The Games You Play (Going Rogue #4)

Chapter 1

one

BLAIR

It’s taken facing my last night in LA to realize how alone I am.

I don’t have any real friends left to go out for drinks with.

There’s no one to throw Reed and me a going-away party.

No one but the ghosts of friends long since disappeared, and a few coworkers I’ve never had the time to get to know outside of the office.

And while the realization hits like brass knuckles to my sternum, I suppose I can’t blame any of them for moving on with their lives.

Even while I’ve been stuck in a state of perpetual stasis.

After all, our lives took vastly divergent paths that night five years ago. They continued to go to parties and clubs and enjoy their college experience, while I had to move back home, switch to online classes, and raise my little brother.

Despite all the promises to hang out and the best of intentions, it took less than a year for my friends to drop off the face of the planet.

Then it was just me and Reed against the world.

A twenty-year-old scared out of her mind and an eight-year-old who didn’t know how to stop raging at the world that had taken his parents away.

We’ve both grown a lot since then. Reed’s anger has turned into the churlishness typical of a boy of thirteen.

And me? Well, I’m still terrified, but it’s no longer the pounding of war drums behind my ribcage.

More of a low-level hum that buzzes away in my chest. Always present.

Always reminding me that disaster could be right around the corner.

I consider staying in tonight. Reed is at his best friend’s house for one final sleepover, and tomorrow will be a very long day.

It would be wise to go to sleep early. But this is my last chance to experience one of the clubs my coworkers are always raving about.

Who knows if there will be anything like them in our new city?

So I slip on a body-hugging silver dress that makes my bronze skin pop, play up my large mahogany eyes with some dangerously winged liner, and let my chestnut spirals free in a riot of curls that brush my shoulders.

The dress cuts low in a deep V at the front that I accessorize with a long silver pendant which hangs between my breasts.

A few silver bangles on my wrists and electric blue pumps on my feet complete my look, and I’m not mad at my reflection. I feel beautiful.

The woman gazing back at me looks like she could be anyone she wants in this city.

Maybe an unknown singer or actress or high-powered businesswoman.

I look like I could live some exciting life full of adventure and parties and casual hookups, because that’s all I have time for with how in demand I am.

The thought makes me grin, and I shake my head at my reflection.

All things considered, I’m happy with my life.

Sure, I’m working for a nonprofit, not acting on the stage or closing epic business deals.

And yeah, I’m raising my little brother, and I haven’t really dated anyone in the past five years, but no one at the club has to know that.

For one night, I can be whoever I want.

Maybe I’ll do something completely out of character.

I’ll find some gorgeous man, enjoy a few hours of decent sex, and scratch this growing itch inside me.

Sure, the itch wants affection and companionship more than just hot, dirty sex, but I’m leaving tomorrow.

All I have room for right now is no strings attached.

“You can do this, Blair. You can totally hook up with a guy tonight. People do it all the time. It’s no big deal, as long as you’re safe.” And I will be. There are several condoms in my purse, just in case. So, with one last glance at myself, I call for a rideshare.

I regret my decision to come here alone almost immediately. Vices is packed. I got in, no problem, but now that I’m pushing my way through shoulder-to-shoulder crowds full of undulating, scantily clad men and women, I wonder if I should turn back around and go home.

A heavy beat thundering with bass whips the dance floor into a frenzy, and I feel it in my bones.

Stage lights flash, revealing different pockets of people with each sweeping movement.

The club itself is painted in dark colors—almost black—with a long bar that spans the length of one wall.

Half a dozen bartenders mix drink after drink, their bodies never stilling as people call out orders.

Bar-height circular tables line the outer perimeter of the main floor.

Couples and groups mingle around them, laughing and sipping cocktails.

There’s nowhere to sit on the main level. Seating is reserved for the VIPs.

Movement on the second-floor balcony draws my gaze. It looks like it’s filled with the usual suspects. C-list celebrities, a few heiresses, some banking bros, and a gaggle of women who could be models. All of them are fit and skinny and half plastic, like so many in this town.

