Page 7 of Dirty Player
Once I was dressed, my hair teased and held back from my face with a few sparkly pins, my makeup heavy and smoky-eyed, and my lips a devil’s red, I slipped on heels and headed downstairs, shutting my door on the mess I’d left in the room.
I’d clean it and repack over the weekend. Beaux told me I could stay at his place as long as I needed to, but the apartment came partly furnished with enough to get me started…a lumpy couch, a bed that needed to be tossed twenty years ago, and dining room table. But it didn’t matter. I was twenty-eight years old and finally moving into my very own place, responsible for the success of a business I’d always dreamed would become more than just an online store.
Now that I’d had time for the idea to sink in, my mind was filling with ideas on marketing and jewelry designs, space planning and things I wanted to do to get my name out there—Arts Festival included.
“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” Beaux asked as I reached the living room. He had a beer hanging loosely between his fingertips and he dropped it to his side as I entered the room.
“This old thing?” I spun in a circle and laughed when he cursed.
“Fucking shit. You are. You’re going to kill me, probably trying to get me murdered so you can cash in on my life insurance.”
“You’re an ass.” I swatted him with my handbag and went to the kitchen, helping myself to a beer. “When do we leave?”
“In a hurry to see someone?”
The image of a sweaty and surly Oliver Powell flashed behind the lids of my eyes.
“No.”
“Liar.”
I shrugged and took a swig of my drink. Cool beer. So much better than the crap Patrick insisted I drank—from the chilled sparkling wine to fruity mixed drinks.
God, what a pain in the proper ass he was.
I blinked, vanishing the reminder from my mind, and jumped when Beaux was directly in front of me.
“You hear from that asshole lately?”
“A few times,” I admitted. My ability to lie to anyone, but mostly Beaux, was nonexistent. “He’s been apologizing.”
Which was why I needed this new start. I could barely go anywhere in Des Moines without running into memories of Patrick, the way he’d worked so hard to seduce me, to claim me in the first place.
We’d been everywhere together. Five long years flushed down the toilet. And he had apologized, but it was always in the tone of voice. The one I was only beginning to understand. The one that taunted and teased…whispered I wasn’t as good as him—that I’d never done anything good on my own.
My shoulders slumped and Beaux growled—that sound he made when I knew he had his fists clenched and wanted to pummel the guy.
“It’s fine, Beaux.” I turned from him so he couldn’t read the truth in my eyes. I wasn’t fine. The breakup wasn’t fine. Nothing about my humiliation and canceled wedding plans—canceled future—was fine.
“Do me a favor?” he asked, and for a moment I was grateful he was dropping the subject.
“What? Anything.”
“Stay away from Powell tonight.”
And then he had to ruin my fun.
Not that I had planned on it, not that I could get his attention or keep it for more than a few hours. But wasn’t that what I was looking for? Oblivion?
I rolled my lips and nodded.
Beaux read my silence and threw his head back on a sigh. “He’s my teammate, Shan. And a prick. I’m serious, this guy is bad news.”
“I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.” That was a promise. Fortunately for me, Beaux’s list ofwouldn’tdos was pretty short.
He caught my meaning and scowled. “That doesn’t help.”
I grinned. “It helps me.” Setting down my drink, I curled my fingers around his forearm. “Come on. Take me out and get me drunk so I can forget all about Patrick.”
