Page 5 of Play With Me

Like a heavy stone in water, my heart sinks at the reality of the situation. I gave up so much for him, and this whole time he knew we’d eventually end uphere. “Then you shouldn’t have lied, Mick.”

Wiping away my tears, I turn to go, but he grabs my arm and spins me back around. “You can’t leave me, Mellie. I forbid it.” His tone is demanding and final, and nothing like the man I know. Desperate to keep something that never belonged to him in thefirst place—because you can’t own a woman while engaged to another.

Well…he can’t ownthiswoman, anyway.

Ripping my arm out of his grasp, I snap, “You don’t own me! I’m not your possession. I’m supposed to be the woman you love.”

“You are!”

“You have a funny way of showing it. Goodbye, Mick.” Walking away from the man I love takes every ounce of courage I possess. But not even a tiny part of me wants to consider the alternative to this situation.

I don’t want to be his mistress. I refuse to lower myself to that level.

Little did I know, what I would become was so much worse.

Anders

Ifucking hate New York.

The fall air whips around my body as I head back to the bougie-ass hotel the department put me up at for the next few weeks. Well, not the department–whoever paid enough money to pull me off desk duty back home and fly my ass here first-class.

I fucking hate rich people.

If it weren’t for the fact that Mom needs help looking after Grams full-time, I would have turned down this job in a heartbeat. Who the fuck flies a retired detective from Los Angeles, California, all the way to New York City for a case? Fucking politicians.

“They requested you ‘cause you’re the best person for the job, whether you think so or not. It’s been six years, Brooks. Stop beating yourself up over it. You should havenever stopped being a special agent. You’re too young, barely pushing forty. Go collect a fat check to help your family out and come back rich enough not to have to work a desk anymore. You can spend the rest of your life out on the water.”

My lieutenant was just as surprised when the office got the request, but apparently, my reputation precedes me. That’s what you fucking get for being good at your job. No fucking peace even after you want to leave it all behind. Money talks, and politicians have a more decisive way with words that usually end in you not having a choice but to do as they ask.

Apparently, it didn’t even matter that the last time I was on a job like this, people died, and it was all my fault.

I can’t let it happen again. Get the job done and get out. No distractions, Brooks.

Realizing I need to be over on 5th, I cut across West 45th, passing a restaurant that looks decent for dinner—if maybe a little pricey. Everything is on this rich asshole’s dime anyway, might as well take advantage of it.

Places in New York are deceiving. Everything looks small until you walk in and realize it’s much bigger than its outside appearance leads you to believe. I spent the entire afternoon scoping out various spots around the city, trying to get a feel for the concrete jungle before jumping into this casetomorrow, and almost every place doubled or tripled in size when I entered it.

The dimly lit restaurant is no exception. It gives off more of an old jazz club vibe than a romantic one. Even though the outside is draped in flowers with the restaurant's name sprawled in calligraphy on their sign, the inside has dark red leather booths, egg yolk lighting, and black and white patterned tile that makes up the floor. There’s a bar that takes up the entire left wall when you walk in, and a large staircase that leads to another floor with more tables and booths.

The bartender nods at me as I slide onto a stool next to an empty one. There’s a martini glass in front of it with a napkin over the top to hold the person’s place. “What can I get you?”

“Top shelf whiskey, neat. And a dinner menu, please.” I browse the food—a random selection of seafood appetizers, vegetable sides, and meat entrées—ordering New York steak frites when he slides my drink in front of me.

“Such a man choice,” a female purrs on my right. My gaze swings over to see a fucking vision in a red pantsuit. Long, thick raven hair, olive skin, and eyes so dark I can’t tell what shade of brown they are. Her jacket is open to showcase a black lace top that hugs tits that look too perfect to be real, and her feet are encased in tall, strappy black heels that she hooksaround the lower bar of the empty stool as she sits. “You should try the oysters.”

“Not into seafood,” I tell her, angling my body to give her my full attention. She looks like the type of woman I’d gravitate to back home, with a devious glint in her eye that tells me she knows she looks like sex on legs, and I’m already imagining them wrapped around my neck.

Shamelessly, she drags her eyes over my body, her thick lashes fluttering when she catches me watching her do it. “Whatareyou into?” she asks suggestively, tone playful. Her East Coast accent has an edge to it, somethingelsemixing with the sexy drawl of her vowels.

No distractions, Brooks.

Then again, work doesn’t start until tomorrow.

I shrug lazily, sipping my drink before answering her. “Gorgeous women spread out on my hotel bed wearing nothing but me.”

One dark, delicate eyebrow arches. “Bold.”

“Confident,” I clip, my eyes darting down to her breasts.

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