Gamed (A Standalone Romance Novel) (Bad Boy Romance) Read online

  Finally, she cleared her throat. "Sir, I have your other daughter here. Wouldn't you like to speak with her?" Ms. Alice did not wait, she just handed me the phone with a barely disguised expression of relief.

  He was still talking when I took the phone. "I'm going to need the name of the detective and the uniformed officers. I have her roommate's contact information somewhere."

  "Daddy?" I asked.

  "I'm going to have to lie to your mother until this is all cleared up. She can't handle news like this. We'll tell her Sienna was hurt in a car accident. I'll be there in the morning, Quinn. 8 am sharp in your lobby," he said.

  The line went dead. I dropped the phone on the floor and lay down on the couch. Darla pulled my comforter off my bed and laid it over me as I curled up in a ball.

  Somehow, my body woke up at 7:30 am. On autopilot, I showered and dressed and walked downstairs to meet my father.

  He was early and impatiently waiting. "Did you talk to her roommate last night?"

  "No."

  "But you went to her room? The detective said you were there," my father asked.

  "Yes. I saw, I saw…" I stopped and clung to the mailboxes in the foyer.

  My father pulled open the front door. He then grabbed my elbow and escorted me out in front of him. "We're going to the coroner's. Didn't you tell me you went there with your class? That's my girl, never flinching when there's something useful to learn."

  "That was Sienna," I said.

  My father scowled as he opened the car’s passenger side door for me. He scowled all the way to the county coroner's office. He wiped it away when the coroner met us at the door. The two men shook hands.

  "Has the death certificate been finished?" my father asked.

  "Yes, sir. My findings corroborate with the detective's conclusion. Her death has been ruled a suicide," the coroner said.

  For once, all the air seemed to be sucked from my father. I noticed how he had lost weight. There was more gray in his hair. The normal command he had over any room was gone and he followed the coroner without another word.

  We stood in front of a plated glass window and stared aimlessly into a small room. White tiles reached halfway up the wall before giving over to an institutional gray color. Two orderlies pushed a gurney into the room. On the coroner's signal, one lifted back the white sheet.

  There was Sienna, gray against the bleached white of the sheet. Her golden hair was combed back from her face and still damp from the medical examiner's administrations.

  "Sir?" the coroner called as I swayed.

  My father clamped onto my arm to steady me. "She was going to be a surgeon. She never flinched, never fainted." His eyes never left Sienna's face. "Her sister was going to follow in her footsteps but no one could catch up to her."

  "You've had a terrible shock," the coroner said to me. "Would you like to sit down?"

  "You're not going to faint are you? Surgeons don't faint," my father said.

  "I'm in the nursing program."

  He snorted. "Sienna was going to be a surgeon."

  I wrenched my arm free from my father's grip and sat on the bench the coroner had shown me. Anger burned in my chest, and I rubbed at the pain. My father had decided when we were still toddlers that his daughters would be doctors. Sienna had thrived under the challenge, basking in my father's approval as she excelled.

  I had always felt constricted, the square peg in a round hole. There was the pressure of his imperial expectations, the way he discussed it with everyone as if it was a foregone conclusion and not a hard achievement.

  Had the pressure finally been too much for Sienna? I wondered.

  My older sister had her ups and downs. Black rages and immobilizing bouts of depression. Sunny cheerfulness that lit up entire worlds and an infectious joy in her work. My father said it was a sign of a brilliant and passionate mind. Sienna worked hard, then needed to recover. Then, her love of the medical field would pull her back up.

  It had always been strange to me that Sienna never recognized her own symptoms. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I pushed it away. There were certain topics that were never touched in our house.

  "Did you tell Mother?" I asked.

  My father finally turned away from the window. "No. She was not feeling well this morning. I told her you needed my help and that I would be back this afternoon."

  My mother would never have believed it was Sienna that needed help.

  The orderlies pulled the curtains on the small room. The coroner led my father to a counter to fill out the remaining paperwork. I sat on the bench and stared at the box of tissues left on the opposite end. It had barely been touched.

  Did they replace it often or were most people that sat here like me? I wondered. The tears still would not come; they couldn't fight past the numbness. Somehow this was a joke, a prank. Sienna was not dead. She was going to burst through the door at any moment and make me admit I hated my major.

