Page 106 of Role Play
For a moment, we’re locked in time—him leaning against the wall, me kneeling before him, both of us breathing hard. Then reality starts to filter back in. The sounds of the paintball field outside, voices calling for us, the uncomfortable awareness of our surroundings.
“That was…” Forrest starts, helping me to my feet.
“Overdue,” I complete, adjusting my clothes. “We’re behind on our research, Forrest. Time to catch up.”
He chuckles, tucking himself back into his pants. “I fucking love school.”
chapter 22
Sora
“To Sora!” Taio raises his beer high. “The stealthiest double agent in paintball history!”
“To Sora!” Saylor and Forrest echo, clinking their glasses against mine.
An hour after our paintball victory, we’re seated in a corner booth at McGinty’s, the local pub near the paintball facility. The Slaughterhouse Four occupy a table across the space, looking markedly less cheerful as they nurse the beers we bought them out of pity. We spared them from buying our drinks but still forced them into the reluctant video testimonial, declaring us “the superior paintball team in every way, now and forever.”
I’m still riding the high of our victory, my body humming with leftover adrenaline and the pleasant buzz of the hard cider Saylor insisted I try. My hair is damp from the shower I took at the facility, and my skin still bears faint marks—almost hickeys—where Forrest sucked on my skin in the equipment shed.
“I still can’t believe you took out all three of them,” Saylor says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“Beginner’s luck,” I say with a pop of my shoulders.
“Bullshit,” Taio counters with a knowing smirk. “You’re a natural-born killer.”
“Hardly.” I laugh. “But I did grow up playing a lot of arcade games with my dad when he was actually around. When I was little, he used to take me to Pewter’s, which is like a Dave & Busters. We liked that hunting game.”
“Your dad playing Big Buck Hunter,” Forrest muses, taking a swig of his beer. “Now there’s an image.”
“He was terrible at it,” I admit. “But he tried. It was one of the few childhood memories I have of us together.”
An awkward silence falls over the table at the mention of my father, and I mentally kick myself for bringing down the mood. I’ve noticed both Taio and Saylor are careful to avoid the subject of Forrest’s escort work, and in return, I should probably be more careful about my own familial baggage.
“So,” I say, eager to change the subject, “how’s Dakota doing at her grandparents’? Have you heard from her?” I direct the question at Forrest, who’s been checking his phone periodically throughout the evening.
His expression softens at the mention of his daughter. “She’s good. Hannah’s mom sent me a photo of Koda in her new princess floaties.”
“That’s sweet of her.”
He must sense the curiosity in my tone, because he elaborates. “Hannah’s parents have always been good to me. They weren’t thrilled when we split, but they’ve made an effort to stay in Dakota’s life—and by extension, mine.”
“Unlike Hannah herself,” Taio mutters under his breath, earning a warning look from Forrest.
“Speaking of family,” Saylor interjects smoothly, “Forrest tells us you’re a hotshot romance writer. We were at Turn The Page the other day looking for your books.”
“Yeah…my books aren’t there,” I say, forcing a small smile. “I’m an indie romance author.”
“It’s an independent bookstore,” Taio adds.
“Yeah, well, I inquired a few times. Never heard back. They don’t like to stock inventory they don’t think they can sell.” I feel my face flush. “I’ll never be a big-name author like my dad or anything, I’m just trying to keep my head above water.” My default is to humbly accept defeat, but the words taste bad as I say them. Not because they’re self-deprecating, but because they are the truth. I’m chasing a dream I know I’ll never have.
“Hey, chin up, damsel,” Taio perks up. “You just started, right? You have time to make your name.”
“Four years, twelve books.” I sigh. “Not one has ever turned a decent profit.”
Here’s something interesting about escorts, or at leasttheseescorts, they are emotionally intuitive. They all exchange small, piteous glances.
“Real talk—do you suck at it, love?” Saylor asks right before he catches Forrest’s balled-up fist right in the sternum.
