Good Game (The System, #1) (7)

Her long legs eat up the distance in seconds, the short dress riding higher from the large strides. I keep up my slow perusal of her figure. She might not be able to see my eyes raking up her body, but she can feel them. It’s in the way her gaze flickers down to me before settling back on Jackson. She bends down and places both drinks on the table, sliding the martini glass to Jackson.

Her voice washes over me, rich like honey. “One cosmopolitan.”

“Could I have a straw?”

She pauses. “A straw?”

I swear every word out of Jackson’s mouth tonight has confused the poor girl.

“Like a bar straw,” Jackson nods at her. “Do you have some in that little bag?” Her brows furrow as she slides two thin, short straws from the petite fanny pack clipped around her waist.

“Sure, but we don’t normally serve them with cosmos.” She holds them out for him to grab and he plops them into the pink drink before raising it to the bottom of his mask. Lifting the mask a few inches and tilting his chin down, he takes a long–obnoxiously loud–sip.

“Oh.” The word slips out of her plush mouth.

“Show off,” Parker mutters. His full champagne flutes bubble idly in front of him, taunting him.

“Would you like a straw as well? A proper one, not a bar straw.”

I lean forward, resting my elbow on the table and propping my head up to stare at him.

“Yeah, English, why don’t you stick a straw in it.” I wish he could see my face, but my voice is laced with so much sarcasm it doesn’t make a difference.

“Pricks, the lot of you.” He looks up at her, and I thank fuck that he is wearing his mask because I just know he has that lazy, shit-eating grin slapped on his face right now. The one that has girls turning to putty before he even opens his damn mouth–a mouth I want to punch. “A straw would be great, love. Champagne flutes and masks don’t really mesh.”

“No, they don’t,” she holds out a straw, “but I doubt much is easy with those on.”

“You would be correct.” He takes the straw from her hand, fingers deliberately grazing over hers, “but there is still plenty we can do with them on.” She blushes and—yeah, I definitely want to punch him.

Parker sticks the straw in the flute, bringing it to the bottom of his mask. He hesitates, his brain warring between the atrocity he is about to commit and his need to have at least an ounce of alcohol in his body to make it through this awful event. He is my best friend, but I relish his struggle at the moment.

She places the amber drink in front of me. “Your whiskey.” Her syrupy voice drips over me and I struggle to pull myself away. Despite the mask, her cat-like eyes manage to zero in on my own. I don’t know what is going on, but I could sit here and stare into them for the rest of the night. She’s mesmerizing.

“Don’t I get a straw as well?”

She slips out two more bar straws and drops them in. “Of course.”

Bringing the straws to my lips, the subtle scent of the whisky drifts under the mask. My body begins to warm at the rich scent. I take a sip and recognition hits me instantly as the smooth liquid slides over my tongue. The spice heats up my throat, and a slight burn travels through my nose. It all amplifies the intoxicating feeling Stevie’s mere presence has created.

“Mac 12,” I say, appreciation and satisfaction in my voice at her choice. “Oaked.”

“You seemed like a Macallan kind of guy.” She shrugs.

I give her another once-over. At first glance, one might mistake her as just another high-class server. A more dedicated observer would be able to catalogue the glistening gems in her ears, the red soles of her heels, the practiced smile. She knows her shit because she was raised to know the best.

“Anyone with taste is a Macallan person.”

She snorts lightly. “You’re not helping your case.”

“Fine. So, what kind of guy does that make me?”

Her lip quirks up, teasing me.

“A guy who knows what he wants, what he likes,” she leans her hip on the table, “but is patient. He waits until it is the right time to strike.”

Fuck. I want to grip that hip and twist her onto my lap again. But there are still too many eyes on our table. We don’t do these events often, but when we do, we are careful about who we interact with and for how long. Even Sydney only attends events as necessary because of the backlash she receives. Although, she would attend every event with us if we didn’t stop her. She says she doesn’t care—that it’s part of the job—but no one is immune to online bullying, and we can handle ourselves.

“Do you know what I want right now, Stevie?”

It’s the first time I’ve called her by her name, and I see the surprise light up on her face.

“What?” Her eyes narrow, but there is a hint of mischief in them.

I stand up and, even though she is in heels, I still have a solid four inches on her. I place my hand on the table next to her hip and lean forward, caging her between my body and the table.

“I want to reach my hand under that dress and feel how ready you are for me.”

Her eyes darken for a moment before she schools her features. “Are you always this forward with women you’ve just met?”

“Only the ones who seem like they can handle my games.”