Forbidden Game

Chapter One

“Why are you naked?”

The blond Adonis before me is lounging in bed, wearing nothing more than a pair of blue Burberry briefs. His laptop is open while he simultaneously plays a video game on his ninety-inch TV.

Parker Covington’s toned body is on full display without a care in the world.

Which isn’t an uncommon situation. I’ve never met a man who wears less clothing in his own apartment than Parker. And yet, he has a closet that is three times the size of my own and filled to the brim with custom designer clothing.

“The real question is, why aren’t you?” He winks.

I roll my eyes with a sigh. “We have to be at your photo shoot in thirty minutes. Which means we needed to leave,” I check my watch, “five minutes ago, and you’re not dressed.”

“I have a shoot?” Parker runs a hand through his platinum hair.

“I sent you a calendar invite last week. I even texted you a reminder this morning.”

I have to fight not to grind my teeth. Working for three famous video game streamers created a little bit of stress.

“I never accept your calendar invites, love,” he purrs in his posh London accent.

Make that a lot of stress.

Each of the three men I work for is difficult in their own way. Aleksander is the most popular, a natural leader, but he hates going to events and likes pissing people off. Jackson is the most well-spoken and levelheaded, but people are terrified of him because he looks like a giant grump. And Parker? Parker should be my golden goose. He is charismatic, funny, and attractive. He jumps at every opportunity I give him. But he lives in his own world and is as unpredictable as the rain in Seattle.

I walk forward and shut the laptop, looking him directly in those baby blues.

“Get dressed, or I will drag you to this photo shoot as you are.”

“You act like that would be a punishment.” He grins. “But fine, just give me a second.”

Parker shifts off his California king and nudges past me, his hot skin brushing against my arm and sending sparks of electricity up it.

Unfortunately for me, all the men in The System look like they should belong on a teen drama, not streaming video games in dark rooms for hours on end each week. My radar for hot men has gotten all bent out of shape, thanks to them.

It’s taken five years of working for The System for me to become somewhat immune to their sculpted bodies and flirtatious jokes.

Especially when it comes to Parker.

Especially after That Night.

My cheeks heat at the memory I fight every day to forget.

My professionalism is my armor, and I need to keep it on at all times, otherwise I’ll be vulnerable to his attacks.

“All right, let’s bounce.”

Parker fluffs the collar of his white shirt and checks himself out in the mirror approvingly. I have no doubt in my mind that his entire outfit probably costs more than my biweekly paycheck.

I shoot off a quick message to our driver that we are on our way down before grabbing Parker by the elbow to usher him out of his room.

The System’s penthouse apartment is stunning. Custom black tiles and pristine white walls. An open layout living room and kitchen that leads to a massive wraparound balcony. I’ve slowly added a few plants over the years, but the space is minimalistic, decorated mainly with limited edition gaming memorabilia, neon signs, and an iconic The System poster.

I live on the fourteenth floor, and while it’s a gorgeous apartment, it’s nothing compared to theirs.

“Don’t forget your mask,” I remind Parker, punching the button for the elevator.

I startle when he waves the blue LED mask in my periphery.

“As if I would. It’s only been three months. We haven’t gotten that used to life without them yet.” Parker tucks the mask under his arm while he toes on a pair of loafers.

Three months.

It’s only been three months since Aleks, Parker, and Jackson took off their masks and revealed their identities to the world.

For years, these three men rose to the top of the video game world as the most popular faceless streamers—wearing matching LED masks as part of their brand so no one knew what they looked like.

Then, another streamer tried to blackmail them…and they decided they were sick of hiding. They were ready to step out of their own shadows. Level up their careers.

It was a mild PR nightmare for me, though.

I didn’t sleep for a week after the reveal went live. My phone never left my hand, not even when I remembered to shower.

Sure, I’ve spent the last five years eating, breathing, and sleeping everything that is The System, but the way their fame has skyrocketed since the reveal is unlike anything I expected. With their faces out in the world, my job has become eight times harder, making sure that they don’t get into trouble and that no one leaks private information.

Hell, just last week I had to stop a story from one of Jackson’s exes from high school trying to get her five minutes of fame by telling one of the major news networks that he screwed her in the locker room after a swim meet.

The elevator arrives and we step in. I press the button for G2 and prepare for my ears to pop during the descent. We live in the tallest apartment building in California. It was only built a few years ago and has sixty floors.

“We’re going to be late,” I tell Parker as we rocket down to the private parking garage.

“You know, if I drove, we could get there on time.”

My pulse races just at the mere mention of him driving, anticipating the fear and the adrenaline. The man has a tendency to drive forty miles over the speed limit.

How he has never gotten a speeding ticket blows my mind.

