Play Maker (24 page)

Ding-ding!

I scowl. If it is my mother again, so help me, I’m going to throw my phone against the wall. She needs to learn a lesson. As in, don’t tell your daughter about your incompetent lovers. Because gross. Because no. Because all the fucking reasons.

Ah, an email. Maybe, just maybe, it’s fan mail. I love fan mail, especially when it comes after I’ve cried over four pages of agonizing writing in the middle of the night, two bottles of wine in. Those are my favorite letters in the whole wide world. Bethany Bonafont could probably wallpaper her entire house ten times over with fan mail, those goddamn crowd favorites, and I could wallpaper…my bathroom…but at least I get fan mail? It could be worse. I could be writing atrocious dino-smut and receiving unsolicited naked pictures from fans.

At least, that’s what the rumors say happens. I wouldn’t know because I’m fucking 
classy
, thank you very much.

Not a fan letter, disappointing. But it’s almost as good, when I’m already drunk and not super happy. Instead, it’s a notification from Amazon about a new book coming out from my arch-enemy, Charlie Shivers. He’s the douche Jane wants to be like, writing ridiculous books about sexual cactuses and ramming people up the butt with unicorn horns. (I’m putting mental quotes around the term “Books.”).

He’s hardly even considered an author, but the asshole makes more money than I will ever likely see in my lifetime.

Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Not that I’m a pathological liar or anything.

I click the link in the email and almost spew wine all over my keyboard. It’s already ranked in the top 200 and has like ten five-star reviews. How is this even possible? He has to buy off his reviewers, that’s the only way this makes sense. Or maybe he has a street team and sets them all on his links as soon as they release.

Maybe I should get a street team.

I bet Bethany Bonafont has a street team. Note to self: get a street team.

I chug my glass and one-click the stupid “book” to see what this one is all about. It’s called 
Taken by the Amorous Gay Velociraptor’s Mouth
. Like, how is that even sexy? How are people reading this filth? It sounds painful and stupid, not sexy and funny.

Fuuuucckkk this guy. In the butt, with a velociraptor.

Darvet Sandscone is an average bartender by day and a superhero sleuth by night. After a hard day on the job, a young triceratops asks him for help, and he finds himself in the darkest part of the city: No Man’s Land. The police moved out months ago and left the dinosaurs to fend for themselves.

When hunting for the purse snatcher, he finds himself cornered by a tribe of rabid velociraptors hungry for one thing, and one thing only: his dick.

Of course I’m going to fucking read it. I’m part of the problem.

I pour another glass of wine and open up the book, no doubt twenty pages of ridiculous gay-on-raptor action that probably took him a whole ten minutes to write. He probably spent more time Photoshopping his ridiculous book’s cover than he did writing it.

Hell, he probably spent more time uploading the damn thing to Amazon than he did writing it.

Did I mention he’s my arch-enemy? I hate him.

I’m too drunk to stop reading. I make it through the whole thing in less than fifteen minutes, and it’s the most appalling garbage I’ve ever read in my life. Well, next to the other filth he writes that I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve read. I’m also embarrassed to admit it’s kind of really funny.

Like I said, I’m part of the problem.

At least, it’s funny until I check his rank again. In the fifteen minutes it took me to read, he’s shot up to number 155. Overall. On all of Amazon. Fuck. Me. Sideways. I click over to another tab and look up my latest, 
Life and Love in the Texas Desert
, and see that it’s only ranked number 825.

Me, 825. I spent weeks working on that book, churning through edits and countless free bottles of wine from next door. I poured my soul into that book and my heroine. Sleepless nights were spent in this very room, typing up a storm, obeying my muse and everything she demanded of me, and I’m freaking 825.

This fool spends, what, ten minutes? An hour? And he’s number 155. He just barely settles underneath Bethany Bonafont’s regency romance from a six months ago, because the damn thing is still selling like it’s crack.

It doesn’t belong on Amazon. It belongs in the bowels of the dark web, where people hide their shame.  

I look at the antique letter opener on my desk and consider lopping off an ear and mailing it to him. Van Gogh was a genius and everyone remembers him because of that ridiculous ear stunt, so why not Randi Rose, romance author? “Put 
this
 in your butt,” the enclosed note would say. My fingers close around the dagger, but I drop it and grab my mouse instead.

If this is how he wants to build his way to the top, fine.

But those at the top can’t remain there forever. Look at Rome. Look at…that other place that fell apart after reaching the top. Atlantis? Look at…a bad mountain climber…or something. Drunk analogies aren’t the best.

