Page 11 of Just Playin'
“And here I was thinking they were keeping quiet on your identity because you’re famous, but that wasn’t it at all, was it? It’s because your name isElvis.” I say his name with the disgusted gag every teen uses when forced to dissect frogs in science.
“Oh my god!” I take in several laugh-calming breaths to ensure he can hear me before asking, “Is your last name Presley?”
A completely unladylike bellow roars from my throat when Elvis throws his cards onto the tabletop.
“It is, isn’t it?”
When he fails to deny my claims, I slap my knee. The chuckles bubbling up my chest are so boisterous, when I release them, I’m certain half the state can hear them.
“Don’t getAll Shook Up,Mate. There are worse names in the world. Like. . .” Even with my eyes watering from how hard I’m cackling, I stare Elvis dead set in the eyes before declaring, “Nope. I’ve got nothing. That’s theDevil in Disguise. You can’tReturn to Sender. It’sStuck on You!”
Clutching my stomach, I bend in half. I really shouldn’t have drunk all those glasses of wine Becca handed me, because right here, right now, I’m not just on the verge of peeing my pants, I’m acting like a drunken buffoon.
Elvis isn’t to blame for the hideous name his parents lumped him with. If karma weren’t in play, I’d act more respectfully, but unfortunately, payback is a bitch.
Only once my lungs warn of an impending asthma attack does my laughter lessen.
Elvis perches his kissable lips high in the air. “You good?”
“Yep.” My chuckles find a second wind when I imagine Elvis’s broad shoulders, thick biceps, and large frame being squeezed into the famous white sequined jumpsuit I saw at a museum last month. “In a minute.”
I suck in three big breaths before forcing them out in a long, vibrating exhalation. “Okay, now I’m good.”
My shuddering frame exposes I’m a lying piece of shit. The video-like images rolling through my head are too much. I’ve never seen such a hilarious thing in all my life, and it isn’t even real.
When Elvis stands to his feet and heads my way, I assure him, “I’m not laughing. I’m just coughing—repeatedly.”
My giggles settle in an instant when he stops to stand in front of me, but nothing can fix my flaming red face. Have you ever laughed so hard your cheeks ache? That’s me right now. They’re burning even more than my ass did after the hundred squats I did this morning.
“Alright. I’ve got this now. I promise.” I wipe under my eyes before straightening my spine. “I didn’t mean you any disrespect.”
I stomp down my foot like a child, hating that I’m about to cave. I’m not bowing out of the fight because Elvis’s stare has more than just my pulse quickening; it’s because I can’t lie. That’s why I have no filter. If my brain thinks it, you’ll hear it, no matter how nuts it makes me appear.
“Okay, I did! I just thought maybe if you felt as humiliated as I did earlier, you’d go easier on me next time.”
Half of my comment is for Elvis; the other half is for the scorning I didn’t expect to be handed earlier tonight. I want to pretend my ego is big enough to sustain the most brutal blows, but that would be like saying Elvis’s dark locks, thick lashes, and ruby-red lips are hideously ugly to look at. The stranger’s comments dented my ego. It’s only a slight bruise that will heal in a few days, but it’s still big enough for me to feel its sting.
I don’t realize my chin is balancing on my chest until Elvis raises it back to its original position. His hand is barely touching my chin, but his yummy smell makes up for his lack of contact. He smells freshly showered with a hint of a tangy cologne. . . and freshly cut grass.
Huh?
My eyes bounce between his somewhat icy, somewhat amused chocolatey eyes when he asks, “Next time? Did you not get enough of my brooding, moody silence tonight that you want a second round?”
Pretending I can’t feel a flare of hope igniting in my gut, I reply, “That’s not what I meant. I was referring to Becca and Dalton. For some insane reason, Becca wants to be my friend. If I’m friends with Becca, that automatically makes me a friend of Dalton’s, right?”
“I guess,” Elvis agrees, peering down at me.
“Well, if I’m their friend, and you’re their friend, at one stage we’re bound to cross paths again. Right?”
He’s not so quick to agree this time around. He remains quiet for several long seconds, his silence adding heat to my still flaming cheeks. There’s just one difference: this is needy heat, not an amused heat.
My lungs start accepting air again when Elvis finally relents. “I guess that could occur.Occasionally.”
“You don’t have to sound so disappointed.” I throw my fist into his stomach. Bad move. This man is as impenetrable as the friction bouncing between us, but I’m confident I can get the ball back to my side of the court. “If you stay out of my hair, I’ll stay out of yours. Deal?”
I thrust my hand toward him. He leaves me hanging by spinning on his heels and stalking across the room. After retaking his seat, he raises his eyes to me standing dumfounded. “No deals are made in this house without a wager being placed, right, Dalton?”
“Uh. . .” Dalton grapples for a response, seemingly lost. “That’s right?” His unease makes his confirmation sound more like a question.
