Page 30 of Never Date A Player
I pace the lounge, wearing a track in the carpet in front of the bar, worried about her. I’ve checked on my customers so often they’re giving me dirty looks, and I’ve sorted condiment picks by color. Nothing reduces the anxiety in my gut.
I scan the room, searching for Jaeger, a security guard—someone strong enough to help me rescue Maryanne, because I’m convinced something’s happened—when she strolls to the East Bar.
Before I think better of it and the fact that my anxiety supports her earlier suspicions, I walk over. “Everything go okay?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Your friend Drake Peterson was surprised to see me.”
My gaze shoots to Mason. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact he’s eavesdropping.
“Oh—well, thanks. For helping.”
“No sweat.” She turns and unloads empty glasses from her tray.
I frown. Maryanne just saved my ass—after Lewis saved it. And before that it was Jaeger with the A-hole, then Cali any number of times. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I fight my own battles?
Lewis is a large, intimidating male. I see how he’d make Drake think twice, but Maryanne? She’s four inches shorter than me.
I hate that people like Drake believe I’m weak and take advantage. Why didn’t I poke him in the eye when he shoved his fingers up my crotch?
Goddamn, that memory.
I take a steadying breath and swallow the bitter taste in my mouth.
I’m not defenseless, but I choked. My brain froze and I didn’t react. I’m tall, athletic, and strong for a woman, but mentally I shut down when things get heavy. It served me in the past to keep quiet. I would have been a pariah in junior high and high school if people had known what my mother did to make ends meet. But clamming up isn’t working for me anymore—it makes me vulnerable.
I pull out my ordering pad and stare at the web address for the Alpine Mudder.
Nessa was right about stepping out of my self-imposed box. I’m so bottled up I don’t know how to react when I need to. I was put in a bad position upstairs, and sure, I squirmed around a bit, but I should have done more, said more. Anything would have been better than mentally locking up.
The mudder looks dangerous and filthy, and there will be tons of macho guys participating. My comfort zone will be so far away I won’t be able to see it, but if I don’t learn how to fight, I’ll always be pushed around.
I unlock the iPhone I grabbed from my locker and punch in the web address, registering for the race.
Chapter Nine
A bachelor party hoots in the corner as I enter the sports bar the next night. They’re the only customers in here. Why the casino packs two waitresses in what’s generally a customer dead zone is beyond me, but I’m happy to escape Mont Belle Lounge for one evening.
Nessa tucks a few bills in her caddy and spots me, a bright smile lighting her face. Several men from the bachelor party ogle her ass as she walks my way.
She sets her tray on the counter. “Hey. How are you?”
My first instinct is to panic. She knows. But Nessa can’t know about Drake. First of all, there’s nothing in her tone to indicate that she does. Second, I haven’t told anyone, and for some reason, I trust Lewis won’t either.
Cali left town before I returned from work last night. She texted that she’d be at her mom’s in Carson City. We didn’t get a chance to talk after our fight—which means I didn’t get a chance to tell her about Drake. Without Cali’s support, I feel doubly vulnerable.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” I tell Nessa, and grab a Styrofoam cup from the bar. I pour coffee, adding a packet of processed hot chocolate. We get creative when business slows, and making use of the various bar supplies seems a good utilization of time. “You know, about stepping out of my comfort zone?” Nessa glances up with interest. She follows my lead and pours her own bastardized mocha. “Have you heard of the Alpine Mudder?”
After registering for the race, I researched it. I’ll need to train if I’m to have any hope of surviving. Normally, the mudder isn’t a race, but a physical challenge for those wishing to torture—I mean, test—their mental and physical endurance. This year’s Alpine Mudder costs more to enter and provides cash prizes to top finishers. The leftover proceeds go to a national charity.
Typically, people participate in the mudder to have fun, but with cash prizes within grasp, pro triathletes have entered and the number of participants has doubled. The shift from challenge to competition has blogs blowing up, and there’s talk of increased security to keep participants safe from overzealous competitors. I’m trying to not think of all that. I want to do something that will make me stronger, more capable, and the mudder seems a good fit.
Nessa’s face lights up. “Yeah! Are you thinking about doing it? That would be perfect. The guys did it last year. It’s pretty hard-core though. They came back looking like hell, except for Lewis. The mud somehow added to his hotness ad he looked rugged.”
My throat constricts and I blink off a wave of emotion. Lewis can’t be in the race this year. I need the Alpine Mudder to toughen me up. I can’t do that if I’m stumbling around, my concentration impaired. Putting aside the fact that his presence zaps my coordination, Lewis has seen some of my weakest moments, and that makes me emotionally raw.
But I can’t explain any of this to Nessa without outing my feelings for Lewis. “Cool, yeah, so I’m doing it, but I’m looking into how to train.”
“You should talk to Zach. He and Lewis trained together last year. Lewis ended up doing really well.” Her face scrunches. “He finaled, or won—something like that. Anyway”—she grabs the cup from my hand and sets it on the counter, gently pushing me toward the casino floor—“go see Zach while it’s slow. I’ll cover for you.”
