Page 11 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

TEN

Micah

Now

Ahh. There’s nothing like the smell of a nail salon.

My hair is freshly trimmed at my shoulders and dyed a smooth periwinkle, highlights of the last lavender color still peeking through. I absolutely adore my hairstylist, and it’s her genius that keeps my hair soft and with minimal damage despite the frequent coloring. She works with the tones in a gradient, using the previous color to accentuate the new one and cycling through lighter colors first. She saves the bleaching for when the color is too dark to add any more.

Before the hair and nails, Frankie and I treated ourselves to our monthly spa visit, complete with massages, facials, and, in his case, light Botox. Thankfully, our wages from the club are more than enough to support our pampering.

Hey, our beauty is our brand. We have to keep it looking pristine.

Our nails, we do every week, every Monday after my horrible in-office workday, and it’s the usual pick-me-up I need for the week.

Ooooh, especially during the pedicure when they really dig in on the foot massage.

“Federick, you have magical hands,” I purr, slave to the pleasure. “Your lovers are very lucky.”

“And your poor feet are worsening by the week.” Federick smooths a thumb over the edge of my foot, just beneath my pinky toe, where he spent longer than usual with the pumice stone earlier. “Your shoes don’t fit well.”

Recalling the new heels I bought during our last shopping trip, the ones I’ve been wearing religiously because of their bright sparkliness, I flush with embarrassment. “They didn’t have my size,” I try to defend. “I chose a bigger size instead of smaller because I thought that would be better.”

“No,” Federick declares, no-nonsense. “Either they fit, or they don’t, and the ones messing up your feet, pretty boy, do not.”

My shoulders sag as I mourn the loss of those gorgeous heels, but he’s right. It’s not worth making my feet ugly. “You’re right as always.” The nail tech working on my hand begins massaging my palm, and I instantly relax. “Ah, that’s nice.”

“What Federick is saying,” Frankie singsongs from his chair beside mine, “is that it’s time to go shopping again.”

“For shoes that fit,” Federick adds. “A new place just opened up on the other end of the mall. Lots of stilettos. Very well made. A little expensive, though.”

Frankie, ever the shopaholic, decides that is, in fact, where we need to go next . . . by way of the lingerie store first. And, God, when Frankie gets on a spree? No credit card is safe. He convinces me to buy a cute baby pink lace bodysuit. The waist is cinched high just below the belly button, with the bottom flaring out in a cheeky lace skirt, totally see-through, with only a sheer thong underneath. As per usual, we’ll have to make some modifications. The wire frame meant to go under breasts can stay, but the extra fabric of the cup—even in their smallest size, which, thankfully, will fit my small body—will have to be carefully tucked and sewn. I’ll also have to find a pair of panties that, while still sexy, will hold my junk.

The bodysuit will only be a portion of a new costume, and if I know the patrons of Mischief, that means I need to get more merchandise from this store. Men like the Chads come to the club to fulfill a fantasy. They take in everything—our makeup, our nails, our outfits—and they wish their wives would do something to get their dicks rising the way us Mischief men do. Part of it comes from being gay or bi and repressed, but that doesn’t stop them from wanting. I know if I cultivate an outfit from this store, the next time those men pass by and see one of the same lingerie pieces on a mannequin, they’ll think of me. They’ll come inside the store, buy everything I wore onstage, give it to their wives, and hope for the best. When that falls short of the feelings they get while watching me, they’ll once more be back in the audience at Mischief, taking in every detail of my newest costume. Chasing that high.

I grab a long, somewhat sheer robe in a bridal white color. The sleeves billow at the ends, capped with delicate feathers that match the ones dragging along the bottom hem on the floor. Oh yeah, I’ll be able to do quite a bit of teasing with this.

“To the shoes!” Frankie announces once we both have matching not-so-discreet shopping bags full of lingerie. He hauls ass out of the store, only to slam on the brakes two seconds later. Around us, other mall-goers give us sideways glances as they swerve to miss us, but Frankie doesn’t seem to even care. “Hey, Mickey?”

