bed. He's standing in the doorway, peering in at me. My breath catches in my throat but I mask it as a cough. Brett seems oblivious.
Click. I've landed on a blank.
"Yeah?" My tone is dismissive, careless. I pause Liam Cormier mid-scream on my CD player.
"Your mom let me up." Brett sounds almost nervous as I wave him in. "Am I interrupting anything?"
I shrug and push my Econ assignment to the side of my bed so that he has a place to sit. I'd never admit how much the thought of Brett sharing my bed – even if he only sits there – drives me wild. Brett perches on the edge of the bed and meets my eyes with his chocolate brown orbs. Brett asks, "How's your leg doing?"
"Fine. Still aches a little, especially in when it's about to rain." I grin at the last part and Brett can't help but chuckle. He's amazing, truly. His old Packers shirt only accents his stunning body and gorgeous tan. His smile sends shivers of warmth through my entire body.
After a few seconds of chuckling, Brett turns serious. "Listen, back there with the hunter . . . you scared me. A lot. I thought . . ." Suddenly he's awkward, glancing everywhere, at my room, at the posters on my walls, at the desk that's too cluttered to use, everywhere but at me.
"You thought what?" I whisper, realizing how terrible it is to have Brett not look at me. Without thinking, I slide my fingers under his chin and turn his face to me.
Click. Another blank.
Looking straight at me, he says, "I thought you were dead."
I don't move my hand from his chin. It's frozen in place. "Lukas –" Brett starts, but I move my hand up to cover his mouth. His lips are barely touching my hand but the feeling makes my whole hand tingle with electricity.
"It's okay, Brett. I'd never die on you."
Somehow, I've managed to move closer and closer to Brett, so that our foreheads are mere centimetres apart. Strangely, he hasn't twisted away in disgust. If anything, he seems to be moving ever so slowly towards me.
"Going to get groceries! Be back in an hour!"
I jerk backwards, startled by my mother's call from downstairs. Seconds later the house rattles from the force of the front door slamming shut.
I'm so afraid of Brett's expression when I turn back to face him. I'm so afraid – even more afraid than when my dad came home roaring drunk and ready to take out his anger on anything that got in his way. I'm so afraid that I've landed on the bullet this time and Brett will leave me just like the old bastard did.
Brett wears, of all things, a look that can only be described as determined. Before I can so much as blink, his fingers find mine and he's directing my hand back to his face. I'm in shock. I'm floating. I can't feel anything, hear anything, see anything but Brett.
Dazedly, I start to move my hand back over his soft lips, but he stops me quickly. I freeze and fear floods throughout my whole body. I've done something wrong. I've screwed up big time.
As if seeing my fright, Brett smiles wistfully and tells me, "Don't worry. It's just that if your hand stays there it'll make this next bit a little difficult ."
Then those lovely lips are on mine, kissing me with a fierce kind of energy I've never felt before. He tangles his hands in my hair and I hold him to me tightly, not afraid anymore but not wanting to let him go, ever.
I return the kiss that I've been aching for with vigour.
The revolver spins and lands on the bullet with a final click. I don't care – as long as Brett keeps kissing me, dying can't be all that horrible.
Title: When you play the game of Russian roulette (not that I recommend it, and for this reason), you have a one in six chance of landing on the bullet if you keep spinning the cylinder after every blank you get. Reviews: You guys know the drill.