Page 59 of Fake Game

I dig my phone out of my pocket and loadKill Strikeup, determined to avoid any further temptations of indulging Deerin her tirade of pushing me to the edge. My attention zeroes onto the game. But while it seems to work and deters Deer or anyone else from talking to me, it doesn’t stop the fact that I can understand the hushed whispers that float around the salon.

In what alternate dimension did I think this was a good idea?

Tagging along to a fucking nail salon…real smart idea, Jackson.

I’m the only dude in here, minus the guy who is giving an old lady a pedicure, and even he is giving me the occasional glance. I look like a whipped asshole, all because I’m just trying to keep an eye out for her, keep her safe.

My jaw clenches as I attempt to drown everyone out, centering my focus on my phone screen and the game I’m playing.

Deer jostles my leg with the heel of her shoe. “Shield.”

“What?”

“Amy asked if you want to get your nails done.”

I briefly look up at her before glancing at the woman and then back to Deer.

“No.”

She nudges my leg again. “Come on. You’re here, you might as well.”

“No.”

“Blade paints his nails.”

“And that’s great for Aleksander.”

“I guess you’re just not as secure in your masculinity as he is.”

I pause my game, giving the brat before me a stern glare. “Be careful.”

She purses her lips, cheeks flushing a smidge before turning her attention back to the nail technician. “Just making an observation.”

I don’t miss the way the other women in the salon are judging me for not entertaining my supposed girlfriend. And I certainly don’t miss the way another nail technician slips into the seat across from me and begins setting up various tools regardless of my rejection.

Fucking hell.

I click off my phone and place it not so gently on the table before me.

“Fine.” I hold my hands out to the woman whose nametag reads Suzy. “But no color.”

“Not even green?”

I side-eye Deer. “Unlike Parker and you, I don’t make one color my entire personality.”

“Oh, yeah? Then what color are your shoes?”

“Do you always need to have the last word?”

“Depends on the situation,” she shrugs.

Suzy takes one of my hands and proceeds to start trimming my nails with a clipper.

“Rough hands,” she remarks at the calluses marring my palms—a byproduct of my daily gym grind. “You should do a hand mask.”

“Oh, the honey one does wonders,” Deer chimes in.

“No,” I growl. It’s bad enough that I’ve caved this much already.

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