Page 11 of All Twerk, No Play

“Who is she?” I murmured.

“You’re kidding, right? You know Mallory Clarke is my dream girl,” Pike nudged me, eyes pleading. “I overheard her say she’s out for girls’ night. I leave tomorrow, this is my last chance. Please, Cruz, you’ve gotta help me.”

Ugh, Pike reeked of desperation. When Kate’s face lit up in recognition and she waved me over, I clapped him on the shoulder to follow me.

“You know Bobby Pike, right?” I hollered to Kate. She locked eyes with Pike, who flushed at her attention. “He leaves tomorrow for three months without sunshine or women. All he wants is a chance with Mallory. Think she’s up for her patriotic duty?”

Kate laughed. “Normally I’d say yes, but Mal’s committed to a fun welcome party and our guest of honor’s still hung up on her ex.”

From a few feet away, we watched Mallory grab the redhead’s hand, coaxing her to loosen up. Red pulled away and crossed her arms, gaze lingering on Alex.

“If you can melt the ice queen, I’ll play wingman for Pike,” Kate offered with a troublemaking smirk. “But she’s so far out of your league, I’m not sure you’re playing the same sport. You’re bush league, and she’s—Jesus, Cruz, she’s first ballot hall of fame.”

“Keith Hernandez?” I asked, a comparison to legendary Mets’ first baseman.

“Derek Fucking Jeter, if he wore Chanel Number Five.”

“Really? She doesn’t look evil.” My dramatic grimace made Kate laugh.

“Looks can be deceiving,” she said, clapping a hand on my shoulder for a pep talk: “Batter up, Cruz. Swing for the fences.”

“You gotta give him a reason to notice,” I said to Red, just loud enough to be heard over the music. Mallory met my eyes with a competitive dare as Kate tugged her away.

“What?” Her tone was as posh and polished as I remembered.

“You want him, right?” I nodded at Alex, and her chin dipped. “So who’s that with him?”

“His mid-life crisis.” Red turned to glare, nostrils flared like she was ready to strike … then when her attention landed on my face, she reached up to smooth back her perfect bun.

I held out my palm in invitation. “Let’s make him jealous.”

The corner of her lip lifted. Ignoring my outstretched hand, she led the way to the dance floor. She brought her hand to my shoulders like she was ready to foxtrot. “What’s in this for you?”

I rested a hand on her hip and pivoted so she could look over my shoulder. “Dark hair, red dress, two o’clock.” I’d all but forgotten about Joanna, but she was a good excuse. “I’m not interested, but she couldn’t take a hint if I handed it to her in a takeout bag.”

The lights flashed across her face as I read her lips to make sense of her yelling over the music. “Your solution is fundamentally flawed. You’re assuming the same input will yield opposite results.”

This was the most logical conversation I’d ever had at a club. Usually, it's groping and grinding followed by ‘Your place or mine?’

The answer was always hers. It was easier to leave than to be left.

We navigated between sweaty bodies, the pulsing music almost drowning out her question. “Why would our dancing attract him but repel her?”

“You have history with your guy, but she just wants me for sex and knows about my policy.”

“What policy?”

“One night, no repeats.” I held up one finger, tracing down her arm. Goosebumps erupted on her bicep as her scowl deepened.

She leaned away, bumping me into a woman who shot a jealous look at Red.

“Is that a policy? Or is there not enough demand for a second night?”

Ooh, this kitty has claws.

I flexed my pecs under her palms, and her fingers twitched. I leaned closer to murmur in her ear, “Trust me, baby, I leave them satisfied.”

Most times that does it, we leave immediately. But her copper brows drew together. “Were your terms clearly articulated or implied? Did she engage in a handshake agreement—”

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