Page 45 of Role Play
“I didn’t recognize the symbol,” I argue. “I thought the leaf meant it wasvegan. I ate a whole handful at the wedding last night.”
“Oh…my…god…” Daphne says through her riotous laughter. “You must’ve been so baked. You and Forrest must’ve had the time of your lives last night.”
I close my eyes for a second, drifting back into the memory of Forrest and me dancing on the sidewalk under the stars.
“It was all right,” I mutter. “Just a one-time thing.”
chapter 12
Forrest
The apartment is quiet when I walk in, which is unusual for a Saturday morning. Normally Taio has music blaring while he makes his protein smoothie, getting ready for his weekend workout routine. I drop my tux jacket on the back of our secondhand couch and head straight for the coffee maker.
Our place isn’t much—a two-bedroom walk-up in the Bronx with temperamental plumbing and neighbors who think three in the morning is an appropriate time to practice their off-key rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” But it’s relatively clean and affordable which is how I can cover my portion of Dakota’s tuition. That last part makes it worth the occasional cockroach sighting.
I’ve just pressed the start button on the coffee maker when Taio’s bedroom door swings open. He emerges in basketball shorts and nothing else, his six-foot-four frame filling the doorway.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, eyes dancing with amusement. “Someone didn’t make it home last night.”
“I’m home now,” I reply, reaching for a mug from the cabinet.
“In last night’s pants and no shirt.” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did Celeste finally cave and decide to wear your dick out?”
“I wasn’t with Celeste.” The coffee maker sputters and hisses, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of dark roast.
Taio’s eyebrows shoot up. “New client? Do tell.” He reaches across me to grab his own mug, the one with “World’s Okayest Roommate” printed on it. Dakota and I got it for him last Christmas, and he treats it like it’s made of solid gold.
“Not exactly.” I pour coffee for both of us, stalling. Usually I don’t mind Taio’s interrogations after a night out. We’ve been best friends and roommates for the last four years. We also have the same job, so there’s nothing to hide. He knows nearly everything about me. But something about last night with Sora feels private. Like sharing it would diminish it somehow.
“Dude.” Taio snaps his fingers in front of my face. “You’re being weird. Spill.”
I take a long sip of black coffee before answering. “I met someone at the wedding. A woman. She was high as a kite on edibles and propositioned me.”
Taio’s face splits into a grin. “My man, coming in with the double play. Booking jobs while on a job.” He pretends to bow to me. “How was she?”
“She paid me ten grand, and we didn’t even have sex.” I shake my head, remembering Sora’s sleepy smile as I tucked her in. “She passed out, and I just…stayed.”
“You cuddled?” Taio’s voice climbs an octave in disbelief. “For free?”
“The ten grand wasn’t exactly free.”
“Still.” He studies me, his expression shifting from teasing to concerned. “You like this girl?”
I shrug, not trusting myself to answer honestly. Because the truth is, I do like her. I like the way her mind works, how shecan be both vulnerable and sharp-tongued in the same breath. I like that she writes romance novels but couldn’t recognize an obvious advance if it wore a name tag. I even like her ridiculous stubbornness.
What I don’t like is how quickly she tried to hustle me out of her place this morning, like I was dirty laundry she didn’t want her best friend to see. Like what I do for a living makes me unworthy of being acknowledged.
“She’s interesting,” I say finally. “But it doesn’t matter. She’s embarrassed by what I do.”
“Ah.” Taio nods sagely. “The escort shame spiral. Classic. She must’ve been a first-timer.”
“Definitely. She practically shoved me out the door this morning,” I grumble. “Didn’t want her friend to know she’d slept with—or rather, not slept with—someone like me.”
“Someone like you?” Taio repeats, his tone hardening slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “You know what I mean.”
“I know you’ve got a serious complex about this job.”