  After all, nurses don't faint at the sight of dead bodies.

  #

  We did not say a word the nearly four-hour drive home. My parents lived about fifteen minutes away from the Las Vegas Strip in an affluent neighborhood called Summerlin. I felt the weight of exhaustion and grief the entire drive, but I could not take my eyes off the arid and flat landscape.

  My father pulled into the driveway of our six-bedroom house. The Juliet balcony overlooked the driveway and behind the window, I saw the shadow of my mother. She disappeared back into her bedroom suite. I knew she would not meet us at the door, full of concern. If she was not feeling well it might be 24 hours before she appeared downstairs.

  Once inside, I headed straight for my bedroom and curled up in the middle of my four poster bed. For a moment, I felt like the time in high school when I got sick at camp and had to get picked up early. Sienna was still there having fun, and I was stuck in our thick-carpeted, quiet house by myself. I clung to that bittersweet memory, the idea that Sienna would be home soon with fun summer stories to tell.

  When I woke up, the light was a hot glow, but I could tell by the shadows that it was late afternoon. I lay still and wished the nightmare would end. Now, awake felt like the bad dream and asleep was my only relief.

  I could not hide out forever, so I brushed my hair, tied it back in a loose ponytail, and headed downstairs. I reached the last step and heard my mother call from the kitchen.

  "Darling, have you seen the Bloody Mary mix? Oh, never mind, I found it," she trilled.

  I walked into the kitchen to find her dancing around the kitchen island, mixing a dark red Bloody Mary and filling it with an array of vegetables. "A light snack?" I asked.

  "Oh, Quinn, dear, Daddy said you were home. He told me you've been skipping classes lately," my mother said.

  I poured a hefty shot of vodka into a tall glass and mixed my own Bloody Mary. My mother stabbed radishes onto toothpicks and affixed them to a celery stalk, a makeshift rose garnish. She hesitated as she handed me one, forgetting for the moment that I was of drinking age.

  "It’s your sister that doesn't like these," my mother said.

  "She's not, I mean, she was not a big drinker," I observed. I held the glass to my lips, unable to drink for the lump in my throat.

  "And yet she's forever going to parties. How does she manage it?" my mother asked. "I still don't understand how that girl can balance her surgical studies, a busy social life, and that boyfriend of hers."

  "Maybe she couldn’t handle it," I said, my voice wavering. "Maybe it was too much for her and someone should have told her to slow down, take it easy, and not put so much pressure on herself."

  "Please, I know you don't spend a lot of time with your sister, but you know what Sienna's like. She can handle anything." My mother brushed back her blonde hair and took a long, satisfied sip.

  "Daddy said you weren't feeling well," I said.

  Her eyes went dim, deflecting the question. "Oh, you know, I just felt a little out of sorts, but now I'm f
ine."

  I eyed the drink in her hand. "Did you take something?"

  "Quinn, please, what kind of question is that? I didn't need to take anything. I just feel better. Now, enough talk about me. When are you going to find yourself a boyfriend? I'm sure your sister's boyfriend knows lots of eligible guys," my mother said.

  "It’s not like we can go on double dates," I said. The drink was suddenly too heavy. I set it down on the counter and slumped into one of the swiveling bar stools next to the kitchen island.

  "Why not? I know Sienna's busy, but she can make time to set you up. You need someone. I'll give her a call," my mother said.

  As she reached for her phone, the realization crashed over me: my father had not yet told her. I was so frozen with dread that I sat dumbfounded as she called Sienna's number.

  "Hello, dear, I know you're busy, but take just a minute to listen to a message from your mommy. I've got Quinn here and she is moping around. Honestly, she looks as if someone's died. I'm hoping you have time for one of your wonderful sister make-overs. Maybe Owen could find her a date for this weekend? You could double for dinner and then split up? Think about it, darling. You know how she depends on you. Love! Kisses!"

  I still could not move when my father walked into the kitchen. He was just as shocked as I was when my mother bounced over and kissed him on the cheek. "Barbara, I thought you were still upstairs. You're feeling better? Did you take something?"

  "Why does everyone ask me that? So I slept in a little this morning and wasn't a ray of sunshine. I'm fine."

