Page 49 of Scoring the Player
I rip my gaze away and rub my palms on my pants.
I catch my reflection in the glass. I look terrified. I start fidgeting, but no matter how much I try, I can’t get my spine straight enough.
Why am I here?
I should open the door and make a run—or roll—for it.
Just keep on rolling right into the ocean like two-ply toilet paper.
Ain’t like I didn’t cop fresh material for another episode of “Late Night with Salem.”
“Thank you,”he says to the driver when we pull up to the hotel. The car’s barely at a stop before he’s out and the door’s closing.
The driver eyes me in the rearview mirror when I don’t move.
I start to reach for my wallet. “Can you take me bac?—”
My door opens, and I stare up into piercing eyes.
I move.
He nods thanks to the doorman as the doors are opened for him, then he leads us toward the elevators. I start to follow the couple waiting in front of us when the elevator arrives, but he extends his arm across my chest, holding me in place.
A second elevator arrives—this one empty—and I follow as he moves toward it.
I’m backed against the wall as soon as both my feet cross the threshold.
“You know what you’re doing?” he asks.
“What?” I rasp.
“Why are you here?” The scent of mint and vanilla fills my nostrils.
Unhurried and unscathed by my chaos, he waits.
“I don’t know.”
“No.” He reaches out and stops the door from closing. “I don’t buy it. You don’t strike me as someone who does things without knowing why.”
His lips aresoclose. He catches me staring at them and pulls back. The elevator door beeps, signaling it needs to close, but he ignores it.
“Tell me why you’re here,” he insists.
“I don’t date, but?—”
“Cool.” He nods toward the open elevator door. “Good night.”
“Can I finish?” My nails dig into my palm. “Dinner and movies…they’re not me. But…”
“So, you’re here to fuck?” He asks it like he’s asking if I’m in town for a concert.
My face burns as he waits for an answer.
I glare at him, then move toward the door, but he blocks me.
“It’s a fair question.”
“How?”
