Page 51 of Player
“You sure you can handle the truth?”
“Finn!” I exclaim, exasperated. Why do I feel we’re having two separate conversations? What lies has he told? What is he keeping from me?
“You asked for honest. Last night ... this morning ... it was a test.”
I stiffen. “What kind of test?”
“To see if you’d hold up. Before things get serious, I wanted to see how you’d handle yourself in different circumstances.” He stands there, hands on hips, T-shirt clinging to his chest, looking handsome despite being wet with perspiration. Insulting me and making me feel like a lab rat he brought out to play with.
He looks past me and squints into the sun. As if his confession hasn’t crushed me. As if the friendship I believed was developing between us was a figment of my imagination.
A test.
And I thought last night ... holy hell, what was I thinking? That we’re more than partners, yet not quite lovers? That we’re friends?
I spin on my heels and stalk off. Somewhere behind me, he curses. This is what I get for letting my guard down.
Thank God I didn’t sleep with him.
“Don’t be like that,” he says from behind me. Closer than expected. Too close for his well-being.
I continue on at a brisk walk yet can feel him behind me, shadowing me.
“What about the job?”
I stop short and spin around, ready to say Lord knows what, but then he barrels into me and I’m in his arms. Lowering his head, he whispers in my ear, “What if I were honest and told you that my telling you all this was a test, too?”
I struggle to free myself, but quickly realize it’s hopeless. So, I go on the attack. “Since we’re being honest, explain why you initiated then lost that fight last night.”
“Who says I started anything?”
“You played every man in the room. They bet against their friend for you. Only you let that fool win. Why?”
“Perceptive mot.”
I try to raise my knee into his groin, but his big, beefy thigh blocks it.
“You’ll understand my reasons better tonight.”
“As if I’ll go anywhere with you.”
“You will if you want that story.” He looks down at me for several seconds, like he’s trying to make up his mind. With a shake of his head, he continues, “We’ll be entering a club that’s part of the underground.”
My heart quickens. “The underground?”
“Nightclubs. Dance halls. Restaurants. The like. A type ofshebeenthat hosts the shadiest flimflam around.”
“Including O’Brien.”
He nods. “Men out to make a quick buck.”
“You said O’Brien would show because of you? How so?”
“Let’s just say the boss has a feeling he’ll surface and leave it at that for now.”
I look at his handsome face. So serious. So unFinn-like. He can’t even say “boss” without dragging out the four letters. It reminds me of when I was a kid and used to emphasize words I didn’t like.“Ugh, Mom. You really want me to eat brruusseels sprouts.”Either Finn doesn’t like his boss, or he fears him. My irritation quickly changes into curiosity. Why not ask, now that he’s being honest? “On a scale of one to ten, how angry will your boss be when he discovers you’ve partnered with me?”
His body stiffens around me. “Zero,” he mutters.
