Page 158 of Shameless Game

We have our hearts in the game.

We have the game of our lives to win for everyone like us. For everyone to feel this free.

Zar lies at the foot of the bed. Nick joins him. They spoon, Zar holding Nick’s chest while he drapes his thigh over Nick’s, and we chat about the next few months—our next games and plans.

I want to share more with them. Not sex. Not my body. But I want this friendship.

I look at Beau. I look at Blair. Their eyes are full of trust, too, and I know my partners. We need this support, this community.

So when Zar mentions a private Halloween party hosted by people like us. When he asks if we’d be interested in going?

I’m already imagining the masks and latex costumes we’ll wear.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“I need you to support the lies I tell myself.”

BLAIR

Beau keeps staring at me, cocking his head to the side. He’s making me nervous as if this day isn’t a test of super-strength Xanax as it is.

Others stare at us, too. They recognize Beau and Colt.

It’s the day after Thanksgiving in this coffee shop full of retail warriors who need more caffeine before they return to battle.

Me? I’d rather be stuck on a puddle-jumping plane, flying through a hurricane, listening to Amber Kostas bitch about drugstore eyeshadow while I barf fried pickles than shop on Black Friday.

Clearly, I’m not a fan.

But this is worse.

Colt blows his hot chocolate, looking so damn cute because he’s got whipped cream on his beard, while Beau sits beside him, across the cafe table from me. He’s staring like praying mantises are mating on my forehead.

“What?” I finally huff. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing.” He’s not blinking.

But I am. A lot.

I look away, but his stare gives my cheek a dermatological laser peel. “Beau Willuf Bronson,” I mutter. “If I have a booger in my nose that you’re not telling me about, I’ll?—”

“I’ll tell you,” Colt jumps in. “That’s our code, remember?”

“Then what is he staring at?” I ask Colt, who starts doing the same.

Yes, I’m blinking a ridiculous amount, like I’ve been exposed to tear gas, but nothing else is different about me.

I’m the same.

My hair is down, smoothed, and curled to one side. I’m wearing high-waisted jeans that Vale swore do not make my butt look three feet long. Maybe that’s what they’re staring at, but I’m sitting on my ass.

That can’t be it.

I glance down.

I didn’t spill peppermint latte on my white cropped turtleneck sweater. Sure, I’m showing a little belly. It accentuates my curves. My men are used to that.

I dressed for this. I carefully planned it, actually. I look cute and casual while we wait for Reese to join us.

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