Page 51 of Play the Game

Either way, I grab the credit card with a pit in my stomach, hating that I'm using his money to buy groceries. I had no issue attempting blackmail, yet my hand shakes with his credit card. I feel like a thief, but this is what I signed up for, so I swallow my pride, grab my new phone, and head for the door.

The bagof cat food crinkles in my hand as I climb out of my car and search the parking lot. I leave my phone in the center console, knowing that William won't be calling this time of the evening, and walk toward the dumpster. The usual crowd is at the Cat House, and it's nice to be here without having the stress of working the stage for once. Being married to Emory and sharing a house with him isn't for the faint of heart, but it's ten times better than stripping and pretending like the men that watch my every move are a boost to my confidence instead of an attack on it.

"Shutter?" I creep behind the building and shake the bag of food. "I know you think I've forgotten about you, but I haven't."

I haven't been here for several days, and if Shutter is still around, he'll be hungry. Russ kept asking who was feeding the stray cat, and we all denied it, though the girls knew it was me. I may be married to a pro hockey player now, but that doesn't mean I'm too good to feed the homeless. That includes homeless cats too.

I've avoided the house since I dropped off the small amount of groceries I got from the store, leaving Emory's credit card in the spot he left it. God forbid he thinks I ran off with it. He'd probably call the police.

And fine, I'll admit it to myself…I’m being a chicken.

We both know our marriage is a sham, but with it out in the world, even if only on social media for the time being, it feels different.

I don’t want to face him.

Avoidance is key.

I sigh and crinkle the bag again. The music from inside the club thumps through the cracks of the back door as I pour some cat food onto the rocks and hope that Shutter will come out later when things are quiet and less scary.

The gravel crunches with the weight of tires, and I stare into the parking lot, wondering which man will show up tonight. It's a fancy car, sleek and polished with dark-tinted windows that blend in with the evening sky. Their lights flick off, and when my eyes adjust, I press against the brick wall to hide.

I’d never forget his face.

You’d think these very wealthy, attractive men would be able to find a woman for the night instead of coming to the Cat House to watch strippers, but apparently Mr. Handsy gets off on touching us inappropriately and getting angry when we don’t play along.

Hence why my phone was cracked before Emory replaced it.

I stay pressed to the side of the building until he’s out of sight. Part of me wants to go inside to warn the girls, but after a hush works itself through the lobby, they’ll know who showed up.

I glance back at the entrance once more before making a beeline to my car. When I turn the corner, I put on the brakes. The loose asphalt is slippery beneath my shoes, and I skid backward, letting go of the cat food in the process. Little pebbles of fish-shaped Meow Mix pelt my skin as I land with a thud on the hard ground.

“Why is my life a joke?” I groan.

"For fuck’s sake." Emory stands over me with his hands on his hips and a dark hoodie pulled up over his head like he's trying to be incognito. "I’m going to start calling you Clumsy instead of Rogue."

I sit up quickly, even though my back aches. "Clumsy?" I exclaim. "You scared me! What did you expect?”

He gets down to my level. "I didn't expect you to be here, that's for sure. Don't you remember signing the contract that said you are no longer employed here, Mrs. Olson?"

My name comes from his lips with distaste, and I'm offended right away.

"Of course I remember." I bypass his outstretched hand and climb to my feet all on my own.

His head drops with a chuckle. When he stands and towers over me, he places his hands on his hips, and I’m pretty sure he’s about to berate me.

"I'm not working," I explain, putting a little extra emphasis in my tone. “Obviously,” I mumble under my breath.

"Then what are you doing here?"

I mimic his stance and put my hands on my hips too. "What areyoudoing here?"

Emory’s eye twitches, and heavy silence passes between us. At this point, I’m not sure if our little arrangement is going to work out, because it’s clear that we’re both irritated with one another, and bickering occurs within every conversation we have.

“You weren’t at home,” he states. “And you weren’t answering your phone.” I open my mouth to explain, but he cuts me off. “I knew you’d be here.” He shakes his head with disappointment, and I’m instantly defensive.

I stomp my foot, and he looks amused.

“Nowhere in that contract does it state that I can’t come here. All it says is that I can’t work here.” Before he argues with me, I step forward and glare up at his half smile. “And just because we’re playing make-believe and considered husband and wife to the world now, doesn’t mean I have to give you an itinerary on how I spend my time. You don’t have a game tonight, so as far as I’m concerned, my whereabouts are irrelevant.”

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