The point is he can’t keep his shiny five-star ratings forever, and it is my personal mission in life to destroy every last one. Muahahahaha!

RIP, five-star rating. R-I-fucking-P. One star for you!

I crack my knuckles and scroll down to the review box. For the first time in twenty minutes (okay, four minutes), I smile. To the death, Shivers!

How quaint. Another Charlie Shivers “original” about preposterous objects having sex. The book, if you can even call twelve pages of senseless and impossible “sex” a book, is thoroughly unimaginative. Charlie Shivers is as much a real author as my foot is an author. And my foot, mind, can’t write a book. Oh, look, neither can Shivers! Don’t waste your time or energy on this book. There are so many other talented authors, real authors, who can evoke a sense of wonderment, sex appeal, and emotion with their pinkie than Shivers could ever hope to evoke in his entire life and body of work.

My only regret, after hitting the
submit
button, is that the review sort of admits I read his work. Maybe people will think it’s just this one. I hope. Well, no one can prove I read anything, anyways. No one except Amazon, and even then, they can’t prove 
I
 pushed the button.

“My silly cat has an extra thumb and spends all his time on the computer buying stupid books. Silly, silly cat.”

Never mind I don’t even have a cat, because that would be one more thing to take very poor care of. But if I did, his name would absolutely be Grawlix, the name for the symbols used to replace swear words. That’d be my kind of cat. Or maybe Aglet, because why not? Or Potato, because I always wanted a pet named Potato.

It’s probably for the best I will never have children.

Satisfied with my launched torpedoes towards Shivers, I swallow the rest of my wine and shut down the office. So, I’m going to bed alone, again. At least I have the entire thing to stretch out in and there is zero chance of me being molested by a velociraptor.

H
e’s back
.

Not just back in town, but living in the flat right beneath mine. And he looks good enough to eat, which is just one more reason to stay away from him.

But I can’t resist.

The sex is incredible (pretty sure we’ve shaken the house right off its foundation), but he can’t fool me—not this time. A degree in marketing and five years in advertising have taught me that “true love” is a fairy tale used to sell lipstick, diamonds, and perfume. It doesn’t exist.

He thinks I’m wrong, and he wants to prove it.

I think he’s crazy, so I dare him to try.

It might be the biggest mistake of my life.

C
oming out June 20
, 2016!

I
was in the closet
.

That’s not a metaphor, by the way—I was literally, physically trapped in a closet. It wasn’t even my closet; it was his. And it had that guy-closet smell, you know? Leather and cologne up front, base notes of sweat and testosterone lingering beneath. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Actually, it was kind of hot in its uniquely masculine way, but I was in no mood and certainly no position to be turned on, crouching like a frog on top of some sneakers. My thighs were aching, I’d failed at pulling the hinged bi-fold doors all the way shut so I was totally visible through the crack, and I had the hiccups.

Did I mention I was drunk?

Oh, Jesus.
I’d set my wineglass down somewhere, hadn’t I?

Fuck!

What the hell had I been thinking? And why on earth had I gone for the fucking
closet
instead of the back door when he came in? I could have easily climbed the back steps to my balcony by now or even snuck around and come in the front door like I was just getting home from work or something. He didn’t know I took the day off.  

God, I was so
dumb
.

And it’s not like I’d learned anything that interesting for all my sleuthing, except that there were two condoms missing from the twelve-count box of Trojans (size XL, if you’re interested) in his nightstand drawer. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d used those since he’d moved in two weeks ago. I lived in the upper flat, so my bedroom was right above his, and I hadn’t
heard
any sex noises coming through the floor, but then again, I worked all day long and sometimes well into the night…maybe he was the afternoon delight type. 

He looked like that type. A meal you could enjoy morning, noon, or night. Like pigs in a blanket from The Pancake House.

Jealousy surged in me as I imagined him sticking his pig in some gorgeous blonde’s blanket, whispering dirty things in her ear, making the bedsprings creak while the grown-ups of the world, the ones with real jobs, were hard at work.
Stop it. You have way bigger problems than who he fucks while you’re at the office. Like how you’re going to get out of here.

Hiccup!

Oh, God.
If he came into the bedroom, I was busted for sure.

Why was he home this early anyway? I happened to know he had a late class on Thursdays. Had it been canceled because of the weather? Did he skip it because he didn’t want to drive in the snow? What a pansy. We were only supposed to get, like, nine or ten inches. Practically nothing in Michigan! California must have softened him.

