Page 66 of Scoring the Player
She blows him a kiss.
“Don’t leave without spending time with me,” she orders.
I nod.
The server returns with my whiskey neat just as Rocco hands me his card and says, “Call me.”
“Thanks,” I reply to the server, stuffing the card in my pocket. “Restroom?”
“Follow me,” he says, leading the way.
Once we pass through the doors of the event room, he points toward a staircase leading to a lower level. “There’s one through there. But you should check out the secret one that way.” He gestures in the opposite direction toward a long corridor. “It’s in an old ballroom with a sublime fresco that, I kid you not, looks like something stolen from the Vatican.”
I look down the long hallway.
“Go all the way to the end, ignore the red ropes, and hang left. Past the double doors.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re too hot for that oily cat with the fake tan.” He slips a piece of paper into my palm, his rings clinking together.
I quirk an eyebrow as he saunters away.
I’ll never bethatsmooth.
I end up making a wrong turn before reaching the cordoned-off ballroom. Weaving through the stacks of covered furniture, I pause and stare out at the dense trees drenched in rain. I think about my plan for when I retire—cop a cabin in a deep forest and live there until I die.
I’ll be silent when I need to be silent, which is a lot of the time these days. When the voices in my head get loud, the one in my throat skips town, only coming back when things get quiet. And then there’s the space problem. I need space when I get home. I need space when my brain craps out. I need space in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep.
I need too much space for someone else to feel at home with me.
I polish off the whiskey, then find the bathroom.
After taking a piss and then washing and drying my hands, I slide my phone out of my pocket and pull up my texts with Salem.
I begin typing.
Me:Hey…
And the thing that’s happened all week happens. A maelstrom of conflicting thoughts paralyzes me.
Why text now?
What’s changed?
You know what he wants, and you know you’re not cut out for it.
I rub my throat.
He touched my scar, and I couldn’t catch air. Every inhale tightened a drawstring that bound my throat closed.
I dump my phone back in my pocket.
Nothing’s changed.
I weave back through the stack of covered furniture and am a foot away from the doors when a throat clears.
“Fuck!” I gasp.
