Page 74 of Devil in Disguise
He said, “Tampa Bay. Which we lost to last week.”
“Yep. Borrowed it from Annabelle.”
“From when? When she was eight?”
“Probably. When Harlan played for them.”
“Want to tell me why?”
She shrugged. If she’d had gum, she’d have snapped it. “Because I liked it. Buccaneers. That means pirates. What’s not to like about sexy pirates?” She eyed the pool cue. “Were you playing?”
Wait.Wait.This could be about his phone-sex fantasy. The one from the stairwell. The one where bad things happened to bad girls.
Holyshit.
He didn’t ask if she was OK. His body had gone from 0 to 60—or more like from 60 to 100—and he was saying, “Yeah. Head on down there and rack ’em. I’ll be down in a second.”
He made it to his bedroom without even realizing he was walking, grabbed a container of lube, hesitated a minute, then muttered, “What the hell,” and grabbed something else. Something he’d bought on a whim after that call. Just in case.
He didn’t have to use it. He didn’t have to take this very far at all. All he had to do was pay attention to her signals, and stop as soon as it got too intense.
He could do that. He could stop.
* * *
When Dyma had asked Annabelle,“Do you have any T-shirts for the other teams Harlan played for?” Annabelle had looked at her like she was crazy.
“Yeah,” she’d said. “Sure. Sentimental value. Why?”
“Can you show me?” Dyma’d asked.
When she picked out the Tampa Bay one, Annabelle said, “You can’t wear that. The Devils justlostto them. You have to wear a Devils shirt! If you wear a team shirt at all, because if you’re going over to Owen’s, aren’t you supposed to, you know, dress nice? All this stuff you’ve just been telling me—shouldn’t you wear, like, a dress? If it’s a date? I mean, I guess it’s a date. Even though it’s at night. A sex date. Whatever.”
“You can say ‘booty call,’” Dyma said, “since that’s what it is. He knows what I’m coming over there for. And trust me, this will work.”
“Dyma.” Annabelle was still in there swinging. “Being supportive is, like, a big deal.”
“Trust me,” Dyma said again, “he’ll be glad I wore it.”
Like she was an expert. Like she’d had vaginal sex more than one total time. Like she had a friggingclue.
Now, she was racking pool balls, selecting a cue. She’d barely even been in this room before. It was the entire basement, just a game room that ran into a gym, with two stainless-steel tanks against the wall in between—an ice bath and a hot bath, all function and no luxury—and an equally utilitarian bathroom tucked away in there.
“Your gym doesn’t have as much equipment as I thought it would,” she’d said the first time she’d seen it. “I figured it would be massive.”
“Yeah, got all that at the ranch,” he’d said. “I’m only here during the season, and I don’t need a gym much during the season. I’ve already got a gym in Portland, and I spend enough time in it. This room’s mostly for my recovery time.”
Which was what this was. His recovery time. During which you’d assume he’d want to take her to bed. Instead, he’d asked her to play pool. No, he’dtoldher. And when she’d taken her jacket off, he hadn’t been sweet, considerate Owen. Which meant he might not really want to play pool.
Oh, boy.
She took the rack off the balls and hung it up. And then she crossed one ankle over the other, leaned on her cue, and waited for him.
She could do this. Even though her skin was tingling, her breath coming short. Excitement or panic, she couldn’t even have said. Jumping off the high dive and right into the deep end, when she’d barely made it out of the kiddie pool.
He came down the stairs without hurrying and tossed a couple things onto the battered leather couch before she could see what they were. The big-screen TV that took up most of the wall was playing an earlier game from today, the action brutal, the announcers’ voices animated, but all she saw was Owen coming toward her, carrying a pool cue.
She said, “You got a beer?”
