Page 9 of Blocked Score

I narrow my eyes at Lane while my brow lowers. “Not yet.”

“Well, if you have any ideas, I’m all ears,” Lane says, bemused.

Then, a scheme flashes to life in my brain. “Maybe I do.”

4

LANE

“Ifeel like I’m being used.”

“You are being used,” Scarlett briskly answers.

My dick twitches behind my zipper. The idea of being used by Scarlett isn’t at all a bad one, even if I’m imagining a very different context than the one we’re in right now.

But the night is young, and there’s plenty of time for us to find ourselves in different contexts before it’s over.

It’s Saturday night, and I was just walking to a house party I was invited to by one of the guys I’m working with at the camp. On the way, my peripheral vision snagged on someone trying to mount a fire escape, and even at a distance, I was hit by a jolt of recognition that drew me closer.

Seeing Scarlett again felt like winning the jackpot on a lottery ticket.

I texted into the group chat I have with the guys I’m working with at the camp that something came up I’ll be skipping the party this time.

The moment I realized I’d run into Scarlett just days after she threw thatif it’s meant to beline at me and sauntered awaywithout giving me her number, all interest in doing anything else with my night other than spending it with her evaporated.

Now we’re in a convenience store, a block away from the club she got kicked out of, brainstorming how we’re going to get her back inside to find her friend.

Specifically, we’re brainstorming how she’s going to use me as a distraction.

She rubs her chin between her fingers, perusing a display carousel of hats and sunglasses. “What about a disguise?”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Disguise? The guy already doesn’t know me.”

Somehow, I’m supposed to distract the bouncer long enough for her to sneak in behind his back.

“Like, what if you wore some stupid hat and a pair of gaudy sunglasses and demanded not to have to wait in line, claiming to be some kind of local celebrity or something?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “I don’t think I could pull it off. I’m not a good actor.”

She gives me a sidelong look of disappointment that has the edges of my lips ticking.

“What if I pretended to have a heart attack right in front of him?” I propose. “I’m strolling by, suddenly I grab my chest and I’m on the ground. You can sneak behind him while he checks on me.”

“I thought you weren’t good at acting,” she retorts.

I shrug. “Grabbing my chest and falling down is easier than carrying on some entire conversation pretending to be someone else.”

She angles her head doubtfully. “Frankly, he didn’t seem like the type who’d even give a shit if you had a heart attack in front of him. It’d just be someone in line checking on you while he sits on his stupid stool in front of the door with his beefy arms crossed over his chest.”

I click my tongue to the roof of my mouth, thinking. I turn around, taking in the surroundings of the convenience store and hoping something sparks an idea.

Then, I see it.

I grab a small bottle of mustard from the endcap closest to us.

“This bouncer guy. Definitely an asshole, right? Ornery?” I look at the mustard bottle, bouncing it up and down in my hand.

A distasteful sound pulls from Scarlett’s mouth. “Definitely.”

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