Player & the Game Page 15

  His reaction to the news of having to share a room with her made her feel even more unwanted. Who the hell does he think he is?

  “I’ll sleep in the car if it’s that big of a problem!” she snarled as they stood in front of the checkout desk.

  The clerk’s eyes widened and his gaze shifted between the two. He stopped snapping his gum.

  “Like hell you would.” Keith then returned his attention to the clerk. He pulled out his wallet. “We’ll take the room. Thanks.”

  Their room was at the very end of the motel lot, next to the soda and ice machine. They trudged there and entered it in silence. Stephanie stalked over the shag carpet to one of the double beds and threw her luggage on top. Keith quietly unpacked his things on the other bed and loaded some of his clothes into one of the dresser drawers.

  She spent most of her time also unpacking and trying her best to ignore the fact that he was in the room with her.

  It didn’t seem right to be this attracted to a man who wanted nothing to do with her, but she was attracted all the same. She could feel his presence and sense his body heat. Having him this close made her tense.

  “I’ll be back in a few,” he said quietly an hour later. He then grabbed his jacket and his wallet. He opened the motel room door.

  Stephanie didn’t respond. She busied herself with arranging her clothes in the motel closet and only looked over her shoulder when he shut the door behind him.

  “Asshole,” she muttered. She then sat on the bed and angrily stomped her foot in frustration.

  Keith couldn’t do it. There was no way in hell he was sleeping in a bedroom with her sober. He had to get out of there. He drove for almost a half an hour before finally spotting a small bar on the side of the road. It was a hole in the wall with a flickering sign in front and posters of Miller Lite and tequila bottles in the windows. Two beat-up pickup trucks were parked in the few empty spaces in front of the bar.

  Two minutes later, Keith pushed the barroom door open with a slow creak and saw that it was mostly deserted. Country music played on the glowing jukebox in the far-off corner. A silent baseball game played on the television overhead. Two trucker-looking types sat at the bar counter with a bowl of peanuts in between them. A plump older white woman wearing a black tank top with an eagle tattooed on her arm looked up as Keith stepped through the door. Her brown, pencil-thin, drawn-on eyebrows raised in surprise at seeing him.

  For a split second Keith wondered if maybe he had made a bad decision by choosing to stop for a drink at a no-name bar in the middle of a small town in the Deep South, but when the bartender’s wrinkled face broke into a smile, his wariness quickly subsided.

  “Well, hello, stranger,” she said with a hearty drawl, leaning against the counter. “What can I get you, hon?”

  “Just a beer for now,” Keith said as he sat on one of the stools and pulled up to the bar. He nodded his head at the man sitting directly next to him. The bearded man nodded in return and then raised his beer in greeting.

  “For now?” The bartender chuckled. “Oh, that doesn’t sound good! You plannin’ on drinking more than that?”

  “I’ll drink enough to get close to drunk,” Keith said, “but I don’t want to get drunk enough that I can’t get home.”

  “I hear that one!” She laughed again and handed him a Bud Light. “All right, so what is it? Animal, vegetable, or mineral, hon?”

  He tipped the beer bottle to his lips. “I’m not following you. What do you mean?” he asked after taking a gulp.

  “What ails you?” She tilted her blond head. “You want to get drunk for a reason.” She squinted her blue eyes and thought for a second. “I’m guessin’ it’s animal . . . one of the female persuasion. You have the look of a man who’s not too happy with his old lady.”

  “I don’t have an old lady.”

  The bartender looked taken aback by that.

  “But I . . . I am dealing with a few things with one woman, in particular,” he admitted.

  “See! I called it!” She slapped her palm on the counter victoriously. “I knew it was a woman! So what happened? Did you guys fight? She in love with somebody else?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. She’s a client of mine.” He gazed down at his bottle, picking at the label with his thumbnail. “And I’m . . . I’m having a hard time keeping her at a distance.”

  “Oh,” she said, raising her pencil eyebrows again, “don’t wanna mix business with pleasure, as you Yankees would say.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is she having a hard time doin’ the same thing . . . not mixin’ business with pleasure?”

