Page 33 of Play the Game

“It’s just a few cracks.”

Emory shows me my phone, as if he’s emphasizing how insane I am. “Just a few cracks?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, he shakes his head in disbelief and, I assume, types his number into my contacts before handing it back over.

“There. Now you have my number and address.”

As soon as I reach for the phone, Emory’s fingers close on mine and trap them. I jerk my gaze to his.

“That’s privileged information. Don't share it with anyone.”

I can’t help the laugh that rushes from my mouth. His fingers tighten, and sparks crawl up my arm. “You’re not the pope, Olson.”

His eyebrow crooks with a challenge. “Well, I wouldn’t want my information falling into the wrong hands and have another stripper show up out of nowhere, exploiting me for money again.”

Ugh.I snatch my phone from his tight grip, and he drops his hand into his lap. His smirk drives me absolutely crazy, tothe point that I practically dive out of his car. Before I escape, he leans over and peers up at me with a cheeky grin and teasing ocean-blue eyes. “See you at home, wifey.”

I catch a quick glimpse of his hot wink before slamming the door, and it’s the only thing I think of the entire drive to my apartment.

Sixteen

EMORY

What an amateur.

It seems my little Rogue isn’t as crafty as I thought.

Of course I put her location services on and shared it with myself before she climbed—rather aggressively—out of my car and escaped into hers.

Little Miss Independent has made four trips to her boxcar from her apartment, and each time, she tries to rearrange her belongings to make them fit. It isn’t working, and we’ll be late for our appointment at this rate.

I sigh with annoyance and open my door, letting the breezy Chicago wind rush into my car. As soon as my foot hits the cracked pavement, I feel eyes on me.

This is the type of neighborhood that my agent warned me about.

Dilapidated buildings. A few homeless loitering around. Children without shoes running down the street, chasing a ball that desperately needs to be blown up. Vehicles that are somehow in worse condition than Scottie’s parked along the side of the road. It’s not as bad as the homeless camp I followed Scottie to the other day, but it’s a close second.

As soon as I enter the apartment complex, a stench of mildew hits me in the face. It’s Grandma Lottie’s basement all over again. When Taytum and I were younger, I’d convince her to play hide and seek down there. Except, I’d never come and find her.

Ford was always the one that went back for her.

I jog up the stairs, knowing Scottie has to be on one of the upper floors with how red-faced and sweaty she is each time she heads for her car. A few stray cockroaches scurry away, avoiding my large feet. I stand at the top of the stairwell on the second floor. I listen intently for someone huffing and puffing, but I hear a few curse words instead.

“God dammit.”

I stuff a chuckle down my throat and roll my lips.

“I need to exercise more.”

As if swinging around on a pole isn’t exercise?

“Ow. Shit!”

Before I can stop myself, I turn toward Scottie’s adorable cursing. I head for the echo of something crashing and find her on the dirty floor, holding her ankle in a tight grip. Her eyes widen, and she quickly tries to scramble to her feet.

“Wh—what are you doing here?” she stutters, trying to brush her sweaty hair away from her face.

I roll my eyes and head straight for her.

She’s kind of a mess, and I can’t decide if I feel bad for her or if I’m amused by her.

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