Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

“I didn’t want to know,” I mutter as she finally pulls out of my grasp and flips around to start pacing again.

“I wish he’d never told me,” I tell her rigid back.

But boy, did the info cool my jets. When we first met, she was engaged, but since then, the thought of her spread out on my bed has crossed my dirty mind. I’m male. She has a way that gets under your skin, and before you know it, you’re in the shower, thinking about her in those big glasses, pearls, heels, and nothing else—

I shake my head at the unreasonable image. Blasphemy. She’s like a pal. One I can’t touch. There’s a clear thick line drawn between us.

She scoffs as she drifts back over to me, her lips still pursed, and the image is seared in my brain, her heaving chest, the heart-shaped face, the swish of her legs under the skirt. She’s graceful and smooth, as if she took one of those deportment classes on how to carry yourself. Etiquette, probably.

She’s, well, a lady. Nice.

And I’m bad. Very, very bad.

She wasn’t far off with her new-girlfriend-every-month snark. Women flock to me, drawn to the persona and fame, and I pick and choose the ones I want. When it’s over, I send them off happy and smiling.

“You won’t have to worry about keeping my secret much longer. I’m getting rid of it. Pronto.”

An image of some shady guy fucking Giselle pops into my head. Inexplicable anger rushes like a tidal wave, and my hands tighten. I’m ready to rip his imagined head off right now. “Explain.”

She levels me with a stare, and I swear she’s counting the seconds. “I could draw you a picture, but I’m not an artist,” she says. “Imagine a slot, then you take a tab, and you stick it in. No more hymen. It’s over, and everyone can stop discussing me behind my back!”

And with that line, she’s flouncing toward the door. Her ass sways inside her little skirt, which has a long slit up the back. Normally, she’s a dressy-slacks kind of chick, and I guess she wore the skirt for her date—which makes me mad all over again. Nothing has made sense in this room since she let down her hair, unbuttoned that damn shirt, and got angry. Why couldn’t she just be the old Giselle?

She turns around, her lips set, anger directed at me. “I will never use you on my Pinterest board as Vureck again.”

“I don’t even know what that means!” I call after her.

She ignores me as she exits, and dammit, with her in a strange temper, she’s liable to pick up some rando cowboy and bang him before the night is over.

I curse. “Giselle, wait a minute! Let’s discuss this. You forgot your shoes and . . . fuck.” I grab the shoes and bobby pins off the table and take off after her. By the time I get out of the door of the room, she’s already ten yards ahead, gliding between patrons, ducking and swerving. She dashes past the bouncer at the podium, the door flings open, and she’s gone.

At least she’s out of the club. She’ll go home and calm down, and I’ll call her tomorrow. We’ll talk, and everything will be fine, but on the other hand, I don’t want her fuming all night, angry. And I had wanted to take her to dinner once the opportunity arose earlier. Sure, I was circumventing Aiden, but we could have gone to Milano’s and had a decent time. She would have sat across from me, maybe explained exactly why she decided to take up serial dating, and I would have been on my best behavior. I could have offered advice, tips—dammit, I don’t know. I do know all those guys she mentioned are wrong, wrong, wrong. She’s been a little lost lately, a wounded look on her face, and shit . . . I jog to the exit, determined to catch up and talk to her.

“Devon! Yo! Wait up.” I feel a hand on my shoulder.

Cursing, I come to a halt as I hear the edge in Selena’s voice.

“I’m in a hurry. What’s wrong?” I study her frazzled expression, the way she’s chewed off her red lipstick. The closest thing I have to a sibling—we look alike. Dark hair, green eyes, chips on our shoulders. Our moms were sisters, and we grew up next door to each other. I got her settled here when she moved here from California last year.

“More like whose shoes are those?” She indicates the heels in my clutch. “If you want to explore female footwear, I know some great consignment boutiques downtown.”

“They belong to Giselle, the girl who fell earlier. She ran off,” I add, feeling torn all over again, part of me pointed toward Selena, the other to the exit.