Page 16 of Undisputed Player
"Intrigued," he repeated, his tone making it clear he saw right through me. "You're obsessed."
I finished my beer, setting the empty bottle on the counter hard. "Don't project."
But even as I said it, I knew it was another lie. I was obsessed, and I would be seeing her again very soon.
Very soon.
For the first time in years, I wanted something I wasn't sure I could have, and I’d do anything to have her.
CHAPTER TWO
Estelle
The apartment's single bulb flickered above the kitchen table like a dying firefly, casting sickly yellow light over the dingy laptop I'd been staring at for what felt like centuries.
The air was thick with the smell of instant coffee, my third cup today, and that persistent mildew odor that clung to everything despite my weekly bleach wars with the bathroom tiles.
God, I was pathetic. I rubbed my eyes until stars danced behind my lids. Twenty-four years old, and this is my life. Giselle would be laughing her ass off.
Leo's soft snores drifted from the bedroom, the only peaceful sound in our chaotic world. Above us, the neighbors were having another one of their legendary fights, complete with bass-heavy music and what sounded like furniture being thrown.
To our left, someone was practicing what I could only assume was interpretive death metal on an electric guitar.
Welcome to paradise. I shifted in the wooden chair that had beentrying to cripple me for the past four hours. The thing dug into my spine like it had a personal vendetta.
I squinted at the laptop screen, the words blurring together like they were written in a foreign language. The essay staring back at me was a masterpiece of teenage apathy:"She is a hero because she's brave and stuff."
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Shakespeare is rolling in his grave.
I dragged my hands over my face, feeling the grit of exhaustion settle deeper into my bones. The digital clock on our ancient stove blinked 12:17 AM in angry red numerals, each number a tiny accusation.
Four more essays to go, then the lesson plans for next week's remote tutoring sessions. Each session meant another seventy dollars toward keeping this roof, however leaky and depressing, over our heads.
Any kind of degree didn't get you very far when you grew up in the slums and looked like you belonged there.
I reached for my water bottle, taking a sip of what had once been ice water and was now tepid disappointment.
Everything in this apartment had a half-life. The ice melted too fast, the coffee went cold before you could finish it, and hope died a little more each day.
But I had to be the strong one. Leo needed me to be unbreakable, even when I felt like I was held together with duct tape and four mugs of coffee.
The apartment had settled into its nighttime routine of creaks and groans, punctuated by the skitter of god-knows-what in the walls. I'd given up trying to identify the source. As long as whatever lived in there stayed hidden, we had an understanding.
I leaned back, the chair groaning in protest, and checked the security app on my phone for the hundredth time tonight. Four camera feeds glowed back at me: front door interior, front door exterior, side window, back patio. All quiet and all clear.
For now.
Damon's men hadn't tailed us today, but they would again. They did it just to mess with us, to remind me that they were watching, waiting, calculating how much pressure it would take to make me crack.
The black SUV with tinted windows had become as familiar as the mailman, idling across the street like some sort of predatory animal.
I'd started switching up our route home, taking different buses, walking through the maze of back streets I'd learned to navigate as a kid.
I shook my head. I had to focus. Focus on something other than my impending doom.
But my traitorous mind had other ideas. Instead of concentrating on the essay about literary heroism, it wandered back to the golden man I'd met earlier.
Jax Easton.
