Page 91 of The Player Penalty
“You know what? I’m changing my mind. There are healthier options back in the trailer. Stay out as late as you want; the front door will be unlocked for you. No rush since I’ll watch some TV and crash early.”
Matteo barely looks at me, scanning the crowd instead. “You sure?”
“More than.”
I move to leave, and a familiar face catches my eye. She notices and raises a green bottle, inviting me over.
That will not happen.
I wave and begin the long walk back to my trailer.
There are still no text messages from Lily, which shouldn’t be a surprise. She’s busy, and it isn’t fair to expect an instant response whenever I grow slightly bored.
Still….
Julian: I’ll be in the trailer for the rest of the night. Call if you can, even if all we get is a quick chat.
The trailer is dark and empty. I pull dinner out from the small refrigerator, and then a whiff of body odor catches me.
A full day of shuffling from practice to racing will do that. Dinner can wait.
Twenty minutes and a quick shower later, I emerge from the bathroom with a towel around my hips.
Footsteps in the trailer catch my attention. “Matteo?” No answer.
Shit.
I pull the towel tighter across my hips and investigate.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Wow, that’s an even better greeting than I hoped for.”
It’s the woman from earlier: blonde hair and a jean skirt. “Samantha,” I finally say, remembering.
“You invited me.”
The hell I did. “You need to go. Like, now.”
She’s sitting on the sofa with her shoes already off. Her purse sits on the kitchen counter.
“No one saw me coming in.”
“I have a girlfriend.”
“I won’t tell her.”
I almost threaten security, but that might create another set of problems. “I certainly will. Get out, or I’ll force you out. Right the fuck now.”
Samantha’s expression changes from pleasure and seduction to tense and angry. “This isn’t my first time here, you remember?”
“It’ll be your last.” I grab her purse and move to the door. “Five seconds, and I throw this outside. Enjoy picking up the contents. I hope your phone breaks.”
“Okay, I’m leaving.” She picks up her shoes and puts on one, doing a half-walk, half-waddle to the door, where she snatches the purse from my hand. “Asshole.”
“I’ve been called worse. Now, get out.”
She does, clutching her purse in one hand and a shoe in the other.
