Page 16 of Heartless Game

“Fuck!”

I tried again, but now it refused to do anything.

Checking my phone, I groaned, realizing I was already five minutes late. I couldn’t afford an Uber, and the next bus wouldn’t come for thirty minutes.

Guess I was walking.

I didn’t have Isaac’s number to text him, and emailing to say I was running late just annoyed me, so I got out of my car and ran-walked the five blocks to the bar. Fortunately, I had been the captain of my high school’s track team, and even though it had been a few years, I could still run.

When I arrived, it didn’t matter that I’d put on makeup or done my hair. I was sweaty, my face was bright red because of the cold and physical effort, and who knew what the wind had done to my hair.

Pulling the door open, I found an annoyed Isaac leaning against the bar, typing on his phone.

He looked good. Black jeans, black long-sleeved shirt that defined his pecs, arms, and abs lovingly, like it was a girlfriend—or the sculptor who’d created him.

When he looked up at me, he scowled, dimples hidden, dark hair falling in his darker brown eyes before he pushed it back.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, even though I hated apologizing. “Something distracted me.”

Something like the mindfuck of wanting to look good for him and hating that I wanted to look good. Not to mention a dead car, but if he made a joke about me being poor, or worse, if I saw pity in his eyes, I’d have to scratch them out, and my nails weren’t long enough for that.

Isaac looked me up and down. I fidgeted. Heat rose in my chest and my breathing went shallow as I realized he was checking me out and not even bothering to hide it.

“I’m sure it did,” he murmured, and fuck it, I was going to scratch his eyes out anyway.

The insinuation was clear. There’d been a rumor last year that I got around, started by a vindictive former friend. At first, I’d hated the reputation I’d gotten, and all the cruelty that accompanied it. The stares and the whispering, all the times someone called me a slut behind my back or to my face. I’d come home from class with my face red from shouting at someone one too many times. Aviva and Lucy had threatened to kill “any other motherfucker who dares say one bad word about you.”

Like most wounds, the pain from the rumors and slut-shaming faded, turning from a raw blister to a sore scar. It still hurt, and it was still complete and utter fucking bullshit that my sex life, real or fabricated, could create so much judgement. But there were benefits to people misjudging you. Just like with my changing hair color, no one would suspect the “girl who got around” to have deep, dark secrets. And it made it easier to meet up with my informants, too. No one questioned where I was going so late or what I was doing. The only person who knew that I actually was a virgin was Aviva, and that was fine with me.

So then why did it bother me that Isaac also thought I was a slut? Fuck him. I wasn’t going to bother defending myself.

I crossed my arms.

“I agreed to this interview under the impression you’d be respectful of my time,” he drawled, practically purring the word “respectful,” his eyes lighting up.

Immediately, a wild, horrifying image presented itself to me: naked, arms tied behind my back, kneeling in front of him as he told me to be “respectful” as he unzipped his jeans and pulled out his?—

I cut off the fantasy before it could continue, aware that I was blushing—again. Even worse: I was wet, my breathing was shallow, and my nipples hurt like they’d gone hard. I hated this man, and I hated how much I wanted him. It was the absolute worst.

Theworst.

I sat next to him, ignoring the glass of beer he pushed toward me. I knew better than to drink anything someone offered to me that I didn’t pour myself. Aviva had hammered that lesson into my head, and besides, with Vice and Vixen on campus, there was no way I would trust anyone with my drink—least of all him.

“You know,” I said, clearing my throat, hating how husky it had gotten, “you come off as this easygoing charmer to everyone else. Why do I get this grumpy asshole whenever we talk?”

In response, the grumpy asshole grunted.

It was bullshit. I had real reasons to hate him, but he had no reason to hate me. He didn’t even fucking remember who I was.

But I knew whohewas, and I was about to use it to my advantage and get the evidence I needed to save my mom and free myself from the cage of perpetual fear.

“See!” I said. “I don’t know what I did to hurt you, Isaac, but?—”

Before I could finish my sentence, he interrupted me. “So what’s the content of this interview? You never sent me questions.”

I slowly exhaled, trying to quiet and calm my pounding heart.

“I didn’t want to give you a chance to figure out a lie,” I said, watching his response.

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