Played (Beautiful Players #2)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Stragglers.
Ugh.
I hate stragglers.
It’s midnight. The place is closing, and as usual, I have a few stragglers I need to guide out like toddlers at a daycare center. It’s always the same guys, too.
“Ronnie, I know you hate your wife, but it’s time to go home,” I tell him as I help him pack up his cue. “You got an Uber?”
“Yeah,” he grunts.
“Good, I want you to get home safe.”
It’s all part of the job. Most of these guys are regulars, they’re the ones who keep this pool hall going, and they’re decent tippers too. It’s my job to look after them, and make sure they get home safe.
Just like toddlers, I swear.
Finally… everyone’s out, and I can get out of here.
I’m exhausted.
It’s been a long shift.
I trudge from the pool hall, muscles aching from eight hours of slinging drinks and dealing with half inebriated customers.
All I want is something sweet—a pack of Skittles or maybe those sour gummy worms from the convenience store near my place.
My body screams for sugar even though my brain knows better.
The parking lot is nearly empty as I click the fob to my Mini. The car’s yellow paint job glows under the lot lights like a beacon—I love it becuase I can always spot my Mini easily in parking lots, even at Walmart.
Inside my car, I crank the AC and slump against the headrest. Just five minutes of silence before dealing with Daniel and his annoying questions about my day. Five blessed minutes of not having to smile or explain or justify.
My phone buzzes in my purse.
So much for five minutes.
Daniel's text glows on the screen:
When will you be home?
Made dinner.
I toss the phone onto the passenger seat without responding and pull out of the lot. The convenience store is not too far away. I'll grab something sugary, caffeinated, and deliciously bad for me.
At the red light, my phone buzzes again. And again.
"Jesus, give me a minute," I mutter, reaching over.
The light turns green just as I glance down at three new messages.
A horn blares. Headlights flood my windshield.
I hit the gas. A truck barrels past, missing my bumper by inches.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I pull over, hands shaking on the wheel. The sugar craving vanishes, replaced by nausea.
I bang my palm against the steering wheel.
My phone keeps buzzing. Five messages now.
Where are you?
Did you leave work yet?
Are you ignoring me?
I can see you read these
ANSWER ME
I grab the phone and switch it to silent, tossing it back onto the passenger seat. The screen lights up with his incoming call.
The car suddenly feels too small, like it's shrinking around me.
Why is he tracking my read receipts? Why can't I have twenty minutes to decompress after work without him breathing down my neck?
I pull back into traffic. What I need isn't just sugar—it's also space.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white as I force myself to focus on the road ahead.
I pull into the convenience store lot and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. When did I become this person? Jumping whenever my phone buzzes, calculating my responses to avoid his moods, mentally tracking my minutes away from home?
Last week, Daniel questioned why I'd taken an extra twenty minutes getting home from the grocery store. He'd checked the receipt timestamps. The week before, he'd installed a "safety app" on my phone that just happened to share my location with him at all times.
"For emergencies," he'd said.
The convenience store's fluorescent lights beckon. I step out of my Mini and lock it, the chirp echoing across the nearly empty parking lot. Inside, I wander the aisles aimlessly, savoring this small pocket of freedom.
I grab a pack of Twizzlers—my guilty pleasure.
The fluorescent lights hum as I make a beeline for the back wall, where the refrigerated drinks glow behind glass doors.
The cool air hits my face as I swing open the fridge door. Cherry Coke? Regular? My fingers hover between bottles when I notice him.
He stands maybe three feet away, tall and dressed entirely in black. His profile is something out of a magazine—strong jaw, perfect nose, thick eyelashes. When he reaches for a drink, his fitted t-shirt rides up slightly.
Damn.
Part of an intricate tattoo snakes around his forearm—piano keys that transform into music notes that become something abstract and beautiful. I catch myself staring, wondering how far up his shoulder the design travels.
He grabs a Pepsi, and before I can stop myself, I smile.
"Looks like we're mortal enemies," I say, my voice louder than intended in the quiet store.
He turns, eyebrows raised in confusion, and—oh. Those eyes. Deep brown, almost black, rimmed with thick lashes, and suddenly I'm conscious of how I must look after an eight-hour shift at the pool hall.
"The drinks," I clarify, pointing to his Pepsi, then to the Coke in my hand. "I'm a die-hard Coca-Cola fan."
His confusion melts into a smile that transforms his entire face. Tiny crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. A dimple I hadn't noticed before deepens in his left cheek.
"Ah, I see." His voice is soft, melodic. "That's serious business. Cola wars and all."
"I'm basically a Coke addict," I say, then immediately flush. "I mean—the soda. Obviously."
He laughs—a genuine, warm sound that makes something flutter in my chest. Our eyes lock for a moment too long, something electric passing between us. The connection feels so sudden, so unexpected, that I almost drop my bottle.
"I should..." I gesture vaguely toward another aisle, suddenly needing space from whatever just happened. "Candy. I need more candy. These Twizzlers aren't going to be enough."
I retreat to the candy aisle, my heart beating faster than it has any right to.
I'm standing in the candy aisle, my fingers dancing between a Butterfinger and a Baby Ruth, when I notice the display of gummy bears. Maybe I should mix it up? Gummy worms? Those sour patch things?
A flash of bright pink catches my eye. A pretty Asian girl, maybe ten years old, reaches for a bag of Skittles.
Her entire outfit is a celebration of pink—from her sparkly t-shirt to her ruffled skirt.
But it's her shoes that make me smile: flower-covered Vans sneakers with tiny daisies and roses dancing across the canvas.
"I love your shoes," I tell her, pointing to her feet. "And your whole outfit, actually. Pink is my absolute favorite color."
The girl's face lights up. "Thank you! My mom says I wear too much pink, but I think there's no such thing."
"There definitely isn't," I agree, grabbing the Butterfinger. "Pink is perfect for everything."
"I'm getting Skittles," she announces, holding up the bag. "What are you getting?"
I show her my candy stash. "I was thinking about gummies too, though, “but I’ve already got Twizzlers.”
"You should get both," she says with the confidence only children possess. "That's what I tell my mom when she can't decide."
Her mother, standing a few feet away, rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "And that's why we always leave with twice as much as we need."
We all smile, and I extend my hand to the girl. "I'm Liza."
"I'm Emmy," she says, shaking my hand with surprising firmness. "This is my mom, Eileen."
Eileen offers a friendly wave. "Nice to meet you.”
I find it odd to see them here at such an hour. Almost as if reading my mind, Eilleen says, “We’re back from a sleepover gone wrong. Tween girl drama…” she explains with a roll of her eyes. “Emmy couldn’t stay the night… so we’re getting her a treat to cheer her up.”
“”Oh… I’m sorry, Emmy. That—”
EVERYBODY DOWN! NOBODY MOVES!"
The scream tears through the store like a bullet. My heart stops, then pounds double-time. The candy bar slips from my fingers and hits the linoleum with a dull thud.
Eileen moves with terrifying speed, yanking Emmy against her and dropping to the floor. She reaches for my arm, trying to pull me down too, but I'm frozen, my muscles refusing to cooperate.
"Get down," she hisses, her long-nailed fingers digging into my wrist.
My knees finally unlock. I crumple to the floor beside them, my mind racing with one horrifying thought—the beautiful stranger with the dark eyes is still by the refrigerators. On the other side of the store.
Near whoever is screaming.