Page 4 of Not Just a Trick Play

What stupid fuckwad gets himself into this type of situation? Note to self: Next time one considers handcuffs, make sure to claim the role of handcuffer instead of handcuffee. Also—confirm one isn’t hooking up with a complete psycho. Not that there’s going to be a next time.

“Who was she?”

I aim a piercing stare in her direction. “Why don’t you tell me?”

She looks taken aback for a second before retorting, “How would I know?”

“Well, you’re here…I’m here…”

She shakes her head vigorously, her hair whipping at her face. “I just arrived. From the airport. This is my Airbnb. I think.” Her gaze flits around her room again, probably wishing I’d poof out of existence in the meantime.

I shouldn’t believe her, but if what she’s saying is true, I’d be shit-scared if I checked into an Airbnb and discovered a random dude shackled to my bed—or not, given the jokers on the team.

“You really don’t know this woman?” I probe once more. “Not that I’m going to judge you by the company you keep.” I will. I totally will.

Another head shake.

“She said her name was Stella,” I prompt, but there’s no recognition on the woman’s face.

“Was she a prostitute?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. She didn’t ask for money or anything.” Unless this was some kind of pay-as-you-go system.

Before she has a chance to interrogate me further, I plead, “Can you please, please unlock me? I need to pee.”

She fiddles with the bottom of her shirt. At least her expression isn’t so petrified anymore. “How long have you been here?”

“Hours.” I jiggle my fingers, making the cuffs clang for emphasis. Hours where I was left shouting “Stella” à la Marlon Brando inA Streetcar Named Desirein the only fucking apartment in Murray Hill with no frat-boy neighbors. Seriously, I’d even started to believe I was in the middle of the zombie apocalypse.

“She just vanished?” Skepticism oozes out of her every pore.

For a split second, I debate asking if she dared to think I was the cause of poor Stella’s disappearance but decide against it when the woman glances at the door, as if contemplating running off herself. Well, we can’t have that.

“I swear, I’m not dangerous.” I keep my voice slow, soothing.

Doubtful eyes meet mine, and I’m struck again by how blue they are. She takes a hesitant step forward, only to shuffle back a second later. Her uneasiness is palpable. She sucks in a shaky breath before muttering, “Maybe I should call the police.”

That would be the smart thing to do, though I cringe at New York’s finest catching me butt-naked.

“Go right ahead. I’ve got nothing to hide.” I wiggle my big toe at the base of the bed. “My wallet’s in my jeans. Must be on the floor somewhere. There’s ID in there. Check. I’m not lying.”

She darts a glance at the pile in question then back to me. I hold my breath and remain completely still. I’ll play dead ifthat’s what it takes for her to free me. Warily, she crab-walks sideways, her attention fixed on me. I return her gaze with a bland one of my own. Not like I’m going anywhere, am I?

She grabs a sheet and throws it over my dick. Thank fuck. I’m not shy, but it is kind of chilly in here.

I slowly exhale when she picks the denim off the floor and retrieves my wallet. As she rifles through it, a condom falls out. Her blush deepens. She stuffs it back with a muttered, “Sorry.”

I give her a small smile. As long as she’s not running out on me, I don’t care.

She fishes out my license. Dark brows pinch together as she reviews it.

And three, two, one.

“Jake Cunningham?”

“That’s me. In the flesh.” I flash her my trademark smirk.

But there’s no familiar excitement at my name, no exultant sighs, or boob-baring in hopes of an autograph. Nothing registers.

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