Page 22 of Play Dirty

We.

We’ll break him of it.

We’re just supposed to be friends.

What’s thiswebusiness?

Whatever it is, I like it, and my cock twitches behind my shorts.

I shift uncomfortably, trying to change the direction of my thoughts.

“What’d you do today?” I ask Stevie.

“I had a casting this morning for a one-off appearance on a soap. I don’t think I got it, but we’ll see.”

“How come?”

“A lot of competition.A lot.”

“But you’re beautiful,” I protest.

“This is acting, not modeling, so my looks are secondary. It’s okay, though. It’s good for me to be back out there, doing what I do. I’m doing a music video for Nobody’s Fool next weekend in Vegas, so that’ll be good for me, and I’m doing a perfume commercial in Toronto in two weeks.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“I’m trying to get my butt back out there. It’s just…hard.”

“Why?” I ask softly. “I understand you went through something traumatic, and I’m not minimizing that at all, but what does it have to do with your work?”

“It’s hard to explain. It’s not the work itself but more about the lingering effects of what happened. And how I’ll never—” She cuts off abruptly. “Anyway, not the place for this conversation.” She glances back at the kids, and I nod.

“Understood.”

“Anyway, I’m supposed to fly to Milan at the end of September for a series of shoots, and I’m really nervous. Chey said she’ll come with me if I need her to, but it’s time for me to get back on my feet, you know? I’ve been traveling and doing photo shoots since I was fifteen. I shouldn’t need someone to hold my hand.”

“Sometimes we all need someone to hold our hand. Even if it’s figuratively.”

“Including you?”

“Especiallyme.” I look in the rearview mirror. “The last year has been a cluster. Having that emotional support has been huge. I don’t think I would have gotten through this without my teammates, my friends.”

“What about family?”

“My dad’s gone, died when I was a kid, and my mom lives in upstate New York, near my sister. She’s coming out next week to spend time with the kids.”

“Oh, that will be nice.”

I nod. “What about you? You close to your family?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “My parents are divorced. Dad and his wife—who’s only three years older than me—live in Boston. They have two babies under five.”

“Yikes.”

“As you can imagine, we’re not close. My mom never remarried but has a live-in boyfriend. He’s okay, but I don’t really know him because my mom and I had a falling out. I also have a sister, and she and her second husband live in Toronto. He’s Canadian. We aren’t close either.”

“Can I ask about the…incident?” I ask carefully.

“Not with babies in the car.”

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