Good Game (The System, #1) (22)
Jackson shakes his head, “No, you’re all good on my end.”
She bites her lip, and fuck, it makes her look sexy.
“Alright, well, I’m going to head off then. Sorry, again, Jackson.”
She turns and gives me a small wave of her hand before disappearing into her vehicle and driving off. My hands clench around my helmet. Fuck. I really wanted to ask for her number. But, why? It’s not like I can date her. Not with my lifestyle. None of us can have girlfriends, not without risking our identities.
“Pretty sure this ice cream has melted.” Jackson lifts the plastic bag.
I shrug. “Probably, but nothing the freezer can’t fix.”
“That was the girl, though, wasn’t it?”
Ah. I was wondering if he would bring that up.
“What girl?”
“Dude.” He levels me with his “I’m so sick of your shit” look.
“Yeah, yeah. It was.”
“That’s so weird.” He crinkles his brows. “The girl who backed into my car fisted you under a table at an award ceremony.”
“I mean, that sounds pretty hot to me.”
Jackson just rolls his eyes as he opens the passenger door and throws the ice cream onto the seat.
“It’s not like she recognized us.”
“I would have given her a prize if she had been able to.” He snorts.
“Maybe if she’d seen my dick.” I give him a wink.
“Sometimes you’re just as bad as Parker.” He rounds the car and gets into the driver’s side. “I’ll see you at home.” Jackson shuts the door and starts the engine. I give him a salute before making the trek over to my bike on the other side of the lot.
My phone pings with a thirty-minute reminder for my stream. Damnit. I shove my helmet on and quickly start up my bike. I tear out of the parking lot and onto the highway at breakneck speed.
The cooling night air flies around me as I weave my way between the growing traffic. All the while I try to forget about the brown-haired beauty who is taking up residence in my mind.
ELEVEN
* * *
STEVIE
“What if I pour this entire bottle of wine into a bowl and drown myself in it.”
“While death by wine sounds like a classy way to go, I’m going to advise against it.”
I pout at Deanna’s face on the screen before propping my phone against the unopened bottle of red wine and resting my forehead on the cool counter. I take a deep breath before letting out an extremely unattractive groan of frustration.
It was a shit day.
A really, really shit day.
I got rejected for another exhibition. I was so freaking sure that they were going to accept my art this time around. The curator had been talking me up for the last few weeks, asking me to submit pieces and crooning over how amazing they were. Instead, she called me this morning to inform me they had gone with another artist.
It was annoying as hell. It’s not like I haven’t gotten rejected before. And it’s not like I haven’t been featured in other exhibitions. My pieces sell steadily throughout the year, that isn’t an issue. I know I’m good at what I do, and I love it with my whole heart. My work bleeds my soul. People see that. Even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t stop me from creating my art. But I really wanted this gallery. Annalise Owens, the curator, was known for bringing in the best. She was only rivaled by Caleb Hayes. Getting my art into their galleries would be the sign to my parents that what I was doing was real.
Instead, I got rejected by Annalise and spent four hours avoiding reality by playing Cherry Farm. When I finally decided to be a human again, I realized I was out of wine. So, I went to go pick some up only to crash my car. The Jeep wasn’t even moving. It was parked. I hit a freaking stationary vehicle. Who does something as stupid as that?
I let out my hundredth groan of the day.
“You know what you should do tomorrow?” Deanna’s voice filters back in.
“Drown myself in a bottle of wine?”
“No. You should go buy an extremely hot as hell dress for the Taylors’ ball. Retail therapy and revenge always go hand in hand. Nothing like trying on pretty dresses to put you in a good mood, and then you can top it off by knowing that you are going to look seventeen times better than the Taylor tramp.”
I lift my head up from the counter.
“I always look better than Felicity.”
“That’s the spirit, girl.”
I smile at her. I can always count on Deanna for a pep talk.
I push away from the island and slip off the bar stool. Grabbing my phone—and abandoning the wine—I pad over to the couch and sink into the corner, knees to chest. There is something about being curled in a ball that just makes everything feel better.
“Anyway, enough about my sorrows. What are your plans this weekend?”
“Maya is back in town, so we have a dinner date planned.”
“Jealous.”
“Yup, and lots of sex.”
“Wow, thanks. Way to rub it in.”
“Oh, I’m going to be rubbing many things.”
My jaw falls open. “You did not just say that.”
She smirks at me from the screen. I swear, she has the wit of a teenage boy. And I love it.