Page 1 of The Games We Play
PROLOGUE
PENNY. ONE MONTH AGO. APRIL.
“Are you going to tell us why we are sneaking up to The Tequila Cowboy… and why you’re holding a bag of pink glitter?” Aspen whispered, her voice low and laced with suspicion as the three of us crouched in the narrow alleyway beside the bar. The brick walls towered above us, casting long shadows, and the faint bass from the music inside vibrated through the pavement.
“I told you, the less you know, the better,” I hissed, clutching the glitter like a sacred artifact.
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the door hadn’t opened and then pulled Theo and Aspen closer, my hands gripping their shoulders like we were planning a high-stakes heist. In a way, we were.
“You two need to go inside and make sure no one comes out back. Can you do that?”
Theo and Aspen exchanged a quick look—one of those unspoken best-friend-conversations—and then nodded in perfect sync, eyes wide with mischief and loyalty.
“Good,” I said with a slow grin. “I need three minutes. That’s it. Whatever chaos you have to cause to buy me that time? I accept all consequences.”
“We’ve got just the idea,” Theo said with a wicked grin, holding her palm up for Aspen, who smacked it with a crisp high-five.
Their laughter trailed behind me as I peeled away, the bag of glitter tucked securely under my arm. My boots were nearly silent against the pavement as I crept toward the back of the bar, adrenaline humming in my veins like a shot of espresso.
Mac Ridley was going to pay.
Not in some cruel, break-his-kneecaps kind of way. No, I wasn’t a woman of violence, but Iwasa woman of statements. And this? This was going to beloud and sparkly.
The moment I saw his truck, my heart thudded in satisfaction. That rusted-out heap of metal was unmistakable. The faded paint had given up years ago, and the left mirror hung on by pure faith.
I let out a quiet, gleeful cackle as I rounded the front and tugged on the driver’s side door.
Click.
Bingo.
The door creaked open with almost no resistance. Mac chose to trust the world to not mess with his stuff. Bad call today.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I left the door wide open. If I had to bolt, I wasn’t going to get stuck fumbling with it. I pulled out the bag, the plastic crinkling softly, and opened it with a flick of my wrist.
The pink glitter glimmered like fairy dust in the dusk sun, and with one sweep of my arm, it rained down onto the back seat like a sparkly snowstorm. It floated through the air, settling into the carpet, the cushions, every crease and crevice.
Mac was going to find glitter formonths. In his boots, his jeans, his steering wheel. And every time he did? He’d think ofme.
He broke my heart.
Sprinkle.
He hadn’t called.
Sprinkle.
He hadn’t texted.
Sprinkle again.
Did he ever even care?
I poured a little extra into the cup holder for good measure.
I made sure the passenger side got the same treatment, a generous pile in the center. Then the dashboard, because that would be the real kicker. Pink glitter would wedge into the vents andnevercome out.
And in a final, glittery flourish, I dragged my finger through the layer of pink on the surface and drew a big, swooping P, followed by a cheeky xo.
