Page 30 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Fiona

Some people hate New York. I get it—the place is loud, busy, dirty, swarming with activity. But I love it. The very second

I step out onto its streets on Saturday morning, I feel energized, my pace picking up and my back getting straighter. Walking

down Park to catch the subway downtown, I can almost pretend my time with Dex was a dream.

Except my nipples and thighs are sore. Every step I take sends a pleasurable little twinge through my sex, which aches as

though I’ve been battered from the inside out with a large, blunt object.

I smile, remembering the thick length of Dex’s cock pounding into me. And I almost want to stop walking and squeeze my thighs

together, as if it will keep the feeling with me for just a bit longer.

I miss him. It’s been less than a week, and I miss the sound of his voice, the warmth of his skin, the sly way he teases me.

I miss teasing him. And I really just want to be back in that bed with Dex, tracing the lines of his tattoos, getting him to suck in a sharp breath when I play with his nipple ring.

None of this is good. He doesn’t live here. We’ll only see each other when he can fly into town. I need a distraction, and

I aim to get it.

My steps grow quicker as I leave the subway on Ninth and head to Horatio Street. By the time I make it to Jackson’s apartment,

I’m in desperate need of a fix.

Thankfully, he lets me in quickly and is waiting for me as soon as the industrial elevator rolls to a stop on his floor.

Handsome and fit, he gives me a smug grin. “Not back in the city for a day and already you’re here. I told you you’d become

addicted.”

I give his sandy jaw a peck. “Yes, yes, you’re very smart. Now shut up.”

Jackson slings an arm around my shoulder. “Did you just quote The Princess Bride to me?”

“If you have to ask, you’re not worthy, Jack.”

The apartment is part of a vast, renovated warehouse. Astrid Gilberto croons about a girl from Ipanema, and the fragrance

of fresh coffee and baked bread mixes with the prevalent scents of wood chips and varnish.

Jackson lets me go and calls out. “Would you stop playing that shit? You’re going to turn us into a cliché.”

Hal walks out of the kitchen, holding a tray and wearing a glare. “You keep that up and I’m going to Chinatown to buy us matching

silk robes, asshole.”

Then Hal grins at me, his blue eyes twinkling. “Fi-da-lee,” he drawls as I give him a hug. “Jack’s right. You’re addicted.”

“Maybe I just come here for the food.” I grab a croissant and take a large, obnoxious bite.

Jackson leans against the steel kitchen countertop. “So then you don’t want to see your table?”

“It’s ready?” I say around a mouth of food, though I’m pretty sure it really sounded like, “Pits meddy?”

“Breakfast first,” Hal insists, pouring me some coffee.

Which makes Jackson and me roll our eyes and head toward their workshop, Hal calling us barbarians as we go.

I’ve known Hal and Jackson since my senior year in high school when my mother stopped in their studio to look at some dining

tables. Known as Jackson Hal Designs to the rest of the world, the couple creates some of the most beautiful modern furniture

I’ve seen.

They work out of their apartment and have a studio on the ground floor, both of which Jackson inherited from his uncle, who

bought the place in the ’80s when the Meat Packing District was, as Jackson puts it, “The domain of queers and steers.”

Now it’s a fashionable district, filled with couture, night clubs and hot restaurants.

And there is my baby. I give a little happy sigh as I run over to the dining table I made. Sixty-six inches long, it features

a butcher-block top of reclaimed wood, organized in a pattern to take advantage of the natural colors and grains of each slab

of wood.

At the moment, it’s all held together with massive clamps that have been in place while the glue dried.

“Want to do the honors?” Jackson asks.

I’m already unscrewing everything, eager to see the table unbound.

For the past five summers, I’ve been apprenticing with Jack and Hal, learning everything I can about furniture making. It’s

helped me become a better designer, and I like that I get to work with my hands instead of simply drawing out sketches of

rooms.

We all stand back and check out the table. It’s rough and needs sanding. I don’t want to use a slick varnish but plan to rub on several coats of soft, subtle wax.

“I don’t like that one dark piece,” I say, pointing to a length of wood that catches my eye. “It looks off.”

