Page 43 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

I can almost see literal wheels turning in her head as she decides what to say next. The brat is so used to getting what she wants from people, and I love being the antithesis of that.

A slow grin creeps across my face as she settles into deep thought, warring with herself over the perfect question to ask. It’s amusing until she asks the question I least expect.

“Who’s Lilith?” she finally asks.

My grin drops and my world tilts a little more off its axis.

“Pass,” I clip.

Sydney scoots herself in the cushion to sit up straighter. “That’s not fair. You said to ask what I wanted to know. That’s what I want to know,” she says.

“Ask another,” I demand.

“ No .” She cocks her eyebrow. “Answer the question.”

My jaw clenches, my eyes closing as the name on her lips stir what I can only describe as emotional bile in my gut. I feel sick. Damn Dr. Thottie for encouraging me to feel things.

“Is she like a girl friend or like a girlfriend?”

The sick feeling worsens.

I open my eyes, preparing to glare at her to get her to stop but when I look up, she’s peering down, picking at her thumbnail again.

“If she’s an ex or whatever, that’s fine, I just wanted to know more about her since her name is like tattooed on your—”

“She’s not an ex.”

Sydney’s shoulders slump, her whole body deflating like some sort of sad balloon animal.

“Oh. So, she’s—”

Jesus Christ she’s killing me.

“She’s dead,” I blurt, because how the fuck else am I supposed to say it?

Her mouth falls open. “I— Fuck, I’m so sorry. Who was she? Was it your—”

She reaches for my hands, but I pull them out of reach.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Ask me another question.”

“How did she—”

“ Not about Lilith,” I clarify.

Her mouth turns down at the corners and Sydney’s face softens in a way I find I don’t like.

“Either use your mouth to ask another question, or I’ll put it to better use. You’ll find it pretty hard to frown around a mouthful of cock.”

The pressure in my body releases somewhat when her face morphs from one of pity to barely contained desire mixed with a good bit of anger.

“That’s more like it,” I smirk.

“You can’t just say stuff like that,” she whispers, looking around as if to make sure no one heard.

“Why not?” I goad.

“It’s . . . inappropriate,” she says, swiping wisps of hair behind her ear, appearing the picture of innocence when I know she’s anything but.

“Says who?” I lean on the table and prop my chin on my hand.

She laughs. “Pretty much everyone I know. Where I’m from, people keep their debauched thoughts to themselves.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

A soft grin plays on my lips as I tap the table top, maintaining the precious eye contact.

Her eyes crinkle at the sides, her white teeth nibbling at her lower lip. Where did this girl come from?

“I suppose that tracks. I’ve never met anyone like you before,” she says, her tone hushed and distant.

“I could say the same.”

She hides her smile again, pretending to turn away as she flags down our waitress.

When she turns my way again, I tilt my chin at her. “Go on, ask me another question. I promise to give you a real answer this time.”

Her tongue swipes over her pink-glossed lips as she prepares to ask me another question, one I’ll actually do her the honor of answering as long as it’s not about my sister, but then her phone buzzes again and whatever she reads in the text has her noticeably upset.

The type of upset only another man can cause.

Her hands shake as her nails clack over the screen to text back.

She finishes typing, then lets the phone fall from her grasp onto the table with a loud clank . Rolling her eyes, she reaches to chew on her thumb again.

“Who was that?” I ask, working to remain casual.

“No one,” she clips, though we both know she’s a fucking liar.

“Was it your boyfriend ?” I ask with all of the stealth she obviously lacked when asking about Lilith.

Her panicked eyes pop up so hard I’m surprised her neck doesn’t snap from the force.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she rushes, giving me a deathly glare.

I hadn’t even seen the name that popped up on the screen, but of course she’d fall for the oldest trick in the book and snitch on herself.

“Then who is he?”

At first, I think I’m only turning her own line of questioning against her, but her reaction piques my interest. There’s something else to this.

I can feel it. I haven’t even heard his name yet and already I’m poised to rip the guy’s throat out with my bare fucking teeth.

Fuck this guy, whoever he is. He’s definitely someone who wants to be her boyfriend, which is probably why she’s looking so damn guilty right now.

Her tongue traces her lips again as she nervously tucks a wayward blond strand behind her ear.

“I . . . it’s not important. Can we please drop it?”

Her big blue eyes are pleading with me, but they all but turn black when her phone starts rattling against the table. She glowers at it, apparently trying to incinerate it with the blaze of her ire, but it’s too late, I can see it with my own eyes.