Hiccup!

Oh, fuck. Here he comes.

I heard him enter the room, and I tried to scoot back from the crack a little but fell onto his shoes and my foot bumped the door.
Shit!
Had he heard it? I held my breath as he walked past the closet and into the bathroom. A moment later I heard a belt being unbuckled. A zipper being lowered. 

I rolled my eyes.
Jesus. Who doesn’t shut the door when they pee? Men are such pigs.

The toilet flushed, and I heard the faucet run.
At least he washes his hands. 

“So. How about a hot shower, gorgeous?” 

His voice startled me, and I gasped, my heart whacking against my ribs. Was someone else here? Jesus, the only thing worse than being discovered by Quinn Rusek alone would be getting caught in his closet in front of some girl he’d brought home to fork in the shower. But I hadn’t seen anyone else—was he talking to me?

Hiccup!

I clapped a hand over my mouth, frantically trying to think of an excuse for myself. My older brother Alex owned the house, and I was
sort of
the manager of the two apartments in it, so it wasn’t
totally
unreasonable that I would be there. If only there were some kind of problem…

My brother asked me to check on the…um—

The heat. It’s going to get really cold tonight.

The fridge. Is it still making that humming noise?

The plumbing. My sink is draining slowly.

Yeah, that was it. The plumbing thing. 

And I heard someone come in, and I knew you had a late class so it scared me. I ran into the closet, completely freaked out!

Even better. Then he’d feel bad for scaring me. He was Alex’s friend, though, so I could get caught in this lie if I wasn’t careful. I’d have to call Alex right away. And I needed to get rid of these fucking hiccups.

“Yeah, I think getting hot, naked, and wet right now sounds like a good plan for a cold afternoon.”

Smothering the squeal threatening to escape the back of my throat, I got on my hands and knees and poked my head out,
solely
for the purpose of ascertaining when it would be safe to make my escape,
not
because I was hoping to catch a glimpse of bare chest. Chiseled abs. XL dick.

Suddenly the navy blue Henley he’d been wearing flew out of the bathroom and landed on the floor in front of me. What the fuck? Was he getting undressed? He’d shut the bathroom door if he was going to get naked, right?

I leaned out farther.

“Fuck, this is gonna feel
goooooood
.”

And then it hit me—first his white T-shirt, square in the face, before landing atop the Henley—and second, the realization that he was messing with me.

I scrambled back into the closet.

That asshole knows I’m here. He’s playing a game. 

It was chicken—just like we used to play in my backyard pool, only with even less clothing. Well, if he thought I was going to give myself up just because he threatened to get naked, he could think again. I could do this all day.

I peeked out again.

Oh. My. God. 

My mouth fell open.
There he was—shirtless, jeans undone,
posing
in front of the mirror. Flexing his biceps. His pecs. His abs.

Every curve and line was perfection—the muscular thighs, the round ass, the narrow waist, the sculpted arms. Not that I was surprised. He’d quit modeling months ago, but he still worked out every day like it was his job. Then there were the gifts he was given—the things he didn’t even have to work for. The brain-melting blue eyes, the unforgivable symmetry of his features, the angle of his jaw, the flawless skin. 

After dropping a kiss onto each of his biceps—for fuck’s sake, seriously?—he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, then left it there while the other slid down his rippled abdomen and into the front of his underwear. 

My breath caught.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. Would he really go that far? 

I was sweating, my entire body on edge. At least my hiccups were gone.

But what should I do? Give myself up?

A good person would,
said my conscience
. 

Was I a good person? 

You’re a drunk peeping Tom. All signs point to no.

So then I might as well see it through, right? After all, I’d made it this far. If I gave up now, he’d have something on me.
And
he’d have the upper hand. So maybe I’d call his bluff—see how far he’d actually go. 

Great, now you’re a perv as well as a snoop.

Maybe I was, because when he moved behind the half-open bathroom door and turned the water on, I crawled out a little bit farther to try for a better look. Could I catch his reflection in the mirror? Or see him through the crack?

Suddenly his jeans came sailing out, landing with a dull thump right in front of me.

And then his blue boxer briefs.

But I had no time to freak out, because the door opened wide and Quinn appeared, holding his hands over his crotch like a fucking fig leaf.

I gasped.

“So,” he said, those blue eyes dancing. “Now what?”

Oh my fucking god.

The game of chicken…suddenly involved a cock.

S
ign
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