Page 103 of The Game Plan

“What the fuck?” My shout echoes through the suite.

The naked girl in my bed winces but puts on a brave face. “Hey there. I... ah...”

“How the fuck did you get in here?”

I’m trying real hard not to shout again or lose my shit; I’m a big dude, and there’s a very naked chick alone with me. I’maware of her vulnerability and her sheer stupidity, even if she isn’t. I could be into beating women for all she knows.

I’m also aware that she could spin this any way she wanted. Suddenly, I’m afraid of her. Of what she represents.

I back up, my shoulders hitting the wall. “You need to get out. Now.”

The girl rises to her knees, her tits pointing straight at me. The sight does nothing but send a rush of frustrated outragethrough my chest.

“But Dex, honey, it’s okay. I want to be here! I want to help you.”

I laugh without humor. “I don’t think you’re getting it. I don’t want you here, and the only way you can help is to get dressedand go.”

“I’ll split the money with you,” she says, parting her thighs.

I look over her head. “I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that earning money on your back will eventually eat at yoursoul.”

“Are you calling me a whore?” she screeches.

Oh, I want to laugh. I really do. Only I want to punch the wall more. I take a breath and relax my fists. “Out. Before I call the police.”

I hear her huff, and she launches off the bed, gathering her clothes. “Are you gay? Is that it?”

And there it is, the cheap shot. I don’t even answer. When she stomps past, I look down. Thankfully, she’s dressed—if youcall the band of pink spandex that barely stretches over her ass a dress. “Come anywhere near me again, and I will call thecops.”

Her face flushes red. “I wouldn’t fuck you now if you begged me on your knees, asshole.”

Right. That’s why she’s hovering in front of me, her eyes wild and desperate. I gesture to the door, and she snarls againbefore rushing off. The slam of the suite door tells me I’m alone.

I want to sink into my bed and sleep. But I’m not touching it now. Instead, I reach for the hotel phone and prepare to handsecurity their ass.

It isn’t until I’m in a new suite—comped after profuse apologies from the management—and crawling under fresh sheets, readyto drift off, that my eyes snap open with dread as I realize something. The little witch stole my phone.

Thirty-Seven

Fiona

Expect the unexpectedhas got to be the most annoying phrase ever. I mean, if you’re expecting it, how can it possibly be unexpected? And yet thatstupid phrase runs like a taunt through my head when in the kitchen for my morning coffee, I open my browser—as I always do—andsee my own face smiling back at me.

It’s weird. I stand there looking at myself, the same face I see every day in the mirror, but I can’t quite accept that it’sme. Why is a picture of me front and center in my Instagram feed? And then the shape of me takes more meaning. It’s not justmy face. Not by a long shot.

Hot prickles of sheer horror explode over my face, my arms, my entire body. Bile surges up my throat as I stare at the picture—multipleimages of the same picture—that’s been splashed all over social media.

It’s me, managing to grin as my tongue reaches out to flick a familiar pierced nipple. Jesus. It’s the picture I took in bed with Dex, me in all my naked glory draped over his chest asI playfully lick his nipple. We’d been laughing as we took the selfie. Having fun.

“Here’s one for my wallet.”

“Shit,” I whisper now, though there’s no one here to hear it. “Shit.”

Because somehow that picture, complete with my bare tits pointing straight at the camera, is now out in the world.

I don’t want to exist anymore. Not die, just stop existing. Ugliness is a taint that seeps through my skin, as heavy and itchyas a hair blanket. It claws at my chest, digging deeper, tugging on the center of my sternum.

Curling in on myself doesn’t help. It doesn’t matter how tight a ball I squeeze my body into, it still feels violated, ondisplay.