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Chapter Nine
Striker
Night can’t come soon enough.
The time between Dani's victory and darkness is torturous, filled with cheering, drinking, eating a feast of a meal, more drinking, some fine cigars, and finally coming back to the room and collapsing into the emperor-sized bed. It's exhausting celebrating alongside people I know to be the enemy, people who will kill us both if given half the provocation, people who will shove drink after drink and cigar after cigar into your hands, and if they're not giving you incredible booze or smokes, they're either complimenting the talents of the woman you’ve wanted for years or giving you food that makes whatever your grandmother cooks taste like moldy prison rations.
By the time I hit the bed, I'm broken and ready to sleep.
"And you doubted me," Dani says, grinning, as she slides into bed beside me.
In bed.
Beside me.
Smiling with confidence, empowerment, the woman I've always dreamed about slides into bed next to me.
She's so close that all I'd need to do to put my lips to hers is turn my shoulders. It'd be so easy. So perfect. I wonder what she tastes like?
Instead, I stand up. "You did well."
Her smile flickers to a frown for a fleeting moment, then returns, strained. "I'm more capable than you and Dixon give me credit for."
"You won a ballgame against a bunch of geriatrics. Don't go getting ahead of yourself."
"No, don't undercut me, Owen. I not only beat them, I won them over. Those old guys love me. Did you know I had half of them ask me for my business card? One guy, he's looking at buying a summer home here by the coast. He wants something with at least five bedrooms, six bathrooms, and three acres. Beachfront. Do you know what I'm going to make in commission on that?"
"Good for you," I say, forcing myself to ignore how enticing she looks as she lays there in bed, with her face radiating happiness and confidence. She deserves to feel proud of herself after today, but I'll be damned if how she looks right now isn't the sweetest poison; every second alone with her, my loyalty, my mission, my purpose is getting torn to shreds. I busy myself with building my bed on the floor. "Now we just have to focus on living through the rest of the weekend so you can actually be alive to earn that commission from that old Mafia godfather."
"I did well. You can admit that without getting all back-handed."
Bed built, I look for the next thing to do. Something. Anything. Whatever can distract me from how good she looks, how bad I want her.
"Owen?" Her voice is plaintive, hurt. I look up, resistance melting. "You can say that, right? I did well?"
Her face shows me a momentary flash of the young woman I remember: the girl who chased after Dixon and me, wanting nothing more than our approval. Approval that we often withheld.
Because we were fucking idiots.
Young men who thought the world was ours; young, dumb, blind men who couldn't see the smarts, talent, and beauty that was following us around, asking for our unworthy approval.
I look at the vulnerable, beautiful woman on the bed, and I nod.
"You kicked ass today, Dani. You were great today, and you've been great for a long time."
Her smile lights up the darkness of the bedroom.
I return my focus to my bed, needlessly, desperately rearranging the pillow and the pile of clothes that forms my mattress on the cold floor.
Then I stretch out on it, grateful for the discomfort of the cold tile. It's just enough to cut through the warmth that floods my body every time I look at her.
Some time passes.
I hear her busy herself, changing clothes, brushing her teeth.
Then she gets back into bed and she calls to me.
"You don't have to sleep down there, you know." A second of quiet. Of doubt. She adds, "Because, like I said, we don't want the maids to talk. We have to fit in. You know, play the part of a couple?"
