Page 8 of Play the Game

Narrowing glare that shoots to mine. My hand tightens around the tiny device as I wait.

“That’s fake.” His voice is low and lethal.

“Is it?” I question.

Of course it is.Photoshop is my most trusted confidant. It’s what got me through my adolescent years. I’d spend hours piecing together photos I’d taken of my surroundings to make the real picture seem so much better than it really was.

Emory takes a step closer after he seems to get over his shock. I back up as he continues to prowl toward me until my heels hit the wall. He advances like a villain with his face growing redder by the second.

I swallow and tilt my chin to meet his glare. I have looked into the eyes of very bad men before—corrupted men, ones who’ve taken advantage of women, evaded the law, and chose drugs over everything else. Yet looking into the eyes of Emory Olson has me losing all ability to speak.

He’s intimidating, but there’s something enticing about him too. Part of me wants to run, but the other part of me wants to take my soft palm and smooth his stony features.

“What do you want?” He peers down at me so sharply that I have to angle my head even more to meet his eye. One of his palms presses against the wall beside my head, and I push myself further onto the tile.

Want?

More like need.

“Money,” I answer quietly.

Emory laughs. He whispers under his breath,“Un-fucking-believable.”

His head falls, and I get a whiff of his shampoo. It takes everything in me not to go in for a second sniff. When he abruptly snaps his attention back to mine, the humor has vanished completely. “Money? You want my money?”

I say nothing, but again, it’s not a want. It’s a need. A desperate need. Otherwise, I wouldn’t stoop so low.

“You think you can write me a note on a stupid little gum wrapper...” I follow his movements when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out my note before crumpling it and letting it fall to the floor between us. “And create some photoshopped picture of me taking advantage of you so you can exploit me and force me into giving you money?”

Well, when he puts it like that…

Nope. It sounds just as bad as before.

My stomach fills with dread, and my confidence is quivering. Those morals that I must’ve been born with—because God knows I didn’t get them from my mother—are starting to rear their head and…what the fuck am I doing?

“What’s your plan, Scottie?” Emory’s glare narrows even more, and I can’t speak. “If I don’t hand over my bank account information, are you going to run to the media with that photo, and then what? Tell them that I took advantage of you? Ruin my life because you’re sick of yours?” He scoffs, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my lips from trembling. “Is that what youwant? To ruin my life and reputation even more? I have never met you, and you want to ruin my life? Fucking typical.”

God. What am I doing?

“I—” My mouth opens, but nothing comes out because I’m ashamed. It doesn’t matter the reason I need the money. No excuse I can come up with will make this okay.

“I’ll work!” I cry. It’s a pathetic attempt to rid my guilt and fix the situation, but I try anyway.

“You’ll work?”

I nod. “You can pay me for something. Whatever you want. I’m yours.”

Emory’s forehead furrows. He drops his hand from the wall and crosses his arms. “A stripper offering to do whatever I want?Sounds like a trick.”

My jaw slacks, and I gasp. “No! I…” I shake my head. “Not like that. I didn’t mean…”

Can someone please come into this bathroom, shove me into a stall, and drown me in toilet water to put me out of my misery? This was a terrible plan built from desperation and fear. I can’t even be angry with his judgment.

“You’ve gotta be a shitty person to specifically hunt me down and threaten to blackmail me for money when you don’t even know me.”

My cheeks burn. I refuse to look in the mirror, because I know I’ll be mortified.

I try to make the situation seem justified. “There are rumors.”

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