But then I see them. A group of roughly a dozen massive men spread over couches and leaning against the glass balcony.

They don’t quite fit in with the rest. Partially because there’s something wild about each of them.

They’re not as put together as the C-listers, and they’re way taller and wider than the banker bros.

Even from down here, I can tell they ooze sex and masculinity. Football players, maybe?

“Oh, sorry,” a woman says with a giggle after elbowing me.

She’s clearly drunk and hanging off some guy’s arm.

I try to smile, but it must come out as more of a grimace, if her reaction is anything to go by.

It’s enough to bring me back to earth and away from unattainable men in perfectly tailored suits who belong in the VIP section and far, far away from someone like me.

“One drink,” I mutter to myself. “Order one drink, and then you can go home. It’s okay to live your life.”

After everything changed that day, I found a therapist for Reed and me.

Dr. Taylor has been encouraging me for years to step out of my comfort zone and start living again.

I’m not sure she’d approve of my initial plan to find some rando to hook up with, but she’d definitely tell me to get a drink, make some small talk, and give myself a chance to connect with someone who isn’t my thirteen-year-old brother.

So, I force myself to walk up to the bar.

People wait three or four deep for their chance to order a drink, and I allow myself to be drawn into the flow of it all.

When I’m finally leaning against the counter, I attempt to get the bartender’s attention.

She takes the guy’s order who’s standing right next to me, then the woman next to him.

I give her a little wave, which I know she sees, but then some guy a few feet down is calling out an order, and I debate whether this is worth it.

“Excuse me,” I try again when she makes her way back toward where I stand. She still doesn’t take my order. I’m practically buzzing with annoyance. “What am I, invisible?”

I sigh, frustrated with the bartender for ignoring me, and annoyed with myself for being such a recluse that I’ve ended up at a bar alone, and for coming in the first place.

“Excuse me, sweetheart,” a man calls out from beside me. His voice is deep and rich, and it rolls over me like ocean waves.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, and he’s huge.

Tall and covered in lean muscle, he leans against the bar with the casual assuredness of a man who never has to push through a crowd because he’s used to it parting for him.

He must be at least a couple of inches over six feet tall, because I feel petite standing beside him, and I’m five-nine.

His dark blond hair has that purposefully tousled look, the short strands swept away from his face so as not to detract from his strong jaw and deadly cheekbones.

Gray eyes sweep over the surrounding crowds with the lazy grace of a predator surveying bountiful prey.

He’s easily one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen.

With a flash of his pearly whites, the bartender, who I’ve been trying to get to acknowledge me, gives him her undivided attention. Her eyes sweep over his body, lingering on his broad chest and then, with a sultry smile, she says, “What can I get you, handsome?”

His lips quirk up in a seductive smile, and that’s when my annoyance really spikes.

Sure, he’s hot and all, but is she really going to take his order and completely ignore me?

What the hell? He opens his mouth to speak, and I lose control of mine, loudly muttering, “Sure. Take his order and pretend I don’t exist. Dicks before chicks, I guess, huh? ”

The bartender glares at me. Tall, Blond, and Sexy just laughs.

This was a mistake. All of this was a mistake. What was I thinking, coming here tonight? Grumbling under my breath, I decide to call it. Apparently, the universe has decreed that I should die alone and sexless. Who am I to argue with the controlling bitch?

A warm hand on my elbow stops me when I turn and begin to push my way through the throng of sweaty bodies. Electricity zips along my skin where his hand touches me, and I still.

“I’ll have a whiskey, neat,” blondie says. “And whatever she’d like.”

Sighing, I shake off the hum of awareness buzzing through me and turn to the massive man to find him grinning.

Fine. If he wants to pay for my drink—and ensure I actually get one—who am I to ruin his fun?

“Rum and Coke,” I shout over the noise. The bartender, who is clearly not my biggest fan if her eye roll is any indication, moves down the bar a few feet to make our drinks.

