The Games We Play (Faircloud #3)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

PENNY. ONE MONTH AGO. APRIL.

“Are you going to tell us why we are sneaking up to The Tequila Cowboy… and why you’re holding a bag of pink glitter?” Aspen whispered, her voice low and laced with suspicion as the three of us crouched in the narrow alleyway beside the bar. The brick walls towered above us, casting long shadows, and the faint bass from the music inside vibrated through the pavement.

“I told you, the less you know, the better,” I hissed, clutching the glitter like a sacred artifact.

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the door hadn’t opened and then pulled Theo and Aspen closer, my hands gripping their shoulders like we were planning a high-stakes heist. In a way, we were.

“You two need to go inside and make sure no one comes out back. Can you do that?”

Theo and Aspen exchanged a quick look—one of those unspoken best-friend-conversations—and then nodded in perfect sync, eyes wide with mischief and loyalty.

“Good,” I said with a slow grin. “I need three minutes. That’s it. Whatever chaos you have to cause to buy me that time? I accept all consequences.”

“We’ve got just the idea,” Theo said with a wicked grin, holding her palm up for Aspen, who smacked it with a crisp high-five.

Their laughter trailed behind me as I peeled away, the bag of glitter tucked securely under my arm. My boots were nearly silent against the pavement as I crept toward the back of the bar, adrenaline humming in my veins like a shot of espresso.

Mac Ridley was going to pay.

Not in some cruel, break-his-kneecaps kind of way. No, I wasn’t a woman of violence, but I was a woman of statements. And this? This was going to be loud and sparkly.

The moment I saw his truck, my heart thudded in satisfaction. That rusted-out heap of metal was unmistakable. The faded paint had given up years ago, and the left mirror hung on by pure faith.

I let out a quiet, gleeful cackle as I rounded the front and tugged on the driver’s side door.

Click.

Bingo.

The door creaked open with almost no resistance. Mac chose to trust the world to not mess with his stuff. Bad call today.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I left the door wide open. If I had to bolt, I wasn’t going to get stuck fumbling with it. I pulled out the bag, the plastic crinkling softly, and opened it with a flick of my wrist.

The pink glitter glimmered like fairy dust in the dusk sun, and with one sweep of my arm, it rained down onto the back seat like a sparkly snowstorm. It floated through the air, settling into the carpet, the cushions, every crease and crevice.

Mac was going to find glitter for months. In his boots, his jeans, his steering wheel. And every time he did? He’d think of me.

He broke my heart.

Sprinkle.

He hadn’t called.

Sprinkle.

He hadn’t texted.

Sprinkle again.

Did he ever even care?

I poured a little extra into the cup holder for good measure.

I made sure the passenger side got the same treatment, a generous pile in the center. Then the dashboard, because that would be the real kicker. Pink glitter would wedge into the vents and never come out.

And in a final, glittery flourish, I dragged my finger through the layer of pink on the surface and drew a big, swooping P, followed by a cheeky xo.

Let him know who.

I checked my imaginary stopwatch. Three minutes, or damn near it.

With my heart racing and laughter bubbling in my chest, I pushed myself out of the truck and slammed the door with dramatic flair. I didn’t care who heard. In fact, I hoped someone did.

I took off running toward Main Street, boots pounding the pavement, adrenaline fueling every step. I was breathless from laughing before I even spotted them—Theo and Aspen tearing out of the bar, grinning like they’d just robbed a bank.

Without a word, we fell into step, sprinting down the street toward my apartment, a block and a half away. We didn’t talk. We just ran, giggling like teenagers skipping school, the thrill of rebellion stitched into every breath.

When we burst through the vestibule door of my apartment, we collapsed against the wall in a heap of gasps and laughter, our chests heaving, cheeks flushed.

None of us could even speak.

The bell above the flower shop door rang, and we all turned, panting.

Sandy, my landlord, stood in the doorway of Petal Pusher, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched with what could only be described as suspicious amusement.

The smirk tugging at her lips said it all: I know you’re up to no good.

Sandy leaned against the frame of her flower shop, the door half-open behind her, the scent of lavender and roses wafting into the vestibule.

“Well, well, well,” she drawled, that knowing smirk deepening. “Odd time of day for cardio, don’t you think, girls?”

I straightened, trying to act casual, though the laughter was still bubbling in my throat and my hair was sticking to my face in all the wrong places. Theo nudged me in the ribs. Aspen was bent over, hands on her knees, wheezing out a laugh.

“We’re just… really into fitness now,” I said, breathless, trying to wipe the smile off my face and failing miserably.

“Sure you are,” Sandy replied, her eyes twinkling. “Fitness… or fleeing the scene of a crime?”

She stepped out onto the sidewalk, arms crossed over her faded green Petal Pusher apron, and looked each of us up and down like a detective solving her favorite mystery. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a certain trail of pink glitter leading down the sidewalk, would you?”

Aspen snorted.

Theo wheezed, “Coincidence.”

Sandy knew something was up; she always did. I’d tell her, just not right now, because I didn’t want my friends to hear the real reason I’d roped them into glittering Mac’s truck on a random Sunday.

I was lucky for the kind of friends I had, willing to show up and commit some questionable acts because I needed them.

That was what mattered most, not some bartender who used my heart like a cat toy and then didn’t have the balls to even apologize for it.