If I wasn’t too chicken to get my own license renewed, I would drive us places, but the idea of being behind the wheel again sends spiders across my skin.

“Francis is perfectly capable of driving us,” I tell him as the doors open. “Besides, I informed the company that we were stuck in traffic and would be a little late.”

The one good thing about living in Cali is that you can always use traffic as an excuse. No one bats an eye.

Our personal driver, Francis, opens the door to a white BMW. Parker holds his hand out to help me into the backseat, and I graciously accept it. No matter how sarcastic or boyish he can be, Parker Covington is, to his core, a gentleman.

Once we are settled, Francis begins our forty-minute drive to the studio. Parker mutters under his breath a few times at the slow pace, but I let my head loll against the headrest and shut my eyes. The exhaustion over the past few months has been unrelenting.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I let out a deep huff.

The world never stops spinning long enough for me to breathe more than one peaceful breath. I pull my phone from my purse and swipe it open without looking at the caller ID.

“This is Sydney Lake.”

“Sydney, how are we doing?” Justin Rivera’s taunting voice filters through the speaker, and I instantly feel the tingles of a migraine forming.

Justin calling is rarely a good sign. As one of the lead reporters for Gamer Weekly, he always has his pulse on the latest news, good and bad.

Although, in my case, it is normally bad.

My brain begins to whirl, filtering through the past forty-eight hours and questioning if there is anything my men have done that could have landed them in hot water.

Aleks and his girlfriend, Stevie, are in New York for a gallery showing, which I would have attended if I didn’t need to monitor Parker and this shoot. Jackson hasn’t left the apartment and has been grinding out stream hours to make up for the week he took off for his mother’s birthday earlier this month. Other than attending a penthouse party Friday night, Parker has had a relatively quiet weekend for once.

My eyes slip to the man in the seat beside me.

Did something happen at the party that I missed?

Feeling my eyes on him, Parker tilts his head toward me and shoots me a grin. I sigh and stare out the window.

“I was doing relatively well until you called.”

“Now is that the way to talk to someone who is nice enough to give you the heads up about a breaking story?”

Bad news. It’s always bad news.

“I would be a lot nicer if you would allow me to stop the story from running.”

“And ruin my integrity as a reporter? Never.”

There’s no stopping the audible scoff from escaping my lips.

Justin might always warn me about a story, but he only does so to taunt me. No amount of money offered ever stops it from printing. The only benefit is that sometimes he tells me with enough time to craft a counter statement. Sometimes being the key word. It’s all dependent on his mood.

I tuck my phone between my shoulder and ear so I can pull my tablet from my handbag. I swipe it open and begin filtering through my recent media alerts for the boys.

Nothing sticks out other than some paparazzi photos of Aleks and Stevie showing a little too much PDA at the gallery opening. My eyes narrow in on his tattooed hand dangerously close to dipping under her dress.

I swear, if they got caught having sex in public—again—I am going to murder both of them.

“Spit it out, Rivera.”

“Apparently, Parker Covington is about to be disinherited.”

What?

The phone slips from my shoulder onto the seat, and my fingers freeze on the screen before me. A strange sourness swirls in my stomach. The word replays in my brain a few times before I whip my head around to Parker. His brows furrow at the death glare I’m giving him. Parker opens his mouth to speak, but I hold my finger up to shush him while I snatch my phone up with my other hand.

“What’s the proof?”

“An internal source from Covington Hotels.”

“Oh, really? An unnamed source?”

“I have no issue telling you their name. It’s not a secret. Martin Jones.”

“And when is this going live?”

“Three Eastern.”

“That’s in twenty minutes,” I grind out.

“Care to comment?”

I hang up the call, not even deigning to give Justin a response.

“Who pissed in your Cheerios?” Parker asks.

“Martin Jones.”

Parker pauses the game he’s been playing on his phone and frowns at me. “Martin Jones? What does that knobhead want?”

Mother of God. Please let there not be a whiff of truth about this.

“Seems he’s telling people you’re about to be disinherited.” My eyes narrow in on his features, cataloging exactly how he reacts. Parker has a stellar poker face and is a world-class charmer unless he is caught completely off guard. That’s the only way to catch him in a lie.

His eyes widen slightly, and his brows lift a fraction.

Crap.

I let out a groan.

“Wait, it’s not what you think. I’m not being disinherited.” He holds his hands in front of his body, defending himself.

My fingers quickly type this man’s name into the search engine.

“You’re not listening to me.” Parker snatches the tablet from my hands.

“I am.” I reach out to grab it back, but he tucks it under his ass. “Parker, stop being a child. The story drops in less than fifteen minutes. I need to notify the rest of the team, and you need to alert your family that this is going to be everywhere.”