“Your boyfriend’s calling back,” I clip, a dangerous cut to my tone as the letters BF blink across her screen.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she snips, pointing her ire at me, but it doesn’t have the effect she’s hoping for.

“So, what is he, your bestie for life?”

“I wouldn’t go as far as that,” she mutters under her breath.

“But . . .” Her tone is several octaves lower than our previous talks with no hint of superiority or brattiness.

Right now, her demeanor is that of a small child ready to be scolded by a parent.

Shame paints that beautiful canvas she calls a face, and my balls draw tensely in response to her fear as I strain to keep from coming.

I want to get rid of her boyfriend. I want to chop him up into tiny pieces and scatter him in the mountains for the wolves to feast on. I want her shame, but not over something like this.

“He is probably the closest thing I have to a friend. He’s annoying, yeah, but he’s the most tolerable person in my life currently.”

“If he’s so tolerable, why do you look like you’re swallowing glass right now?”

“Because boys are idiots,” she states, obviously lumping me in with her biased sentiment. “And Bradford Fontaine is no exception.”

I spit out a laugh. “ Bradford ? You’re dating a guy named Brad ? Wow, that’s even worse than Chad. You sure do know how to pick ‘em, eh?”

“We’re not dating and he’s not my boyfriend,” she argues.

That adamant nature of hers leads me to believe she’s not lying, but the guilty expression still has me wanting to push for answers. I tilt my head, regarding her closely.

“Who is he then?”

She stiffens in her seat.

“Tell me who Lilith is,” she retorts, though her confidence is a little shakier compared to earlier.

I don’t miss a beat.

“My sister. Who’s Bradford?” Her evasion only drives the need to know further.

“Wait, your sister died?” The pity tries to make a triumphant return but I don’t let it.

“Focus, Sydney. Who’s Bradford?” I repeat. A possession I’ve never known flaring to life with every denied answer.

“Does it matter?” She huffs, flustered with my unwillingness to let this go.

“No,” I answer blandly.

“Then why do you care?” she spits back.

“I don’t.”

“Then what’s with the first degree?”

I hold up a finger. “I don’t care because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change the plans I have for you in the least, so stop stalling and tell me who he is?”

Frustrated puffs of air slip past her lips as she reluctantly attempts to explain.

“If you must know . . .”

I bring my fists to my lips, resting my mouth against them to keep calm. She watches me with rapt attention as I lean forward, bracing myself against the table and stealing her with an icy glare of my own.

“Yes, I must know.”

With my gaze on her she slumps back some, her tension relaxing as she yields to my authority and not the other way around.

I don’t want her docile but she will get it through that pretty, fragile, little skull of hers that this isn’t her game anymore.

She’s not the one calling the shots here and there’s nowhere else to run.

She swallows.

“A family friend,” she finally says.

“What kind of family friend?”

“The long-term kind. Our dads are business associates. Have been for years,” she sighs.

Our eyes are trapped in one another’s, inescapable and infinite as I process that bit of information.

She’s purposely being vague and my veins pulse with the need to correct her attitude.

We’re so enraptured with one another, we don’t even notice when the waitress comes to our table.

The spell is only broken when she settles a basket of fries between us.

“Oh, no, I wanted the salad,” says Sydney, already shaking her head and pushing away the basket.

The woman chuckles wryly.

“Not from here, you don’t,” she says.

I stifle my snicker as I watch Sydney’s face morph into one of utter horror, imagining what could possibly make a salad non-preferable to fries.

“Well, we didn’t order these,” Sydney attempts to argue.

“First basket’s free for the table, hon,” the waitress informs her with a sideways glance before she takes our food orders and walks away.

I take a few for myself and nudge the basket toward Sydney.

“Go on, have some. The fries here are delicious. And they’re half off refills,” I say.

I pop another fry into my mouth, taking my time as I chew.

“ Great .” She plucks a fry from the top, eyeing it like she’s never seen one before.

“You have had fries before, haven’t you?” I ask.

Her fingers twitch like she’s scared it’s going to eat her instead.

“I mean, I have, but . . . "

Her face looks crestfallen as she puts it down on the table, staring at it like it offended her for smelling so good.

“But what?” I press.

I grab a couple more, dipping them into the side of ketchup it comes with, while she looks like she’s dying inside. Aw, don’t die yet, Princess.