Night Games (The Storm Inside #6) Page 14

  I made coffee and stomped back to the shower, flicking it on.

  Somewhere between the shampoo and the conditioner a plan formed in my mind. Wes enjoyed a “choose your own adventure” way of living and most women were lured into his sexy trap for a few days before realizing he was a hot mess. Now that I’d been through his one act play I understood the string of very short-lived relationships.

  I also understood (at least partially) the disconnect that was Wes Allen—super sweet seemingly romantic sexy candy, but without a clue as to how to think beyond the moment.

  I did not enjoy the rise and fall of being the center of his universe one minute and a forgotten idea the moment something else came up. Other women had very intelligently seen the writing on the wall and dumped his ass—the whole “shame on you once” philosophy at work—but I wasn’t other women. Nope. I had a stubborn streak a mile wide and got a strange enjoyment out of toying with people who had no clue what was going on.

  So instead of calling it quits, I was going to have some fun with him. Play the player at his own game. Maybe if he got a taste of his own medicine he’d get a clue.

  It was hard to not kick myself for getting carried away. Wes had sexed me into a blissed out state of laziness. Plus his chest was really excellent to fall asleep against with all that steady breathing and warmth. But really? I blamed his arms. The man had the sexiest arms and when they wrapped around me?

  Yeah, I was a goner.

  A really dumb goner.

  I let feelings lead me down the wrong path. I thought Wes was feeling the same things. I thought I was safe.

  I was wrong.

  The player had played me. And I’d let him.

  As I parked outside my office I picked up my phone and dialed Zoe.

  “Yo! What’s up?”

  She must have been up for hours writing on a caffeine drip to be this awake. “Can we meet tonight as planned at Elevage? I need your devious brain.”

  “Oh . . . sounds good. Yep. I think June is out again. She’s . . . doing you know what, with you know who.”

  I rolled my eyes at the code for June is busy banging Roman. “That’s fine. She’d probably just talk me out of it anyway.”

  “Talk you out of what? Do I need supplies? How long do I have to plan whatever this is?”

  “Supplies?” I slammed my car door and started across the parking lot. “Maybe. I’ve decided that Wes Allen deserves to know how he’s been treating women all these years.”

  She sucked in a little gasp. “What did the asshole do?”

  “Nothing.” He really hadn’t. He’d been himself. Sweet, sexy, and clueless. He’d ruined my day to please himself. Something I was absolutely sure he did to women all the time.

  I was not his puppet.

  I would not be played.

  I had a life and there was no way I was allowing him to ruin any more of it.

  “We’re going to play the player until he gets what he deserves. Meet me tonight. We have plans to make.”

  16

  Wes, present day

  “Do you even understand how perfectly this will work?” Zoe was off on her own adventure in her mind, leaving me totally and completely behind.

  Also, she’d lost her damn mind. “Nope. Not happening, Pixie.”

  She threw her hands in the air. “You’re an idiot.”

  “I am not an idiot. Carrie will hate me. And since I don’t want Carrie to hate me, your little plan is the worst idea ever.”

  She growled and stamped her foot. I’m sure it was supposed to be menacing or intimidating or something, but coming out of someone so small and cute it was a lot more like a fairy exploding glitter on flowers.

  “Do you want Carrie to notice you? Really notice you? Then she needs to see you.”

  And posing for Zoe’s next book cover, shirtless, was supposed to do that? I think not.

  “Zo. I am not going to be your man candy.”

  “Think of your Instagram followers.”

  She had my attention now. “Come again?”

  I knew I’d made a mistake the minute she smiled. That smile turned into a saunter. And that saunter turned into my doom. Whatever she was about to unfurl was going to sound so damn logical I was going to agree to doing something I knew fundamentally was a really terrible idea.

  “Your social media empire is built on a foundation of adoring female fans, is it not?” She didn’t wait for me to answer the obvious. Of course my fans were mostly women. I had a brand built on my semi-nudity. “And your fans are probably some of my fans. Some aren’t. You pose on one of my covers—you know I have seriously hot covers—and our fandoms intersect. I gain new readers, you gain new followers and Carrie gets to see you through the eyes of our fans. She needs to see you romantically.”

  I was right. The pixie was making sense. Damn good sense, actually. From a business standpoint this was a no-brainer. It was on-brand to do a book cover for a famous romance author. The exposure would be great and the material it would provide my social feeds would give me work for months. Plus, if I did it right, I could tell my own personal love story and hopefully woo both my wife and my fans into realizing how much I loved being married.

  Carrie might even do all those things Zoe said. She also might explode. She might hate me. Or she might get so jealous she finally sees reason.

  “Did I mention the appearances you’ll have to do?” She swirled her coffee while eyeing me carefully. “A book signing if you’re up for it, definitely a conference or two. You’ll be a celebrity. Women will line up just to get a minute to say hi, and with your natural charm . . . well, you’ll melt all their hearts. You’ll be huge.”

  And I somehow found myself thinking Zoe’s master plan to make Carrie jealous made sense.

