Page 87 of Game Misconduct
Jesus, is the whole world out to fuck with me tonight?
“I want to see your license. It has your address on it.”
“Oh.” He steps back. “That’s true. Hold on.”
He fumbles around, feeling all of his pockets except the back left one where I can see the outline of his wallet.
“Shit, I lost my wallet!” he slurs loudly.
“No, you didn’t.” I gesture to his pants. “Try that back pocket.”
He feels it and pulls it out, drunken relief on his face. “Whew, thought I’d lost it.”
Handing it over to me, he stumbles but manages to catch himself. “I’m cool, I’m cool.”
I roll my eyes and open his wallet.
Well, hell. He lives on the opposite side of town from where I’m going.
This just isn’t my night.
I text my driver and within moments, he’s pulling up to the curb. Opening the back door, I gesture for Cal to get in. When he does, I nod to my driver.
“Take him home. Make sure he gets in the door. Text me when he’s in.”
I rattle off the address to the driver who—to his credit—only hesitates for half a second before nodding. “Yes, sir, Mr. Lasker.”
“Wait,” Cal says, eyes wide. “What about you?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“But it’s your car?—”
“Don’t worry about me.”
Cal stares at me for a second, then nods, sheepish. “Thanks, man.”
“Don’t make it a habit. And buckle up.”
He chuckles, and I shut the door. I wait until it pulls away before I let out a slow exhale.
I meant it when I said I’d figure it out.
But I sure as hell didn’t plan on needing to.
Pulling my phone out, I open the ride share app, thumbing through to get an Uber. The screen lights up indicating the car’s three minutes out.
I drop onto the stone bench outside the entrance, elbows on my knees, empty glass dangling between my fingers.
I think of Sloane in that dress. In her car. In her penthouse.
And me—sitting here, chasing restraint like it’s some kind of moral high ground.
Every cell in my body is pulled toward her.
But I don’t move.
Because I’m not that guy anymore.
