Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)
“Hotel key.”
Her chest rises. “Ballsy. I should write this down.”
“You don’t need ploys. Stay you, Giselle. Smart and funny and—”
“Virginal.”
I sigh. “That’s not what I meant. You don’t need to be flirty. Just wait for the right guy—”
“Seduction 101 with Devon Walsh. You give blow job lessons?”
I bite down my groan, my body tightening at the image her words paint in my head. Her on her knees, starry-blue eyes looking up at me, her lips wet and wrapped around—
“Do you want lessons?” Keep your face blank, dude, totally blank.
She rakes her gaze over me, expression closed. Girl is cool. Her face cracks in a grin. “Ah, I’m just messing with you. I don’t need lessons. I have books for that.”
“Books?”
“Mmm, ordered a few on Amazon. Hope you don’t mind I used your address. The Ten Best Sexual Positions for a Female’s Enjoyment and How to Give Head without Biting His Cock Off should be here tomorrow.”
“You’re joking.”
“Of course,” she deadpans, a half smile tugging at her lips, verging on full blown.
“Wait. You’re serious? I can’t tell.”
“Forget that. Let’s go somewhere. I have what we need for our bad weeks. I’m gonna show you how us southern girls deal,” she says and slides out of the booth while I lay out the cash plus tip on the check.
She purses her lips. “We’ll need the Hummer for sure. Glad I took an Uber here.”
I check my watch. It’s nine. “Where are we going? I have to be at the gym—”
“Old man.”
“Four years between us,” I remind her as we walk to the exit.
She grins. “Let’s grab beer on the way—can we? Just a couple. You drive; I drink.”
“Anything else, Princess?” I murmur as we walk out to the Hummer.
“Yes, do you have any old golf clubs you don’t use? One will do. If so, we can run and grab it—if not, I’ll make do with what I have.”
“I’m intrigued.” I open the door for her and help her inside the vehicle. Before I realize it, I’m reaching over and strapping her in while she watches me. Can’t help it. My stupid . . . body . . . wants to be near hers.
She smiles so big I lose my breath. “This is going to be the best night of your life,” she murmurs.
“Really?” I stare into her eyes. I’ve never noticed the glints of white, a burst of lightning inside the blue.
A moment goes by. Maybe longer.
“Ten seconds,” she breathes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I should just get in the car, but here I am, standing like an idiot. “Am I going to regret this adventure?”
‘“Little filly,’ as Rodeo might say, ‘When I’m done with you, you’ll be begging for more.’”
I laugh.
An hour later, after grabbing beer from my fridge and an old club, we’re bumping over a gravel road in Daisy with Sam Hunt blaring. Our windows are down, and warm air rushes through the interior, each of us lost in our thoughts. She’s braided her hair on each side and changed into a tight green T-shirt that she got on clearance, a Saint Patrick’s Day leftover. READY TO GET LUCKED, it says, which made me laugh when she pranced out in it.
I park next to an old two-story red barn. It’s pitch black, my headlights illuminating the rolling hills and meadows in the distance.
Leaving my lights on, I grab a couple of flashlights, toss her one, and follow her in the barn. Cicadas trill, frogs sing, and leaves rustle in the quiet. A man could get used to the peacefulness of it.
“You gonna murder me out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“And bury you in the cow pasture. They’ll never find you.” She laughs and turns around, watching me as she walks backward inside the depths of the barn. She flicks on a switch, and the buzz of fluorescent lighting reverberates, the glow dim but adequate. The place is big, airy, and mostly clean, hay stacked in the corner, a tractor parked to the side. Various tools hang on the walls.
“This place belong to your family?”
“Mine.” She smiles. “Elena got the big fancy house in town, and I got the farm.”
“How much is the land worth?” Real estate is pricey in Nashville, and Daisy is close.
“I’ll never sell. I grew up here, rode horses, and followed my dad around. He used to farm, mostly as a hobby. We kept these two emus until they died of old age. The true farmer was his dad. Someday, I’ll build a house out here and have ten kids.”
“Hemsworth. I’m starting to hate him and his damn villa.”
“You keep bringing him up.”
I do? Whatever.
My gaze snags on a faded circle of flowers hanging on a hay bale. “Is that a black wreath? What did you do there? Satanic rituals?”
When I look back at her, she’s on her knees beside some boxes, her flashlight at her neck, eyes crossed, teeth bared. “Death is here,” she growls in a deep voice. “Prepare to be sacrificed!”