Play Me Hard (Play Me 3)

It’s a strange feeling, this being so in tune with another human being. It’s not something I’m used to and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I mean, there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to curl my body up against his and let his warmth leach into me, getting rid of the cold I’ve been feeling ever since I walked out of his office all those hours ago.

But there’s another part of me that wants to climb out of the car right now. To run to the safety of my own car, my own life—one that has nothing to do with rich casino owners who have dominance issues. One that has nothing to do with anything but waiting tables and struggling to make ends meet. It’s not a great life, but it’s mine and I’ve built it by myself.

I reach for the door handle, think one more time about jumping out. But then he’s pulling away from the curb, driving down the hotel driveway toward the Strip and it’s too late. I’ve missed my chance. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

“I live in the east,” I tell him after a minute, preparing to give him directions. After all, guys like Sebastian never make it to the side of Vegas that I live in.

“I know. I’ve got your address.” He doesn’t touch me, but his voice is warm, vibrant, and it feels like a caress all on its own. So much so that it takes a moment for his words to register.

When they do, alarm spikes through me. “How do you know my address?”

“I looked at your personnel file.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sorry—or the least bit concerned about what he found there.

Still, my alarm turns to panic in an instant. My application and fake ID were good enough to get me a job as a cocktail waitress, but that’s because the hiring manager wasn’t really looking at anything. But once someone starts to dig, my credentials and the legal name change won’t stand up five minutes against anyone who is seriously looking for something. “You looked at my file? Why?”

I try to sound calm, unbothered, but some of my worry must make its way into my voice because Sebastian shoots me a concerned look. “Because I wanted to take you home. It seemed the most expedient way to find out where you live.”

“More expedient than asking me?”

“When I thought I was going to have to carry you out of the casino over my shoulder, yes.” He’s smiling now, his eyes warm, but there’s a wariness in them. I don’t know if it’s because he’s already started to dig into my background or if it’s because he’s waiting for me to freak out on him. Either way, me getting upset will only make him more curious—make him think I have something to hide.

I do, but he doesn’t need to know about it. No one does.

Which is why I give him a smile I’m far from feeling right now and simply say, “Touché.” The less important I make it sound, the less suspicious he’ll be. Or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it—for my own sanity if nothing else.

He glances at me again, before turning his attention back to the traffic—only in Vegas are the streets this packed this late at night. It’s one of the things I love, and hate, about this city. It’s so easy to get lost.

“You took that better than I thought you would.” There’s a bit of a question there, which makes me second-guess myself. Maybe I did give in too easily.

I don’t know. It’s hard to judge when I barely know Sebastian, let alone how he deals with things or how he expects others to react. It’d be hard enough to guess if everything was normal, and right now, things are far from that. Beyond the worry about my application fraud, my head still feels all weird. Fuzzy and heavy, like my brain is wrapped in cotton and my body is slogging through mud. It makes it hard to think clearly.

Makes it hard to decide how I’m going to play this, even though there’s a part of me that wishes I didn’t have to play him at all.

In the end, though, I don’t have the energy for a hissy fit. I don’t have the energy for much, to be honest, beyond resting my head against the back of the seat and staring out into the night. “It’s already done, right?”

“Yes.”

“So there’s no use freaking out about it at this point. Besides, I’m exhausted and the fact that you looked up my address and Googled it saves me from having to give you directions to my house, so we’ll just call it a win for both of us.” The last of my words are slurred, but I barely notice. I’m having such a hard time keeping my eyes open right now. It’s not that I’m sleepy so much as mentally exhausted.

Sebastian does touch me then, a rough hand on my bare knee that feels way better than it should. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me take care of you.”

The words seem to echo in the car, sounding a lot more important than they should. I force my eyes open, force my muscles to work so I can turn my head and look at him. “You make it sound like I had a choice.”

We’re stopped at a red light, and suddenly he’s looking back at me, his eyes a penetrating, laser pointer green. “You always have a choice with me, Aria.”

He sounds so intense when he says it, like he wants me to understand something bigger, deeper, than what we’re talking about. For a moment I get lost in his gaze, in the deep growl of his voice. It feels almost like I’m floating, and he’s the only thing tying me down. The only thing keeping me grounded.

The thought only makes me more confused. Especially when he starts to stroke the inside of my knee with his strong, calloused fingers. Heat coils deep in my belly, spirals through me. It’s a strange kind of heat, muffled by the fact that I feel so removed from my own body. My own thoughts.

Nothing makes sense, not even the knowledge that I don’t want him to stop touching me. Especially that.

The rest of the ride to my apartment is silent, at least until we pull into the dingy parking lot. I direct him to park in my space, expecting a disparaging comment or two on where I live. This is the bad part of Vegas—the way bad part—and my building is one of the worst. Broken down, ill-repaired, in desperate need of a couple coats of paint—or an arsonist to burn it to the ground—it’s not a good place to live. Just walking from my car to my apartment can be treacherous some nights, especially when the local gangs are out.

But it was all I could afford when I fled my old life and got a job as a cocktail waitress. Now that I’m working the high roller tables and my tips have gotten about a million times better, I should be able to afford a better place soon. If I can hold on to the job a little longer, that is, and convince myself that the money really isn’t going to disappear out from under me, maybe I’ll start looking for a nicer place. Nothing grand, nothing like what Sebastian is used to—or where I used to live, even—but better than this. Safer.