Play Me Hard (Play Me 3)

“Of course you do.” She grins at me, bright and open and so unlike the guarded way she usually looks at me that it takes my breath away. Subspace obviously agrees with her. Or something does. Maybe it’s just that she’s away from the casino for a while, hanging in her own space where she’s most comfortable. Most familiar.

Whatever it is, I like it.

“So, it’s my turn now, right?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got to admit, comic books are going to be hard to beat, but…” She pauses, looks at me with seriousness that is only underscored by the way her knee is bouncing up and down. “We’re talking deep, dark secrets, right? And absolute confidentiality?”

“Obviously. That goes without saying.”

She looks so solemn that for a second I’m not sure how this is going to go. Cereal secret or life-altering one? Or somewhere in between? Suddenly, I’m a lot more sure of what I want to hear than I am of what she’s going to say.

“You swear not to tell anyone?” she asks. “I mean, pinkie-promise swear.” She holds up her pinkie for emphasis, and I dutifully wrap mine around hers.

“Pinkie promise,” I tell her, feeling like an idiot but still charmed at the same time.

“Okay.” She glances around like she’s afraid someone might be listening, then scoots even closer to me before whispering, “I have a One Direction problem.”

I replay her words in my head, try to make sense of them. But there’s nothing. “I have no idea what that means.”

“One Direction. You know, the band?”

“Uh, no. I don’t have a clue.” Except that’s not exactly true. There’s something in the name that sounds familiar— “Wait. You mean that boy band?”

“Hey! They are a lot more than just a boy band. They get a lot of flack because of how they started out, but they’re actually very talented.”

She sounds really passionate about this considering— “How old are you again?”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“And you listen to a teenage boy band?”

“I do. Proudly. They’re really good.” And still she hasn’t raised her voice above a whisper.

“Oh, I bet. And you’re so proud of your little problem that you can’t even say their name out loud in your own apartment.”

She shakes her head sadly. “Haters, man. They’re everywhere.”

I do laugh then. “Are you sure you’re not twelve?”

“Excuse me, but their fan base is actually older than a lot of people think.”

“It is?”

“Yes!”

“And you know this how exactly?”

“I might have, maybe, spent half a month’s rent to take my sister to one of their concerts when they came to Vegas last year.”

Just that easily, I forget about the boy band and focus on what’s really important. “You have a sister.”

“I do. She’s awesome.”

“I’m sure she is. How old is she?”

“Sixteen. She’s sick, but you’d never know it to hear her t