  "Daddy?" I asked. The rest of the words stuck in my throat.

  My father turned to me with a hard look. "Your mother's right, she's fine. Let her enjoy her drink."

  "You can't, you can't make me be the one that does it," I said. "You have to tell her now."

  "Tell me what?" my mother asked with a bright smile.

  "You just want everyone to be as miserable as you, don't you, Quinn?" my father asked. "Ever since you were young, you did just as you pleased. Your sister was the one that knew how to take responsibility. She knew how to live up to expectations and be grateful for every opportunity she got."

  "Tell her or I will!"

  "Now, Barbara, why don't you sit down?" my father said in his best soothing voice. "There's some bad news about Sienna. I can hardly believe it myself. I didn't know how to tell you and I wanted to wait until you felt better."

  "Sienna? Is she alright?" my mother shoved her empty glass onto the counter and hung on to the edge with both hands.

  My father struggled to get his voice to work. "Sienna…Sienna committed suicide last night."

  My mother sank to the floor as a keening wail rose from her lips. I jumped down from my stool and ran around the counter to sit with her on the floor. She bumped her head back against the cupboard, her eyes screwed shut tightly.

  "I didn't believe it at first," my father said. "I still don't believe it. How could she do that? How could she throw away all her accomplishments, all her goals?"

  "Oh, my sweet girl, oh, my sweet, sweet girl. I know. I know how it feels," my mother whispered to herself.

  "Mommy?" I took her hand.

  She yanked it away. "You don't understand, poor Quinn, you're like him. Sienna was always like me. She felt things the same way – felt the burning, felt the falling, felt the soaring."

  "Can we talk about that?" I asked. "I think we need to talk about that."

  My mother scrambled to her feet and flung herself at my father. "You promised she would be okay. You promised me she could handle it. Everything was fine, Sienna was always fine. Lies! Now, I know you lied. It's all my fault. My beautiful, sweet girl," my mother cried.

  I stayed on the floor, cringing as my mother flailed her manicured fists at my father's chest.

  "Barbara, you need to go lie down. You've had a shock."

  "A shock? Why am I the only one that isn't shocked at all? You think people can just magically brush themselves off and be just fine. Well, that might work for you and maybe for Quinn, but not everyone's as heartless as you two," my mother said.

  "Everyone grieves in their own way," my father said. He caught hold of my mother's wrists and pulled her towards the door. "It’s no use falling to pieces, its already done and we can't do anything to change it."

  "She's not dead, she can't be. You're just a cruel man playing a cruel joke," my mother said. She yanked her wrists free and spun away from my father. Then, she grabbed her phone and marched out the other kitchen door.

  I sat on the floor listening to my father's angry breathing as we heard my mother leave another voicemail on Sienna's phone.

  "Are you happy?" he finally said to me. He slammed a fist on the counter and walked out.

  By the time I managed to stand up, the house was silent. My mother was back in her bedroom suite, my father was in his office, and I was alone in the rest of the stretching square footage.

  My mother was not shocked that Sienna had taken her own life. That idea blinked in my brain like the starting cursor of a video game. Was there some sign I had missed? Was there something I could have done?

  My legs were heavy as I dragged myself up the stairs to Sienna's room. It had to be my fault. We weren't close, but we were sisters and I should have known if she was feeling so desperate.

  Her room was as neat and tidy as always. The Tiffany blue walls and white furniture glowed in the sunset light. Instead of an old-fashioned four poster bed like mine, Sienna had a queen-size bed with a white satin tufted headboard. The comforter was an intricate swirl of pastel paisley. I sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to crease it.

  I needed her there. Sienna never sat around helpless. I could see her marching into her room and scolding me. She would have gone straight to her computer and researched the reasons, both psychological and physical, behind suicide.

  I wondered if she had researched it before she did it. I should have looked on her computer in her dorm room. Sienna probably looked up 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 retrea
ted 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. She should come in the door at any moment," I said as the first batch of cookies went in the oven.

  "You'll look for her for a long time. Nothing wrong with that."

  Her calm acceptance of my feelings made it possible for me to think outside of the warm and comforting kitchen. It registered that I had seen the door to my father's office standing open and I wondered where he went. I had ten minutes before the first batch was done.