“Don’t worry,” Viking man drawls. “I’m watching to make sure she doesn’t spit in your drink.”

My lips twitch. “Gee, thanks.”

“Logan,” he says, his eyes roving over my body in a move he’s clearly executed a million times.

It conveys the perfect balance of interest and aloofness.

Like he’s traveled the world and figured out the secret formula for getting strange women into his bed.

Normally, this kind of shit would make my skin crawl and I’d laugh in his gorgeous face. But tonight?

Maybe Mr. Viking is exactly what I need.

So I let myself survey him right back. Arching one eyebrow, I meet his gaze once I’m done with my perusal.

I’m hoping my expression says Eh, you’re not that special, even though, in reality, my vagina is practically doing a jig.

This man is fine as hell, and with his height, I’d bet he’s packing a monster in those perfectly tailored pants.

Cocking my head, I tell him my name. “Blair.”

Logan leans down so his stubble grazes across my cheek. “Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

It’s a struggle not to roll my eyes. It really is.

I expected better from a man who looks like this.

Although, perhaps I shouldn’t. I bet his looks do more than half the work for him.

Hell, I’m willing to overlook the cheesy line this once.

Kicking myself in the part of my soul that houses my feminism, I paste a fake-ass smile on my face and twirl a curl around my finger.

The Viking’s eyes track the movement with interest.

“Thank you.”

The bartender sets our drinks down on the bar in front of us, and Logan breaks eye contact. “Could you put it on our tab?”

Our tab?

The bartender nods, leaning over the bar and pushing her tits together with her arms. “You boys let me know if you need anything else. I’m Candy.”

“And I’m going to barf,” I mutter under my breath. Luckily, Candy the bartender doesn’t seem to hear me, but Logan does. He lets out a bark of sexy laughter before pressing a twenty onto the bar as a tip.

“Thanks, gorgeous.”

Candy shoots me one last withering glare before she gives her attention to the next person impatiently waiting for their chance to order. I bring two fingers to my forehead in a sarcastic salute before turning back to the gorgeous, overconfident man beside me.

“Thanks for this.” I hold my drink up. “I have a feeling I would have been waiting a while longer if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“Probably.” One side of his lips tilts up. “A beautiful woman like yourself would have better luck with a male bartender. A female bartender will just see you as competition.”

I roll my eyes. “Not all women feel the need to compete with each other.” I begin to push through the crowd, my skin tight and overheated. I’m desperate to get out of the crushing mass of bodies surrounding the bar. Why did I come here? I could be at home, watching trashy reality TV.

Before I can process what’s happening, Logan wraps his hand around mine and uses his giant body to clear a path for us. “You may not have felt the need to compete with her, but she sure as hell was competing with you.” He winks over his shoulder.

“Whatever.” I drop his hand when we’re free from the teeming masses and I have at least a little more breathing room.

My skin tingles, and I discreetly shake out my hand, unsettled by my reaction to him.

The Viking’s gray eyes haven’t left me, and it’s as unnerving as it is flattering.

I’m no longer so sure I’m capable of a one-night stand.

Not if my reaction to him is this strong.

Besides, there’s too much going on in my life.

Shifting on my high-heeled feet, I let my eyes drink their fill of this handsome man one last time before I make my escape.

“Thanks again for the drink. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t run,” he says.

His deeply rumbled words have the desired effect. I still, even as my heart pounds frenetically.

“My friends are up there.” He points to the group of muscular men in the VIP section I’d been admiring earlier, a genuine smile curving his lips. “It’s way less crowded and not as loud. Come have a couple of drinks with me. It’ll be fun. I promise.”

Over the years, I’ve learned not to take the promises of men very seriously. But he looks so earnest for a moment that my desire to flee fades. He extends his hand to me, palm up, with a challenge in his eyes. If I take it, that’s it. I’m all in for the night. Do I really want to do this?

Placing my hand on his, my belly flips with anticipation as Logan’s smile grows triumphant.

I guess I’m doing this.

“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we get out of here?”