Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

I have a brief twinge of regret that Aunt Clara isn’t here to do it herself, but she’ll understand. Things are moving fast. It feels like something might just slip away from me before I can grasp it and hang on. Urgency rides me, making me tense, as I run through what I want, what I’ve really wanted for five long months. Devon’s carnal mouth, his way of looking at me when he’s pretending he isn’t.

I want him, but in that direction lies peril and friendship ruined, and I sigh, refocusing. One thing at a time. First, let’s fix this hair.

Chapter 13

DEVON

I walk into the Razor and study the series of texts Giselle sent me an hour ago. I didn’t see them until I came out of my last meeting; then I took off for the penthouse and showered. After rushing around to get dressed, I got here as fast as I could.

I am in need of your services was the first one, then a series of others when I hadn’t replied.

I hate to even ask.

I really do.

Are you ignoring me after making you watch that movie?

I laughed out loud at that one (until I read the rest) because we did have a good time last night. After we ate cookies, Giselle put on an angsty, absolutely horrible French film with subtitles, where the main character cried every five minutes. In between cringes, I threw popcorn at Giselle. She threw back. Movie forgotten, we had a popcorn war in my den, and Myrtle was on my side—until our bowl ran out, and Myrtle declared us crazy and went to bed. Afterward, I put on Shark Week to up my street cred (see, they don’t scare me), and Giselle was instantly fascinated. She likes scary stuff. We sat on the couch for an hour and talked about the anatomy of a shark (mostly cartilage). She described how their skin is actually covered in millions of tiny teeth called dermal denticles that point backward and reduce surface drag, increasing a shark’s speed. As the shark grows, it sheds the denticles and grows larger ones. Disgusting—but I like listening to her. She’s the smartest person I know. Later, I helped her put sheets on the couch and got her a pillow. Then I went to bed. Like I should. I’ve got this!

I bet you’re practicing and you aren’t seeing these.

Topher has jumped the gun (he thinks I need cheering up for some reason?) and set me up with someone and he’s meeting me at the Razor. NOT AN ONLINE GUY, so relax, but a real boy. Like Pinocchio! Anyway, could use your insight on scoring a homerun on this date. If want to text me some pointers, I’m ready.

I need to see this guy.

Random factoid: there’s a meteor shower tonight, big rocks entering our atmosphere at 110, 000 miles an hour.

“Genie in a Bottle” reverberates through the dark club as I stalk in, say a quick word to the guy at the front, and weave through the Saturday-night crowd. It’s not late, around eight, but the place is filling up. I fire off a text to Giselle: I’m here. Where are you?

When I don’t get a response right away, I head to the bar, seeing Selena.

She catches my eye, grins, wraps up her conversation, heads my way, and runs down the recent issues with the air-conditioning and her new hires. My eyes scan the place for Giselle—at the bar, at the tables. For the first time, I wish the place was brighter.

She gets me a beer, and I take a swig, then check my phone.

“You heard from Garrett yet?” she asks, leaning in over the bar.

I grimace. “No. Hey, have any strange guys been in here looking for me?”

She purses her lips and shakes her head.

“If anyone comes in, call me.”

“Your friend looks different,” Selena muses, and my head snaps up from checking my phone again, like it might have changed in the past minute, following her finger as she points to the dance floor.

I see her seemingly lost in the peppy beat, head thrown back, glasses gone. I guess she grabbed her contacts at her apartment today. Her hair is different, the blue a lighter hue and evenly colored, the silky strands swaying as she holds her arms up over her head and shakes her ass.

Giselle stumbles into a couple, bounces off, and keeps going, her feet not in sync with whatever her hands are doing.

“She really can’t dance,” Selena deadpans.

“Don’t think she cares,” I say on a grin.

“Is she chasing dolphins?”

I take a swig of beer. “Nah, she’s doing Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction.” Which pleases me more than it should. I love that movie. I make a mental note to see if she wants to do a rewatch with me.

Where is her date?