Page 21 of Biggest Player
Still, I go into the corner stall. Survey the window’s dimensions, mentally measuring the inches. Climb onto the toilet seat and peer through the glass, gauging the distance from the bottom of the sill to the ground below.
“Yeah, not happening.” My escape will have to wait for another day.
I return to the sink and wash my hands as I contemplate my options:
Return to the table and rush through dinner.
Return to the table, make my apologies, and exit early.
Invent an emergency. I can text Landon right now and tell him to call me, pretending he’s my brother who needs me, like, immediately.
Pay for the drinks at the front, ditch her. Block her.
And when I say block her, I mean block the shit out of her.
Problem is, she knows my true identity because she is a jersey chaser. The last thing I need is for her to go to the media. The last thing I need is her selling a story.
Note to self:do not let her take a photo of us or let someone else take our photo.
“Why are you being such a pussy about this? You are a fucking legend. Grown men want to be you; women want to sleep with you.” I crack a smile, remembering what a badass I truly am. “Get out there and take control of the situation. Tell her you’re leaving.”
I square my shoulders.
Drop them. “Ugh. Don’t be such a goddamn chicken!”
Dumping someone mid-date is the worst kind of dick move, even I know that. And I may be an asshole, but I’m not entirely insensitive—I care about people’s feelings 80 percent of the time but still ...
I need to get out of here.
Hope lost for a subterfuge escape, I pull the exit open and step back into the dining room, the noise hitting me at an unwelcome decibel.
At the same time, I feel someone smash into me.
Two things register in my brain at once:
1. The person is not an adult.
2. It’s a young girl.
She springs back, an apologetic expression written on her scrunched-up face. “Oh my gosh. Sir, I am so sorry!”
Her little hand is pressed to her chest.
I notice that her fingernails are bright blue.
“Sir? Kid, I’m only twenty-five.” Then. “Random question—did you happen to notice if there’s a window in the women’s bathroom?”
“I don’t think so?” She pauses, tilting her head. “Why? Were you planning to climb out of it?”
“Yes,” I answer honestly. “I can’t find one I’d fit through.”
The young girl laughs. “Who are you trying to get away from? A bad date?”
I’m surprised by how perceptive she is. “Yes.”
“Hmmm,” she hums. “You know, if you paid me, I could help you run her off.”
My ears perk up.
