Page 58 of The Right Move

Can’t. I need to make a little more $$ before calling it a night. Got a ride! Got to go. See you tomorrow.

See you tomorrow? Is she out of her goddamn mind? In what world does she think I’m going to bed and will just see her tomorrow?

Vee

Indy is good. Still working.

Ryan

What the hell is so important that she needs to be working these kinds of hours? Did the airline do a pay cut?

No, but it’s also not my business to talk about. If she wants to tell you she will. Heading to bed. Love you.

I exhale a deep, resigned sigh.

Thanks for getting ahold of her. Love you too.

Indy’s obnoxious yellow curtains are pushed to the wall, letting Chicago’s midnight skyline filter into my living room. Stevie and Zanders’ penthouse is across the street, and I watch as their lights go out for the night.

I’m glad someone is getting some sleep because I’ll be sitting on this couch, wide awake until Indy comes home.

It’s 2:57 when the front door quietly opens, and I’m sitting in the living room like someone’s father, disappointed by a missed curfew.

“You’re awake?” Indy whispers as if there were someone asleep in this apartment.

“Clearly.”

Shedding her coat, she slips off her high-top white Converse, the ones that are covered in embroidered designs. “What’s wrong?”

I take a long sip of my scotch, shaking my head. “Nothing.”

“Okay. Want to try that again without lying this time?” She stands opposite me in the living room, her arms crossed over her chest, pushing her tits up in the most distracting way.

“I can’t say what’s wrong, otherwise, I’ll sound like a controlling dick.”

“Control is kind of your thing, Ryan. Are you upset because you had a bad game?”

Scoffing, I stand from the couch and head to the kitchen to rinse out my glass. “I don’t give a fuck about my game.”

She follows me, palms on the kitchen island opposite me. She’s wearing a pair of 90s denim jeans that seem too short on her long legs, but she of course, pulls off the flooded look in an intentional way. Her T-shirt is worn beyond belief, a soft pink cotton from an old-school Brittney Spears concert.

God, she’s fucking adorable and that pisses me off.

Because this version of her, the real one where she’s not putting on a show for my GM or her ex-boyfriend and his friends. The version where she’s not toning it down to be appropriate or appeasing. This is my version of her. The one where she’s comfortable and casual at home and I don’t want to share her.

“Then what’s wrong?” she presses.

I set my glass down on the drying rack, bracketing my hands on the edge of the sink as I exhale a deep breath. “I was thinking about you the whole game.”

“Aw, Ry.” A hand splays over her chest. “I’m flattered. Truly.”

“I’m not kidding, Blue. I don’t want you picking up and driving random strangers around.”

“Well, that’s not really your say, is it?”

“What if Ron Morgan called a rideshare and you happened to be his driver? How would we explain why you’re driving rideshares while your millionaire boyfriend is playing a game?”

“Okay.” Indy laughs. “The chances of that happening are almost nonexistent, so why don’t you tell me what your real issue is.”

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