Page 96 of Power Play

I walk to my porch and sit down on the second stair. My phone is in my hand, and I stare at the screen, hesitant to open her text. I’m not sure how many more hits my broken heart can take. Confusion and hurt are all I feel when I think about Layla these days.

Locking my phone, I look ahead of me, not seeing anything. The late November night air is a bit cold for California, but it helps me stay focused, keeps me from getting lost in my memories and thoughts. I haven’t seen her in person for three weeks, since I walked out of her house that night.

Hell, I was so pissed at her that I thought it was the end. I ignored her texts, didn’t answer her calls. But then she sent me Maya’s picture, with that bright pink unicorn pressed to her chest and the biggest smile on her face, and I caved. Melted like a fucking marshmallow. Because the reality is simple: I’d do absolutely anything for that little girl. She’s my little Princess too.

After that, Layla and I started talking again, but it wasn’t the same. Something in me broke that night. Anger, disappointment, hurt all mixed together, and I stopped seeing clearly. The words just spilled out of my mouth, and now I don’t know what needs to happen to get things back to how they were. Or maybe I do…and that pains me even more because I don’t think she’s ready.

Will she ever be, though?

Layla:

Hey. Maya and I are at her friend’s birthday party. It’s in your neighborhood. Any chance we can stop by on our way home?

She sent it two hours ago, when I was with Michael, eating his favorite ice cream at his favorite spot. For what it’s worth, I still send her a reply, even if she’s probably already home.

Her taking the initiative feels nice.

Me:

Hey. Just got home and saw your text. I’d be happy to see you two

Standing up from the porch, I slip my phone back into my pocket. I’m hungry. Maybe I can cook something quick for myself. And for Maya and Layla, if they come.

The sound of a car slowing down reaches my ears. I halt in my tracks as a blue SUV stops in Dylan’s driveway. The back seat door opens, and my neighbor literally falls facedown on the ground. I frown.

What’s going on?

Some man in his fifties jumps out of the car, skirts it, and stops beside Dylan. He puts his hands on his hips, clearly not knowing what to do. Exactly what I fucking need. Maybe I should go inside? But I’m a good guy, and she looks like she needs my help.

I head toward her house. The man notices me, and I swear he appears relieved.

“Hey. Is everything okay?” I ask, stopping in front of him.

“Hi. Um, I guess it depends.” He smiles awkwardly. His thick gray mustache moves as he speaks. “I’m good, but this lady isn’t. Her friend put her in my car, told me where to take her, gaveme some money, and then left. She talked to someone—I assume her friend—the whole ride, and then when I announced that she was home, she opened the door and fell out.”

Wow, Dylan knows how to choose her friends.

“Thank you so much for bringing her home safely.” I extend my hand to him. “She’s my neighbor. I’ll take it from here.”

“Thank you.” The man shakes my hand. Then he narrows his eyes at me, studying me intently. “I’m sorry…Are you Clay Rodgers? Do you play for the Thunders?”

“Yes and yes. That’s me.”

The man yelps. “Oh my God! None of my friends are going to believe me.” I smile, amazed at his enthusiasm. “I’m a big fan—I hope the team can pull it off this season. I believe in you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I take a step back. “I better help her. Should probably get her off the ground. It’s cold out.”

“Oh God, yes! So sorry!” He retreats back to the driver’s side and quickly slips inside his car. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

The car drives away, and I’m left with an out-cold Dylan. I crouch to her, realizing with a surprise that her purse isn’t with her. My eyes roam over her slender body in a very short black dress, down to her legs and red stilettos. She doesn’t have any pockets. There’s her phone in her hand, and she holds on to it so tightly her knuckles are white.

“You’re a good man, Clay Rodgers,” I tell myself, hauling Dylan from the ground and carrying her bridal-style toward my house. “You will be rewarded for all the good that you do. Maybe you’ll be a fucking royal in your next life and won’t need to worry about anything because you’ll have people to take care of everything for you.”

I fumble with my keys. It takes some effort, but I eventually open the door and walk inside. I carry Dylan to my living room, then lower her onto my couch. Slowly, I take her phone from herhand and put it on the table; she doesn’t even blink. I go to my bedroom, grab a spare blanket from the closet, and return to the living room. The only thing that’s changed from a few minutes ago is that Dylan is no longer on her back. She lies on her right side, her hands under her head.

Taking a deep breath, I cover her with the blanket and step back. I grab her phone from the table and check the battery. Why am I not surprised it’s dead? I put it on the charger and, after a minute of hesitation, stroll to the kitchen. I’m ready to eat a fucking bull at this point.

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