Page 61 of Played
“Is that all?” he asks, his tone weary.
“No.” I gulp. “You told me that I make you feel like that sixteen-year-old kid, and it scares you because you don’t like him. But for the record, I loved that kid. I still do.”
I hear him swallow. “Goodnight, King.”
The line goes dead.
And so does my heart.
Chapter
Thirty
MASON
Iwake up to a notification that I have a voicemail from King along with a whole fuckload of guilt and regret. Why is it that he can act like a prize jerk, but I’m the one who feels like shit about it?
I’m not a lovesick teenager who’ll come running because he flashes that killer smile.
I glare at the phone screen while I make my morning coffee, refusing to listen to his excuses. No doubt that whatever he has to say will piss me off and set me up for a shitty day. As if I don’t feel crappy enough about him running out of here like the apartment was on fire. Not to mention the fact that I lay awake for hours after his drunken visit, feeling like a complete asshole for not letting him in. For not letting him use me. Again.
I glance at the notification time stamp. The voicemail was left at 5:37 a.m. He’s either had a chance to sober up or spent the night getting more wasted. I’m not sure which of those options would be better. Regardless, I can guarantee his voicemail will ruin my day. I should delete it and pretend I didn’t see it. So, why can’t I? Why are my fingers twitching to play it?
Making the decision to put myself out of my misery, I press play, leaving it on speaker so I can listen to his pathetic excuses while I finish making my coffee.
“Hey, Mase.” His voice is quiet, and my heart jumps into my throat. “I’m sorry I left.” Silence. “I’m sorry I came to your place after I’d been drinking. I know you think I was drunk, but…” More silence. I lean on the counter, staring at the phone. Excitement, anticipation, dread—they all bubble up from my stomach. “I wasn’t that drunk, Mase. I meant everything I said.”
Holy fucking shit. My knees buckle, and I brace myself on the counter. Is he still drunk?
“This is me—stone-cold sober—telling you that every word was true.”
Frantically, I rack my brain to recall every word he said. The order he said them in. Whether I misheard or filled in a blank. Because he couldn’t have said the things I think he did and meant them. He’s playing with me. Messing with my head. For what? Some sick joke, like back in high school? Except we’re not in high school anymore. And King isn’t the same fucked-up asshole he was back then. Is he?
“I’d really like to say it all to your face though. Can I see you tonight? My place at seven? I’ll text you the address. Please… Please give me a chance.” The voicemail ends, and I blink down at my phone. Confused, elated, suspicious. Nervous as fucking hell.
Last night after he left, I was clear. I was cutting King out of my life for good. Now, I have no idea what the fuck I’m going to do.
I knockon the half-open door of Elijah’s office before popping my head in. Instead of my brother, Amber is inside with her feet crossed on his desk, revealing the distinctive red soles of her pumps.
She spots me before I can duck back out unseen. Our relationship is a complicated one, and while it’s infinitely better than it was, she’s not a person I’d ordinarily seek advice from. But I’ve played King’s voicemail at least twenty times today, and it’s driving me to distraction. I need to talk to someone about it. Anyone… including Amber.
“If you’re looking for Elijah, you’ve just missed him,” she says. “He stepped out to get us dinner.”
Since they were remarried a few months ago, Elijah has made a conscious effort to reduce his work hours and pay more attention to his wife. Seeing how happy that change has made him, I really don’t want him slipping back into old habits. Out of concern for him, I step fully into the room. “You’re eating dinner in his office?”
She returns my frown with a smile and slips her feet off his desk. “Yes. He’s helping me write a bid.” She nods to the paperwork in front of her. “And we’re almost done, so we figured we may as well carry on here until it’s finished.”
I blow out a breath and nod, relieved.
“Did you need him for something?” she asks, her brown eyes locked on me like she’s trying to read my mind—or steal my soul. Could be either with her.
I could really use some advice. But Amber? “Is there anything I can help you with?” she says now, and damn if she doesn’t inject a little of that Southern honey into her voice. The kind that could make a serial killer feel at ease in a courthouse. She would have had an incredible career in the FBI.
I’m not sure if it’s her charm or sheer desperation that makes me say, “You any good with narcissistic commitment-phobes who are far too handsome for their own good?”
She sits up straight and flashes me the sweetest smile. “I’ve handled you for the past twenty years, haven’t I, honey?”
I set myself up for that one, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of confirming I’m that self-aware. It would ruin my carefully curated shallow-as-a-puddle image. Instead, I drop into the seat opposite her and run a hand through my hair. “You think I’m handsome?”