“You need a bit of imbalance,” Hal argues. “Otherwise the thing becomes bland.”

“Hal’s right.” Jackson walks around the table with a critical eye. “It works.”

We discuss the merits of the table and what I can do to improve it for a while, but eventually, my friends drag my troubles

out of me.

Curled up in the corner of one of their massive couches, I palm my second cup of coffee and finish up my tale of professional

woe.

“Quit.” Hal waves a hand as if this piece of advice solves everything in one fell swoop.

“And do what? I need to work. And I can’t just run away whenever things get hard.”

“Felix is a talentless hag,” Hal says with a sneer. “And he knows how to manipulate. You want to stay in that toxic environment?

For what? So you can lose your soul?”

“Very dramatic,” Jackson deadpans before looking at me. “But he’s right. Felix isn’t going to teach you anything but how to

succeed in business by being an asshole. There are other ways. Do what you love, love who you do.”

“Don’t you mean ‘love what you do’?” I ask with a laugh.

Jackson leers. “That too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, taking a sip of coffee. “I’ll have lots to do while he and the-thief-who-shall-not-be-named

have fun on the Robertson project.”

“Robertson as in Cecelia?” Hal asks.

“Yep.” Cecelia Robertson and her thirty-million-dollar penthouse.

“She bought a dining set from us last year.” Hal crosses one leg over the other. “That bitch better not be ditching it in her redesign.”

“That bitch,” Jackson drawls, looking at me, “is in fierce competition with Janice Marks. I know because that’s all she could

talk about during our consultation. How she had to have bigger and better than Janice. How her table could not look anything like something Janice would purchase.”

A slow, evil grin spreads over my face. “You don’t say.”

“Mmm... Janice is having a cocktail party at her house in two weeks. Want to be my date, sweet thing?”

Hal glances between us and grins as well. “You two...”

At that, I stand. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure as always. But I’m suddenly feeling the need to go in search of a cocktail

dress.”

I’ve got a revenge to plan.

It is a sad truth that, yes, I do kill time on social media during work hours. A little lookie-loo over a coffee break, a

little web surf at lunch. It’s a bad habit. I’m trying to nix it. But I don’t feel too guilty since I’ve caught Felix doing

the same many times now.

Who are we kidding? Our world is one of online addicts.

At lunch on the next Friday, I sit back with my chai tea and go to one of my favorite gossip accounts, a total rag—my shame,

my addiction.

My hand pauses over my tracking pad when Dex’s picture pops up in the headline.

At first, it doesn’t compute. Dex is in profile; his mouth—so nicely framed by his lush beard—is stern. Why the hell is he

on a gossip site?

Leaning closer to my laptop, my heart pounding, I peer at the story. And the spiced tea I just sipped nearly chokes me.

“Mother fuck...”

The headline is large and ugly:

Pippa Bloom offers 1 Million Dollars for

Proof of taking NFL Offensive Lineman

Ethan Dexter’s Virginity.

Heat prickles my cheeks and tingles the tips of my fingers. I can’t believe it. I read the article, a brief piece discussing

how this private club called Pippa Bloom doesn’t believe a prime bachelor such as Dex is still a virgin. They want to take

him down.

Why? There’s no explanation except for the fact that they’ve just gotten tons of free publicity by putting the public eye

on my man.

I’m so angry, I can’t move my eyes from the screen. My fingers shake as I hit post after post discussing the offer, discussing

Dex as if he’s some sort of sad case.

My first instinct is to call him. But no, I’ll be all screechy, and that won’t help the situation. I could call Ivy, but I’m

guessing she’ll be all screechy, and I can’t handle that right now. I call my friend Violet.

Violet and I were roommates freshman year, and though I quickly moved out to live in my dad’s guesthouse from sophomore year

on—because, despite being social, I loved my privacy—we remained close friends.

“What up, Fi-Fi?” she answers in her best bro imitation.

I roll my eyes but smile. “Ms. Day.” Yes, her parents named her Violet Day. Then again, her mother’s name is Sunny, so I’m

thinking they were aiming for a theme.

“What can I do you for, Fi?”

