Page 23 of The Kiss of Deception

With remnants of untempered rage threatening to reignite, I pretend I didn’t hear him with the fuss back in the room. For both of our sakes.

He’s undeterred, though, quickening to match the hasty pace of my escape.

“The star of the night! There’s got to be a lot of knocking at your door.” It’s a half-assed attempt to get any intel.

“Bass,” I sound flippant to my own ears, a blatant dismissal—one he disregards. “Rest assured, I’m focused on the game.”

“Good, good. Keep it up and there’ll be a chubby contract waiting for you at the end of the season.”

Silence answers him as he waits for the hint of a response, confirmation or denial, but he’s met only by the tap of my sneakers against concrete.

Bass resorts to an unsubtle switch of gears. “Between you and me, the president’s been pushing to seal you sooner than later. We should get lunch this week, talk a little ab—”

“My agent deals with that stuff,” I interrupt.

It’s rude, but I can’t muster the energy to make myself care.

My mom would be disappointed. The thought is sobering, and I conclude I need to get out of this damn place right this moment.

Before he can get another probing word out, I end the conversation. “Gotta go. See you.”

Hopefully not soon.

Bass seems to get the hint, finally leaving me alone. I welcome the walk to shake the red fog obfuscating my mind, clenching and unclenching my fists to purge the tension strumming my shoulders.

As I round the final corner, the sharpness of crisp air ruffles the tips of my wet hair, carrying with it the voices mingling in conversation and the faint scent of wet grass.

Instantly, my eyes find her. Like a moth to a flame, they always find her first. Zoe seems to be the only thing I can always see so clearly, whether in a room crowded with people or a stadium full of fans.

She’s clad in a two-piece slate gray suit, the strapless asymmetric top landing lower over her hip on one side, her slender shoulders now covered by a straight blazer.

Rivulets of dark, inky hair fall lusciously down her back in waves, a curtain that conceals the black backpack she carries, whose straps she sinks her nails into.

She laughs and…

Fuck.

She laughs and everything quietens and stills and strains to hear the sound.

My heart holds its breath, and my eyes slow to blink in order to memorize the sultry lilt of her lips and the subtle rasp that caresses my skin into tender goosebumps.

It doesn't matter that she’s laughing with another guy.

Chapter Seven

Zoe

Boston’s blue team wins again.

After the greatest achievement of their history—an international trophy—they’re on a winning streak in the national league, close to securing a spot in the play-offs. Their season is taking the proportions of an epic movie, with their beloved star striker as the protagonist.

Miles Blackstein, the team hero, is aiming to top his best numbers, breaking records left and right. Tonight, to nobody’s surprise, he was one of the best on the field: although he didn’t score, he made the final passes for two of his team's three goals.

Oddly pointy fingers poke my ribs. I step away and adjust my work-backpack like it might protect me from future stabs.

Then, I send Liam a glare that could freeze the Sahara.

“There was smoke coming out of your facial orifices,” he says, attempting to justify his crimes. “It was a matter of public safety.”

---