  “Are these fans you speak of nice? I mean, are they going to manhandle me?” It was one thing to be on a cover but another to be there in person.

  “Incredibly sweet, wonderful women. You’ll love them.”

  And that’s how I found myself, two days later, in a studio.

  “I never thought I’d be doing this for money. I feel so . . . so . . . cheap.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Zoe said with a roll of her eyes. “If it makes you feel any better you can do this for free.”

  I stopped flexing my bare bicep long enough to glare at her. “Oh no, I’m taking your money, Pixie. Taking it and spending it on something good. I just haven’t figured out what yet.” Not that being a cover model paid very well. I mean, money was money, but I wasn’t going to be paying my mortgage with this check.

  “Here’s what I can’t figure out. You’ve been flexing and baring your body for years online, why is this different?”

  Million-dollar question, that one. Million dollars. One look at my Instagram account and anyone could tell something was up. I was still there with my post of the day and my stories, but the content had shifted. Less me half-naked with Snickers making cute faces at the camera, and more shots of my life—with my shirt on—paired with philosophical shit.

  I was surprised my fans were still liking and commenting as if nothing had changed. Of course maybe they were enjoying the shift. I’d been reading more and more about how social media fans wanted to be taken on a journey with the accounts they followed.

  “Carrie.” It was the only explanation. She’d changed me from the first day. At first it had been slow but now? Now it was an out of control boulder shooting down the side of a cliff. I was a different man today than I had been even two weeks ago. “I’m not shy about my body. Never have been.”

  “Obviously.”

  I shot her another glare and moved into the position the photographer requested. “But now I’m more aware that my body partially belongs to her. I feel like I should ask permission before putting it on display for women to fawn over.” Which was weird because I had a feeling Carrie didn’t care at all.

  Then again, that’s what this cover model experiment was all about.

 
“I asked my cover designer to prioritize this cover. We should have a reveal the day before the signing. I hope you’re prepared for this.”

  She’d told me several times to expect a line of women following me everywhere like a celebrity. “It sounds like every day, except instead of men and boys holding out their baseballs to get signed it’s women holding pictures of me.”

  She laughed. “You have no idea what you’re about to experience. This is going to be fun to watch.”

  I wasn’t so sure I liked the sadistic glint to her pixie eyes. “Should I warn Erik about your evil side?”

  She blanched and I finally had my proof that these two had a thing going. “Why would you say that?”

  “Well, he has the hots for you and you have the hots for him. So I figured if you hadn’t already—”

  “Hadn’t what?” she shrieked. “There is nothing going on between me and Erik.”

  Oh wow. These two were so deep in the denial pit they could have adjoining rooms with Carrie. “Calm, Pixie. Calm. You’re scaring the photographer.”

  Susan grinned from behind the lens. “Not scared. Amused. The romance writer freaking about having the hots for—”

  “Stop! Everyone just stop.”

  Susan and I grinned.

  “Hey Zo?” I left my position in front of the backdrop and wrapped her up in a hug. “You didn’t know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well now you do. So stop freaking out. You’re awesome and Erik is a good guy. There’s nothing bad that can happen here.”

  “Says you.” Then she pushed back. “Put on a shirt.”

  “On? You want me to put a shirt on?”

  The freak out was over and her evil grin was back as if nothing had just happened. “Every once in a while a cover works better with the subject clothed. We need some shots just in case.”

  Susan dropped a white t-shirt into my open hands. “White shirt and jeans? Hells yeah. They’ll make great marketing materials if nothing else.”

  “True story,” Zoe said, then she bounced her eyebrows. “And in three days I get to watch you squirm.”

  “THANKS FOR COMING WITH ME,” I said to Roman beside me on the plane. The Waves were about to play three games against the Detroit Tigers and I was a mess. A mess that needed to keep his head straight for multiple reasons. One being my career. That was kind of a big deal. Coach and management already had their beady little eyes on me. One more slip-up and I’d be dog crap.

  The other big reason being if I were going to execute this plan to get Carrie back, I needed to keep it together. A cool head was always better than a scrambled one, and I was notorious for getting scrambled up when things got complicated. When my cousin Caroline broke her leg falling out of the oak tree we were all climbing, I ran in circles screaming for help while her sisters actually did the useful stuff. One ran for help . . . you know, instead of screaming aimlessly into the air . . . and the other one kept her calm and held her still.

  There was also that time my pop got real sick. He ate something. It was awful. He needed my help but instead I ended up running around the house opening cupboards. What I was looking for, I still couldn’t tell you. Eventually he yelled at me and told me exactly what to get.

  So to say I had some issues with keeping my head on straight during times of stress was probably an understatement, which was why I asked my best friend to stick with me through the next few days.

  “No problem. I have a client on the Tigers roster I can meet with while I’m here.”

  “Tell June I appreciate it.”

  “Will do. It was good timing though. She’s on the road this week, too.”

  Well at least I wasn’t totally ruining their week for my own selfish needs. “How’s married life?”

  “Smoother than yours.”

  No doubt. “Do you think I can pull this off? Zoe and June both seem to think Carrie just needs time and a nudge but I’m starting to think I’ve lost my mind.”