  Keith considered her question for a bit.

  There were moments when he got the impression that Stephanie was just as attracted to him as he was to her, but he knew those impressions couldn’t be trusted. She was a woman who was good at throwing up a façade, making men believe what she wanted them to believe. According to the town gossip, her whole family was gifted with those skills. In fact, that was the part about Stephanie that bothered him the most. He couldn’t trust his feelings for her because essentially, he couldn’t trust her. Even if he was willing to look past her diva moments, how could he possibly get involved with a woman who was, on some level, no better than Isaac? She was no better than the man who had conned her.

  “I don’t know how she feels,” he answered quietly.

  The bartender gazed at him with sympathetic eyes. “You can’t just ask her? You know it may help if you tell her how you feel.”

  “Not this woman,” he said, shaking his head and downing more of his beer. “She’d smell blood in the water and go in for the kill.”

  She laughed again. “She’s that bad, huh?”

  He nodded. “Very.”

  “Well, I don’t know of any man that can put up a fight for too long when he’s really got it bad for a woman. It’s just not in your nature.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so, hon! That’s how I met my second husband. He was burnin’ for me hotter than a coal on a fire! He didn’t stand a chance!”

  “I don’t think I do either,” Keith murmured drearily.

  “Well, finish your drink. Sit here and talk about it all you want. Cuz it sounds like you don’t have much of a chance with this one. Sorry, but you’re in a pickle, hon.”

  Keith nodded. He was in a pickle, indeed.

  Chapter 19

  Dawn took a steadying breath before finally opening the front door and striding into the dimly lit restaurant.

  Middle Eastern music played in the background and laughter and conversations buzzed around her. Elaborate colored tapestries with fanciful patterns hung on the gold-inlaid walls and couples sat on low seats, surrounded by silk pillows as they ate their meals of b’stella and beef shish kebabs. An adventurous few smoked from hookah pipes.

  I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It isn’t like I haven’t done something like this before, Dawn thought as she drew toward the back of the restaurant where Razor had texted he was sitting.

  But she knew deep down that this time was different. It wasn’t like in the past where she had manipulated men for her own gain. This time she wasn’t calling the shots, and she wasn’t sure if she would really benefit in the end.

  Percy wanted Razor to show his work at Templeton Gallery—no matter what—and she didn’t want to disappoint Percy. That meant taking the Acela train yet again to New York. She had to do everything possible to win Razor over tonight and that could easily mean ending up in bed with the young artist before sunrise—a prospect she truly hated. It wasn’t that she didn’t find Razor attractive. Yes, he was hot . . . in a grubby, bad boy sort of way. But he seemed more like a spoiled little brat than a grown man, and Dawn didn’t have sex with children. And sleeping with him meant breaking one of the family’s prime rules, something she just didn’t do.

  Well, I didn’t do . . . up until now, she silently corrected.

  Dawn found Razor sitting alo
ne, leaning casually against a stack of pillows as he munched on dates. He watched a lithe belly dancer gyrate in front of him to the music. He was completely entranced by the woman’s undulating body.

  Dawn waited for him to notice her standing there. He didn’t. After waiting for several seconds, she loudly cleared her throat. Razor finally looked up at her.

  “Please . . . Don’t let me interrupt,” she said wryly.

  Razor’s handsome face curled into an impish grin. “You aren’t interrupting, babe. You’re exactly who I was waiting for.”

  No longer the center of attention, the belly dancer wandered off to sway her hips for a couple at another table. Razor held out his hand to Dawn.

  She took it and began to sit down, intending to take the seat beside him, but she yelped in surprise when she felt him roughly tug her toward him. She tumbled face first into his lap. Razor cackled like a hyena and Dawn grimaced, muttering to herself. She rolled onto her side and sat upright. She shoved her skirt back down, which had flown up around her waist when she fell.

  Great, she thought. Now about half of the restaurant knows what color panties I’m wearing.

  “You thought that was funny?” she asked tersely, glaring at him.