A wave of panic rolls over his sea-blue eyes before hardening with determination.

“I’m not being disinherited.”

I huff and sit back in my seat, crossing my arms. “All right, then why is this man saying otherwise?”

“Martin is one of the board members for Covington Hotels. His son has also been working there the past two years and making his way through the company.” He begins to play with the two cartilage hoops in his ear, a nervous habit. “They don’t like the fact that I’m blocking their way because I’m supposed to take over the CEO role from my father eventually. They’ve been trying to discredit me and force my hand. Turns out, I’m quite the threat.” He grins at me, but when I continue to scowl, he drops it.

“So, what you’re trying to tell me is that they’re spreading the lie of your disinheritance in the hopes that you will be disinherited. Like some sort of twisted manifestation bs?”

It’s an unhinged explanation, but a lot of the people around Parker tended to be a little unhinged.

“Probably.” He picks up his bright blue phone and begins tapping away.

Parker is trying to hide it, but I can detect some unease leaking through the wall of confidence he normally wears.

I lean over and tug my tablet out from under his ass.

“I’ll get a denial statement out and work with some of the papers to get our side pushed as soon as possible. I don’t have to remind you not to interact with anything you see online, do I?”

“And risk you putting me in technological isolation again? No. I’ve learnt my lesson.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Last time being a month ago when he went out clubbing and photos were plastered all over social media of girls taking body shots off him, to which he responded online as being a “team player.”

My fingers fly as I tap out an email to a few news stations and bloggers informing them that we deny the allegations.

“Mister Covington and Miss Lake, we are pulling up to our destination.”

Francis’ warm voice temporarily breaks through the puzzle I’m trying to sort in my mind. The story is set to go live in just a few minutes, and I don’t need this to distract from the shoot. It’s a major collaboration on the line.

I toss my phone and tablet into my handbag before pulling out some mints and popping one in my mouth. I hold one out to Parker.

“Do not breathe a word about this once we get inside. You’re English, not Parker, for the next few hours.”

He plucks the mint from my hand and crunches it between his teeth with an eye roll.

“Stop freaking out, Syd. The shoot is going to go perfectly. The camera loves me; I’m hot.” He pulls his signature cocky grin before slipping his LED mask over his head and turning it on. The bright blue light shines back at me, and my nerves calm just a little.

When Parker becomes English, it’s a lot easier to deal with him.

The car rolls to a stop, and I hop out while Francis opens the door on Parker’s side. My eyes scan the area for any waiting paparazzi, but nothing obvious stands out.

The second we step inside the building, I feel my phone vibrate once, and after a few more steps, it vibrates again. By the time we make our way into the studio, my handbag is vibrating like a massage chair on steroids.

Once I make sure Parker is settled with the makeup crew and that he isn’t at risk of wandering off, I pull my cellphone out.

It’s burning up from the sheer number of notifications blasting across the scene.

The story is live, and his fans are losing their marbles.

I park myself on a nearby stool and swipe my phone open to descend into the cacophony of alerts.

My eyes instantly catch on a viral post, and ice shoots through my veins when I see why.

Aleksander Knight, leader of The System and all-around pain-in-my-ass, has decided to comment “RIP Bro” with a skull-face emoji.

I resist the urge to groan. Instead, I shoot a message to my assistant and inform her to login to Aleks’ account to delete the comment. It won’t stop any of the screenshots that have already been taken, but at least it will douse the flame.

I pull up Aleks’ contact and call him.

The call goes directly to voicemail.

Frustration bubbles under my skin as I type in his girlfriend’s phone number instead.

The call connects after the fifth ring, but all I hear is a bunch of bickering on the other side.

“Give it back!” Stevie shouts.

“No! She’s just going to yell at me,” Aleks growls.

“I’m going to yell at you.”

“It’s hot when you do it.”

The arguing continues for another minute until there is a loud male grunt, and then Stevie’s voice filters clearly through the speaker.

“Hey, Sydney. Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. Just inform your boyfriend that’s his second strike this month. One more and I’m putting him in tech isolation and adding another ten hours to his streaming quota.”

“Got it,” she sighs.

“And remember, no talking to—”

“The paparazzi, I know, I know,” she cuts me off. “We’ve got dinner reservations tonight, but I promise to make him behave.”

“All right, I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Buh-bye!”

I sigh deeply. I should have known he would pull something like that.

My headache begins seeping in again. I close my eyes and tilt my head back for a second before pulling myself together.

My phone buzzes and dread courses through my blood. I open my eyes to see a text from Justin and groan.

JUSTIN:Care to comment yet?

I give my knuckles a crack before firing off my crafted statement.

Today is not going to be my day.