Page 4 of Played
As tempting as that offer is, and it is really fucking tempting, we can’t. Tyler is hot as fuck, and those dimples could bring a man to his knees. And maybe all this talk of weddings and kids is making me sensitive. But it’s his quick wit, his sharp mind, and his huge fucking heart that I love most about him, and for that reason, I would never risk losing him from my life—not even for the promise of a decent fuck, which I could definitely do with about now. He’s my best friend, and that’s all he’ll ever be.
I step closer and take his face in my hands. He doesn’t back down, instead holding my gaze. “You know I love you, don’t you?” That’s partly the Scotch talking, but it’s also the fucking truth.
He winks at me. “Yeah, I do.”
He’s such a goddamn flirt. I press a kiss on his forehead. “Goodnight, handsome.”
He lets out a low but exaggerated sigh as I walk away from him. “G’night, Mase.”
After I go to bed, the conversation I had with Maddox replays over and over in my head. What if I could have everything I ever wanted? What would that look like? There was a time when I knew exactly how I wanted my future to pan out—and who I wanted to be in it. But like I told myself earlier when Tyler was asking me if I ever bottomed, that was a lifetime ago.
Chapter
Two
KING
Screwing my eyes closed, I hope that when I open them again I will have imagined what I just saw. That it won’t be her name flashing on the screen of my cell phone. It’s so unlike her to call me, even when I go no contact for months at a time. I open one eye and peer at the vibrating phone. Unfortunately for me, it was no mirage.
I blow out a deep breath and answer the call. “Hello, Mother.”
“Oh, so you are alive after all, Kyngston. I can’t remember the last time we had a phone call. A visit?” Disdain drips from her tone.
I roll my neck, my eyes trained on the man across the street. Indigo Bernard—“Indy” to his friends. “That ungrateful little cunt” to his father. He leans against the red brick wall of the disused library building, his hands shoved in the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt and a cap pulled low over his face, like that will stop him from being recognized. Stupid kid.
“You missed your father’s award ceremony,” she says.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” I lie with ease. Watching a man I despise receive an award for his contribution to society is low on my list of ways I’d like to spend my time—only just above drivinga nail through my own skull. “I’ve been busy with work.” I give her my well-rehearsed excuse for my abysmal lack of contact.
Maybe one day I’ll tell her the real reason I hate coming home. Her screams of horror and disgust would likely shatter glass all the way here in Chicago. A smile tugs at my lips at the thought. Shame I’m far too much of a fucking coward to actually do it.
Absentmindedly, I run the pad of my thumb over the scar on my pointer finger, tracing the rough edges. The words come back to me, like the chorus of a song you can’t forget.It’s only a scratch. Stop crying. You’re such a weak little child.
“Oh, yes. Your work.” She sniffs like the word is an insult. And to her, I suppose my line of work is. Yet another way I’ve let her and the entire Worthington family down. Not going into the family business was another slap to her surgically enhanced face. The fact that she believes my father’s legacy of screwing over the less fortunate to be above what I do speaks volumes. Honestly, the woman has the self-awareness of an amoeba.
Indigo glances up and down the street, impatiently tapping his foot against the sidewalk as he waits for his drop.
I grit my teeth. If I don’t get over there soon, he’ll think I’m not coming. Skittish little fuck has been a nightmare to track down, and I don’t have the time or energy to go through this whole charade again. “I have to go. I’ll call you?—”
“Your grandfather is sick.” Her words cut me off at the knees.
He’s always sick, but she’s never called me about it before. “How sick?” I ask, my heart in my throat.
“It’s terminal,” she says. Cold. Unfeeling. “He has a month or two at most.”
I can’t do this with her right now. I focus on Indigo. The slump in his shoulders. Brown curls spilling out from under his cap. The rip in the left knee of his jeans, which are far too big and hang loose on his hips. How he picks at his fingernails, ahabit I’ve observed in him before, noting how he favors the index finger of his left hand.
“He’d like you to come home, Kyngston.”
I bristle. I hate that goddamn name, and she knows it.
Indigo pulls his cap lower and pushes himself off the wall. He’s twitchy. Ready to run. Shit, I have to move. I end the call and shove the phone into my jacket pocket, ignoring the vibrations against my chest when it rings again. Ignoring everything except my target.
He glances up and sees me. I raise my hand in a brief wave, letting him know it’s me he’s waiting for. He’s suspicious though, rightly so. He glances up and down the street again.
“You got my money?” I ask, still a few steps away from him.
His beady eyes narrow like he’s sizing me up, wondering if he can outrun me. He can’t. “You’re not my usual guy.”