  “Oh, come on! Lighten the fuck up, babe! Life’s a party. Enjoy it!” He held a date toward her. “Want one?”

  “No thank you,” she grumbled before adjusting in her seat.

  “More for me then.” He tossed the date high into the air and caught it in his mouth. He turned to her, grinning again like he had just kicked a winning field goal.

  Dawn fought the urge to roll her eyes. This is going to be a long damn night.

  “Just suck it up,” a voice in her head urged. “Suck it up so that he’ll agree to show at the gallery and you can be done with this.”

  She took another deep breath, trying her best to regain her composure. “So . . . thanks for inviting me to dinner.”

  “No prob.” He leaned toward her. His green eyes twinkled. “I wanted to see you again. I couldn’t get you out of my head since that night you showed up at my studio. Damn, you were hot!” He reached for his glass of red wine and gulped down what was left. “If I could have stripped you down and fucked you right there I would have.”

  Lord, give me strength!

  “Uh . . .” She tucked her hair behind her ear and loudly cleared her throat again, deciding to pretend that she hadn’t heard that last part. “Well, I’ve had a hard time forgetting about you too, Razor. I think you’re very talented and I’d love to have your work at my gallery. I’m a big fan of yours.”

  “Big fan, huh?” He tilted his head. “So that’s the only reason?”

  “The only reason what?”

  She tried to shift away from him slightly though he drew even closer.

  “That’s the only reason you couldn’t forget about me?” he asked before trailing a finger along her chin, then her throat. His finger drifted lower, past the collar of her blouse. “I hope you’re interested in more than just my art.”

  “Well, I . . . I . . . like you,” she lied, reaching for one of the dates from the gold-plated dish in front of her, making him pull his hand away from her. She chewed. “Of course, I do. But you’re an artist. I’m a gallery director. It only makes sense that we work together for our mutual gain. I mean . . . I acknowledge that DC isn’t New York by a long shot, but it’s an emerging market with plenty of wealthy people who are willing to pay—”

  Her words drifted off when Razor loudly huffed. He lowered his wineglass back to the table in front of him and shook his head. “Babe, let’s not talk about that shit tonight, all right? Business . . . money . . . dude, it just brings me down! It brings the world down!” He smirked. “Let’s talk about us instead. Or better yet, let’s not talk at all.”

  When Razor leaned forward and she felt his wet tongue flick across her earlobe, her first instinct was to push him away, but she fought it. This is what she came for, after all. This is what she knew she had to do to get this kid to agree to show his work at Templeton Gallery. Razor’s lips left her earlobe and sucked at the skin along her neck.

  “Damn, you’re tasty,” he murmured, before reaching for one of her breasts. He then roughly turned her face toward his and kissed her. His tongue dove inside her mouth like it was wearing scuba gear, making her cringe.

  Dawn closed her eyes and told herself to just bear it. She was doing it for her job. She was doing it for the gallery. But none of those thoughts were working. Instead, she was silently cursing Percy, calling him just about every name in the book. Then she started to curse herself. Here she was a grown woman of thirty-six, sucking face with a twenty-two-year-old in the middle of a Moroccan restaurant in some Brooklyn neighborhood. Is this really what her life had come to?

  “Hello, Razor. Sorry, I’m late. I—”

  Dawn tore her mouth away and looked up. When she saw who was standing in front of their table, her eyes widened.

  “Sasha?”

  Sasha Duncan, Sawyer Gallery director and all-around bitch, stared at Dawn, looking equally shocked. “Dawn, what . . . What the hell are you doing here?”

  “What do you mean, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ What the hell are you doing here?”

  Razor leaned back. “Sasha! Hey, glad you could make it!”

  Dawn turned to glare at Razor. “Wait . . . wait, you invited her too?”

  “Sure, I did. Why not?” He pet the open seat on the opposite side of him. “Thanks for coming, babe. Don’t worry about being a little late. We haven’t started any of the dinner courses yet.”