“You know you really need to stop talking like your brother. It’s getting uncomfortable.” I laugh when she curses, but the

ugly headline still on my screen sobers me. “I met a guy.”

“Ooh, tell me all.”

I can imagine her now, legs pulled up on her massive office chair, her gray eyes wide as she twists a strand of her honey-brown

hair around her finger.

“His name is Ethan. He’s a friend of Gray’s. They used to play together in college. He’s a center in the NFL now.”

“A football player? Get the fuck out.”

“I know. I’m surprised too.”

Violet knows my thou-shall-not-date-an-athlete vow well.

“But he’s kind of different. Unexpected. I just... I really like him.”

“I can tell by your voice,” she says softly.

“Yeah. Thing is...” I turn and scroll through the hideous article. “Have you read the news today?”

“Yeah...” Vi sucks in an audible breath. “Holy shit, are you talking about Ethan Dexter?”

I hate the scandal in her tone. I know she doesn’t mean it, but my cheeks prickle in irritation. Not at her, but the whole

ugly situation. “That’s him.”

“You’re dating a virgin?” she almost shrieks.

So much for avoiding high-pitched conversations. “You know what,” I snap. “I’m going to hang up—”

“Sorry!” Violet interrupts. “That was totally rude. And not my business.”

“No.”

“But are you?” She rushes on as if she can’t stop herself.

I make a face at the ceiling as my head rests on my chair. “Let’s just say they’re a little late in their hunt.”

She snickers, but it’s a happy sound. “Go you, because I’m looking at his picture and holy Moses, he’s hot. Not your usual

type. But hot. Much hotter, actually.”

I can’t help but smile. “Yes, he is. But right now, I’m worried about this offer. And who the hell is Pippa Bloom?”

There’s a moment of silence, and I know Violet’s calmed down enough to get to the real point of the article.

“Pippa Bloom—” Violet all but sneers the words “—is both the name of a club, and the scummy little shit who created it.”

“Tell me more.”

“Pippa Bloom, the woman, started off as a matchmaker for the rich and powerful. But it soon became clear that these gentlemen really wanted an easy hookup without all the stickiness of a relationship or the illegality of paying for sex.”

“Isn’t that how it’s always been?”

“Yeah, but she’s the one who made the connection and found a way to provide this easy, high-class hookup service. She formed

a club. It’s like Tinder for the wealthy. Members are vetted. Attractive men and women are procured. They all know the score.”

“I don’t really want to side with anyone who’s out to hurt Dex, but I still don’t see what’s so bad about that.”

Violet makes an annoyed sound. “The club promotes cheating. They play up the taboo of fucking around on your spouse, marketing

mostly to men. And they do cheap shit like this stunt with Dex to get publicity.”

“Fine, Pippa Bloom is a cockwomble.”

“What?” Violet laughs.

My lips twitch. “A very bad person. A twat.”

“I love when you break out the Brit.”

I acquired quite the cursing education during my summers in London.

“It happens when I’m hella pissed. But to speak in good ol’ American, she’s a punk, sleezoid, insert rage-filled adjective

here.”

“Name-calling is well and good, but I’m going to bring that bitch and her club down.” Violet’s tone is hard and determined.

“I don’t see how.” I tap my pen on my desk and stare off. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Dex matters. I need to talk to him.”

“It matters to me. This shit tore my parents apart. Now your man is a target? Hell no. Enough is enough. She’s going down.”

The thing with Violet is I know she could do it. Behind her sunny smiles and foul mouth, Vi is a computer genius. From an early age she’s lived and breathed computers. Now, at age twenty-one, she’s a highly paid network securities consultant. Which means she also has the knowledge to go dark.

“Fine, go scorched-earth. Just be careful. I don’t want to see your ass wearing orange. I don’t care if it’s the new black.”

“I’d find a way out.”

Her confidence is not comforting. I run a hand through my hair and sigh. “I gotta go...”

“Find your man and give him comfort, Fi-Fi. Let me worry about damage control.”

I really don’t want to imagine Violet’s version of damage control. Better to remain ignorant in case of criminal proceedings.

And right now, I have to concentrate on my own version of damage control.