Page 62 of Play the Game

“Oh, you’re serious?”

“Yes,” I snap. “You might be new to Chicago, but I’m not. Downtown is…”

I glance around once more to prove my point but stiffen immediately when I recognize a familiar face.

A chill whips through me.

My thoughts spin out of control, and I suck in a soft gasp. A tremble racks my bones, and I hardly hear Emory when he says, “If someone steals your car, I’ll buy you a new one.”

A hollowness carves into my stomach the longer I stare at her.

I try to avoid the places I know she frequents, because these interactions stay with me much longer than I want. Seeing my mother in the state she’s in drives a knife in so deeply I’m left feeling sick over it for days.

Look away, Scottie.

“Come on, Scottie. Don’t make this any har?—”

I hurry forward and almost run into Emory’s chest. He studies me with confusion when I frantically nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”

I lean into him for silent support, and although he has no idea why, he allows it. The little line of worry smooths after he shakes his head, ignoring my insane behavior.

When we reach his car, I don’t fight with him over opening my door, which is probably just something he’s doing because so many people are out and about—most of them having gone to the game themselves. I turn once more to glance at the group of homeless loitering outside of the small convenience store on the corner because I can’t help myself.

Seeing her in this state is what destroyed my youth years ago, and it’s only gotten worse since. There’s a pressing ache in the center of my chest, pulling on the walls I’ve built over the years.

I drag my attention away and dig my nails into the leather of Emory’s passenger seat. My jaw hurts from the pressure, and my ears ring until Emory’s large hand lands on my arm. I jump and make eye contact with him. The lights on his dashboard move against the side of his face, and his furrowed expression tricks me into thinking he’s worried. His attention shifts past me, and he gazes out the window in the direction that I was staring off into.

He says nothing.

Instead, he leans in close and grabs the seatbelt from beside me. He pulls it taut against my body before shifting his car into gear and speeding off toward his house.

I wait until my heartbeat settles and I regain the ability to speak again before I glance over at him and say, “You’re not buying me a new car.”

He scoffs. “You’re impossible.”

I shrug and settle back into the seat. “You married me.”

Twenty-Eight

EMORY

The scentof cleaning supplies mixed with bacon creeps underneath my closed door, and I lie in my bed, trying to figure out what the hell Scottie is up to downstairs. The sun has yet to rise, and that means it’s just too fucking early.

After tossing and turning three more times, my curiosity gets the best of me. I fling the covers over my sore muscles and pull on some sweatpants. I forgo the shirt because it’s my house, whether Scottie is living here or not, and honestly, I feel like I need to level the playing field a little bit.

The kiss.

The fucking kiss that was born from a rivalry and the need to establish my dominance. Last night, we found ourselves in some twisted competition over who has the most power, and after I felt her open up for me to deepen the kiss, I’m not sure I have any power when it comes to her.

I’m irritated by it. It left me wanting more, which was not the plan.

I descend the stairs one by one, counting on the little bit of light from the early morning sun to guide my way. The smell of breakfast gets stronger with each step I take toward the kitchen, and my mouth waters. It smells damn good.

When my feet touch the floor, I stare at the glossy streaks of wood beneath me. I scan the living room, wondering if my mom made a surprise trip, because the last time my house was this clean, it was because of her.

Scottie’s bed, also known as my couch, is untouched.

Her pillow and blanket are still folded nicely at the end of the cushion, and it looks like she may have even vacuumed them at some point.

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