  Sasha’s face twisted with confusion then outrage, but she quickly recovered. The bottle blonde pasted on a smile and adjusted the front of her very short leather skirt. A skirt that looked better fit for someone about thirty years younger.

  “Well . . . thanks for waiting,” she gushed before lowering herself to sit beside Razor.

  He draped his arm around her and Sasha giggled. This time Dawn did roll her eyes.

  Dawn had known that Sasha was full of crap when Sasha said she had no interest in having Razor’s work at Sawyer Gallery, but Dawn had underestimated the lengths that Sasha would go to get the job done. As the evening wore on, Dawn gradually realized how much she had underestimated Razor too. Not only was Razor a spoiled brat, but he was also a manipulative little bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing when he invited both her and Sasha to dinner. He also knew what both women wanted out of him—and he was going to make them work for it, playing one desperate gallery director off the other. There were several times when Dawn wanted to get up and walk out of the restaurant, but she fought down the urge. Not only did she have Percy to worry about, but now she also had her pride to consider. She wasn’t going to lose this contest to the likes of Sasha Duncan.

  No way, no how, Dawn thought stubbornly as she chewed her lamb.

  When the trio finished the last of their mint tea and Razor wolfed down the last Moroccan pastry (Such a gentleman, Dawn thought flippantly), he stretched and wrapped his arms around each woman.

  “So what do you babes say we take this back to my place?” He looked back and forth between the two.

  Oh, hell no! He has got to be kidding! He doesn’t actually think he’s going to have sex with both of us tonight, does he?

  “Absolutely,” Sasha said, ruffling his beard.

  Razor lowered his mouth to Sasha’s and the two shared a sloppy, wet kiss that made Dawn cringe. To any bystander, Razor looked like he could have easily been kissing his mother.

  Razor licked his lips and turned back to Dawn. “How about you, babe? You game?”

  No! No, I’m not game, you greedy little asshole!

  “But think about the gallery,” the voice in her head pleaded.

  Dawn hesitated.

  “Hey, if it’s not your thing, that’s OK,” he said, removing his arm from around her.

  Sasha grinned arrogantly, pissing Dawn off even more.

 
“I just thought you were open to stuff . . . like me,” Razor continued. “But if you don’t—”

  “Sure, I’ll go,” Dawn said quickly, forcing out the words before she had a chance to think any further. “Let’s . . . Let’s do this.”

  What the hell am I doing, Dawn thought for the umpteenth time as they climbed the stairs to Razor’s East Williamsburg condo. I can’t believe I talked myself into this!

  Razor climbed the last step and walked toward his front door. He unlocked it and threw it open with a flourish. “Make yourselves at home.” He gestured the two women inside.

  Sasha entered first, taking off her shawl and revealing the leather bustier that matched her skirt. Dawn slowly walked in after her and looked around.

  “Oh, my God! I love your digs, Razor!” Sasha exclaimed. “It’s so . . . so awesome!”

  At that, Dawn almost snorted, but managed to hold in her laughter.

  Awesome, indeed.

  The condo resembled more of a frat house than the upscale apartment it was supposed to be. The décor was expensive, befitting the rich kid that Razor a.k.a. Trent Horowitz really was. The furniture and paintings on the walls were easily worth a quarter of a million dollars, but the tables and floor were littered with empty bottles of wine and liquor as well as dirty glasses and several turned over plastic cups. Ashtrays piled high with used cigarette butts also dotted the condo’s landscape and the living room smelled like a heavy mix of weed and whiskey. Dawn wouldn’t be surprised if she stuck her hand underneath one of the couch cushions, she’d pull out a bra or a thong.

  “Can I get you babes a drink?” Razor asked before strolling across the living room and into his state-of-the art kitchen.

  “Scotch on the rocks for me!” Sasha shouted.

  “No thanks. I’m good,” Dawn answered as she shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it over the back of one of Razor’s club chairs.

  “You sure?” he called out, opening one of the overhead cabinets.

  On second thought, if she was actually going to go through with this whole fiasco, she should probably fortify herself with a drink or two.