  “You’ve definitely lost your mind. No need to worry about that part.”

  I punched him in the leg. “Fucker.”

  “Look. You’re the ‘go big or go home’ kind of guy, right? You never do anything easy. You hate boring. It was inevitable that when you finally fell hard for a woman she would be the hardest, least boring one you’d ever met.”

  Good point. “It’s like one giant test.”

  “Maybe it is. Someone needed to put you through the paces. You get away with everything because you look good and you charm the pants off everyone, but that’s not how it is for the rest of us. We mere mortals have to play by the rules, make up for our transgressions, and work our asses off for what we want.”

  And for once I really and truly wanted something.

  Someone.

  “I wasn’t always like this.”

  Roman laughed. Full out belly laughed. “Bull shit. This is in your DNA. I swear it.”

  Ass. “You do remember I’m a full year older than you, right?” When I first showed an interest in the game my pop had been over the moon. He loved the game. Played all through high school and got a scholarship to a small college, but he couldn’t hack it in the minors. He was good, but you have to be great to play professionally.

  “You were red-shirted,” Roman said.

  “That’s how bad Pop wanted me to be good.” It was a trick some parents used to give their kids an advantage in sports. He held me back a year and I started Kindergarten as a six year old. Not because I wasn’t smart or ready for school, but so that I’d always be that little bit older than all the other kids I played ball with.

  “Our father’s have a lot in common.”

  Roman’s dad was one of the greats. Also an asshole. He pushed Roman hard, but he didn’t red-shirt him. “Don’t take this the wrong way but, go fuck yourself. My pop wanted me to be good. He went blind pushing me that way because he wanted me to be what he never was. Your dad is just evil.”

  Roman shrugged. “I totally agree. Especially now.”

  After he married June—who was the daughter of the St. James’ bitter rival—George cut off ties with his only son. A true fucker if ever there was one.

  “You know what you do when you’re always bigger and older than all the other kids? You learn to be funny—especially when your body starts changing before everyone else. I learned pretty quick I could get out of a lot of situations by being funny or cute.”

  “And thus Wes Allen was born?” Roman chuckled.

  “Nope. It was after Mom died. I lost her, we moved to a totally different city, and my pop was never the same man. I was never the same.” I loved people and I craved their attention. All of it. Any of it. I became the class clown, the big brother to my cousins, the prankster-who-could-cook to my aunt. As long as I was making people happy, I was happy.

  “I don’t think you should change, Wes. You’re one of those one-of-a-kind guys.”

  “Aw shucks.” I put my head on his shoulder and stroked his leg. “Keep talking pretty to me.”

  “Fuck off.” He shoved me away. “What I mean is, I think that is what Carrie needs from you. This guy,” he waved his hand at me, “is the guy she needs. So don’t change, just behave with intention instead bouncing around like an out of control clown on a bucking bronco.”

  Intention. “You mean I should think before I do? Not the first time I’ve heard that one.” Heard it my whole life, actually.

  “Well, now is the time to finally do it. That is . . . if you want to stay married.”

  17

  Carrie, six weeks earlier

  The art of playing a player involves getting inside his head. One must understand her victim fully if she has any hope of defeating him before losing herself in the process.

  It’s one thing to play with fire but quite another to get burned.

  Smart ladies knew the difference and I was smart.

  I swear I was going to stay smart.

  “You’re absolutely sure this is the right ca
ll?” Zoe hissed in my ear. She was already two inches shorter than me and tonight I had at least four on her thanks to my heels.

  “Absolutely. Why are you worried? This will be fun.”

  She gave me a funny look. “Whatever you say, Doc.”

  “Don’t call me Doc.”

  “Carrie Anne.”

  “Now you’re just being hateful.”

  Zoe grinned. “Just making sure you’re functioning at your optimum. You know, priming the pump?”

  “Whatever,” I muttered. I needed a willing victim. Or, at least, not an unhappy one. What I needed was someone handsome, sexy, and charming. Oh, and single. I did not flirt with attached men. Ever.

  “What about him?” She nodded toward a dark haired man in a nicely cut navy Hugo Boss suit.

  Perfect. “Target acquired.”

  “He’s not a target,” she groaned as I strode across the room, leaving her and her doubts behind.

  “Dr. Carrie Anne Walker, and you are?”

  The man’s eyes lit up exactly like I knew they would. “Sinclair Ryan.”

  “Sin? I like it.”

  His eyes dropped to my chest where I’d put my breasts on display. Bingo. Sinclair was on the hunt for a hookup. “I love your dress.”

  “Thank you.” Every bit as expensive as his suit, my dress was a floral, ruffly, floor-length wrap dress that crossed low to show off a generous amount of my cleavage, and slit high enough to accent my thighs.

  It was a sexy dress, perfect for picking up men with a minimal amount of effort on my part. The right dress allowed me to see the signs of what they expected, how they’d perform, and how respectful they’d be. Sin was adequate at best. Definitely not my usual fare.

  “How are you enjoying our current installation?” I turned and waved my hands at the closest display.