Good Game (The System, #1) (43)
“Aleks!” It’s a teasing laugh, no real threat present.
“What? Just cleaning you up.”
“With your tongue, really?”
“I never let dessert go to waste.”
Once she’s all cleaned up, I lick my lips and place a kiss on her thigh. She stares down at me dreamily before reaching forward and dragging me into a kiss. The taste of her mixes with the taste of us.
She runs her hands over my face, her fingers pausing when they get to my scar.
“How did you get this?”
“I got into a motorcycle accident with one of my best friends. We were speed racing on this track and ended up crashing. Somehow, we ended up with matching scars.”
“Oh my god, you crashed and that’s the only scar you got?”
I laugh at her. “No, we broke a couple of ribs, too. It was a whole ordeal. Everyone got so mad at us.”
“I can only expect. It didn’t make you afraid to ride again. After the crash?”
I shake my head. “Nah. It just taught me that I needed to be a lot smarter and get a lot better. We all make mistakes. If we don’t learn from them, we can’t grow. If I didn’t get back on the bike after one accident, then I would’ve been giving up something I loved out of fear. That’s no way to live life.” I run my hand along her arm, tracing it up and down. “What about you? Have you ever broken any bones?”
“Nope. But I did sprain my wrist my freshmen year of high school when I was on the cheer team.”
“You seem like you’d be a cheerleader.”
She smacks me on the arm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you’re super flexible.”
“Mhm,” she hums.
We spend the rest of the night talking. Swapping stories and telling each other what our favorite season is (mine, fall; hers, spring), the best movie we’ve seen (mine, the entire Fast & The Furious franchise [which she called a cheat]; hers, Legally Blonde), our most embarrassing moment (mine, when my grandmother walked in on me fondling Mary Steven’s boobs in the seventh grade; hers, when her skirt ripped mid-stunt during a cheer competition senior year).
It’s not until the red, rising sun starts to peek through her curtains that we begin to doze off, her soft body curling further into mine. I lose myself to the warmth of her…and begin to worry that I might be losing my heart as well.
Fri, June 2 at 9:03am
STEVIE: Good morning
Fri, June 2 at 12:11pm
ALEKS: morning babe :)
STEVIE: 12pm isn’t reeeally morning anymore
ALEKS: technicalities
STEVIE:
ALEKS: wow
ALEKS: guess I’m not bringing someone coffee...
STEVIE: wait! Noooo I’m sorry
STEVIE: I meant
STEVIE: omg! That’s so early for you!! Amazing babe!!!!
ALEKS: haha I’ll see u in a bit
STEVIE: okay
Tues, June 13 at 22:58pm
STEVIE: Just getting ready for bed yawn emoji
ALEKS: Still working over here
STEVIE: eww
ALEKS: Send me a pic to get me through the night ;) STEVIE: Ha. No.
ALEKS: Ur no fun
STEVIE: Fineee Here
ALEKS: Babe. That’s a cup of tea
STEVIE: it is
ALEKS: I meant a sexy pic
STEVIE: Did you???
STEVIE: well…you didn’t specify…
ALEKS: Really
STEVIE:
ALEKS: Haha good night babe
STEVIE: Night
NINETEEN
* * *
STEVIE
Another rose.
Another. Damn. Rose.
I can’t even decide if I am creeped out, annoyed, or just mad at this point. All the emotions are coalescing into one.
The last rose was left on my rental car after my first date with Aleks. How he even found it in the parking structure is one thing. The fact that he knew the rental was mine is a whole other issue. There had been a lull in rose deliveries since then, so I thought maybe he’d stopped. Clearly not.
He is still calling me every few days, but I just let it go to voicemail. Now, I’m seriously wondering if I should just pick up the next time and tell him to back off.
Then again, I know Chase. I know him too well.
That will only spur him on, give him satisfaction, let him know he still has access to me. He isn’t dangerous. Sure, most people would think this weird rose-stalking situation would turn into something more sinister. Like maybe he would snatch me up in the parking lot after Sunday yoga class, throw me in his trunk until he can take me to one of his remote vacation houses—probably the one in Colorado—before locking me there forever.
But that’s not Chase.
His infatuation with me is having me on his arm like a trophy. He wants me because I am useful to him and his reputation. He wants me because he no longer has me. Chase might be a sweet talker, a charmer, but it was me who helped him keep so many of his clients. I was the one making friends with the wives and girlfriends, getting us invitations to their private parties. Chase doesn’t want to lose that. I could care less.
What I need is for him to find a new shiny toy.
As much as I hate Felicity Taylor, I really wish she would fit the bill.