Page 47 of Protected from Torment

Tyler makes an apologetic face. “Sorry, Levi. My leg slipped.”

But he doesn’t look sorry in the least. And I’m left wondering what Levi was about to say, and secretly wishing it was what I thought it might be.

Could Tyler like me? Not just as a friend, but something more?

Sometimes I think the answer is yes. When we’re watching TV together in the evening, Tyler’s arm looped comfortably around my shoulder and his thigh pressed up against mine, sparks zipping across my skin and making my pulse race, I think he might.

When he greets me in the kitchen in the morning with freshly-made coffee just the way I like it—breakfast blend with a dash of cinnamon sprinkled over the grounds and loads of sweet creamer to go with it—I wonder if he’d do that for anyone, or just for me.

And when he came home after confronting James Margolin three nights ago, he came straight to my room and immediately asked if I was okay. If I was in pain. If I’d gotten any sleep, since it was well past two AM. And when I admitted I hadn’t slept a wink because I was too worried about them—actually, Tyler the most, though I worried about Indy and Webb, too—Tyler made Sleepytime tea and watched Parks and Rec with me until I finally fell asleep.

Would he have done that if he didn’t feel something for me?

I don’t know. And though I’m scared to admit it, even to myself, I want him to.

“Your leg slipped?” Levi arches a brow at Tyler. “And you just happened to kick me with your⁠—”

A Jenga piece hurtles toward Levi’s face.

Moving faster than I could have imagined anyone doing—and I remember how quick Vince’s reflexes were, so that’s saying a lot—Levi deflects the wooden block and sends it ricocheting across the dining room. The block lands in my Christmas cactus planter, burying itself into the soil.

“What the heck?” Levi asks, now looking genuinely puzzled. He turns to Indy, whose expression is the picture of innocence. But there’s a mischievous glint to his eyes that gives him away. “Why’d you do that?”

“Who, me?” Indy asks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Kids,” Webb scolds, but he’s laughing as he says it. “What did I say about fighting at the dining room table?”

“No one’s fighting,” Tyler replies. “Just because Levi is bitter about losing to me and Mel…” Trailing off, he glances at me with a smile. His hand finds mine beneath the table and gives it a little squeeze.

“I’m not bitter,” Levi retorts. “But I wouldn’t have agreed to let you two be on a team together had I known she’s a freaking whiz at Jenga.”

“We have an uneven number of players,” Tyler reasons. “Someone had to team up. I just happened to get lucky tonight.”

“How’d you get so good at Jenga?” Indy asks me. “I mean, I thought we were all pretty good at it. And with this, I’m practically unbeatable.” He holds up his hand for display, showing off the black carbon and titanium that make up his state-of-the-art prosthetic. “Steady hand, and all that.”

“We used to play it all the time when I was a kid,” I answer. “I got really good at it, so my parents came up with extra challenges to keep me engaged. I’d use my off-hand, or remove a piece with one eye closed, or the hardest was when we had a time limit, and I only had five seconds to make my move.”

“You’d be amazing at Extreme Jenga, then,” Webb comments. “Once you’re feeling better, we’ll have to give that a try.”

“Extreme Jenga?” I ask. “What’s that?”

“It’s a game some of our friends invented back when we were in the Army,” Tyler explains. “It all started with Cole and Leo’s team. Leo’s big into games, so he would bring cards or a Jenga set whenever he traveled. But they decided regular Jenga was too easy, so they came up with all these modifications. Like spinning around ten times before making a move, or teaming up and making one of the players remove the pieces blindfolded.”

As a lifelong Jenga fan, I’m immediately intrigued. “That sounds fun. What about trying it now?”

“Hmm.” Indy glances at his watch. “I told Bea I’d call her at ten, but we’d probably have time for a round or two.”

“I’m not sure tonight’s a good idea,” Tyler says, his tone apologetic. “It’s getting kind of late. And Mel is still recovering. She should probably get some rest.”

I look at him, torn between being annoyed he’s trying to make decisions for me, and touched that he cares enough to worry. “I’m doing much better,” I tell him. “My headaches are completely gone. So is the light sensitivity.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re completely better,” he replies. “Your body is still healing, and that takes extra energy. Plus, I know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

He has a point. Ever since the weird incidents started, my sleep has suffered. After the attack, it got even worse. And though I thought I’d rest easier, knowing James Margolin is in jail, I haven’t, because I know the person who sent him after me is still out there.

Well, whoever was behind the fake drug deal didn’t force Margolin to attack me. That was all on him. But they set me up. Sent him right to me. And they had to know the outcome wouldn’t be good.

Who would do something like that? I keep asking myself. Missing files and flat tires were one thing. But sending a drug addict to my house in search of drugs I had no knowledge about? A drug addict with a violent history? That’s not just someone who wants to mess with me. That’s someone who wants to hurt me.