“What’s wrong? Why did you stop?” Taking his arm, I drag him into the center of the strip between two small pop-up vendors.

Frankie shakes his head, ruffling the artfully styled hair his stylist just spent an hour perfecting. “No. Nothing. Sorry, I was just thinking about something.” The faraway look in his green eyes dissipates slightly as he focuses on me. “Actually, I was wondering how you’ve been doing since the breakup.”

“Oh.” The tension drops from my shoulders, but the anxiety remains. “You know. I’m fine.”

My voice doesn’t sound very fine, and he squints. “Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Not still upset?”

I give a one-shouldered shrug that I hope conveys an air of nonchalance. “It was my idea, so I only have myself to blame.”

“Right. So, um. I don’t need to plan a quick getaway?”

Confused, I parrot his words. “A quick . . .”

Frankie points behind me.

Turning, I find a large cluster of people, all chattering excitedly over each other. The occasional camera flash lights up the person at the center of their attention: a man with messy brown hair, kissing one person after another before signing autographs for them.

I groan under my breath. “Oh, no.”

“Do we need to go?” Frankie frets. “We can come back another time. Although, I really want some new shoes to go with this teddy . . .”

“Frankie,” I cut him off, sighing. “It’s okay. Zeke and I are . . .Well, it’s complicated, but we aren’t on bad terms. I just thought—stupidly, I guess—that I wouldn’t be seeing him until next week.”

Now it’s his turn to be confused. “I thought you were going out of town next week? Macy said?—”

“She’s right,” I assure him. Since we don’t have set schedules at Mischief, the dancers don’t have to ask for time off—unlike Neverending Designs, where I only managed to get next week off if I agreed to video call for the Monday morning meeting. We tend to let Macy know, though. “I told the mothers not to worry about bringing snacks for me or working me into the stage schedule because I’ll be on vacation.”

Macy and Marcy are our house mothers at Mischief. Marcy is an excellent seamstress and cosmetologist, and she helps with outfits and makeup. She and our sound booth guy help coordinate songs and dancers onstage, along with our security guy, Elvis, who is in charge of making sure no one gets too little or too much time and enforcing the schedule if a dancer tries to jump the line. Macy, on the other hand, makes sure we eat healthy and don’t overdrink, and she tends to any bumps, bruises, or sprains. Though she used to work as an ER nurse, she’s an avid dancer and teaches classes on her off days from the club. I think most of the Mischief dancers attend her classes. Both Macy and Marcy have interns who come and go, usually college kids trying to find their niche, so when the mothers aren’t there, their interns fill in.

“Uh, right. If you’re on vacation, why are you going to be seeing your ex there?”

I squirm under his interrogative gaze. “Because . . . Well, Hendrix invited me to go with him and Tahegin. Zeke is Tahegin’s best friend, so he was invited, too. It’s going to be the four of us there.”

“Why would you?—”

“Micah? Hey.”

My spine stiffens at the sound of Zeke’s voice, but I force myself to relax, paste on a bright smile, and turn to face him. “Zeke! What are the odds?”

His expression is pinched. Thoughtful. “I’m not sure, exactly.”

“What are you doing here?”

“We’re picking up some stuff for next week.” He hitches a thumb over his shoulder, drawing my attention to Tahegin and Hendrix perusing a sunglasses vendor, the former not so subtly eyeing our exchange while the latter elbows him for lack of discretion. “Rix said he invited you but that you were busy.” Sounding dejected, Zeke buries both hands in the pockets of his jeans, and now I feel like an asshole.

Hendrix knows my schedule. He’d know what time I’d be here today. This can’t be a coincidence.

“Hi, Zeke. It’s good to see you.” Frankie jumps in while I’m too busy trying to decide if Rix and Gin staged this on purpose. Hearing someone else call him Zeke feels weird. Wrong. All his football buddies call him Aleks or Kiss. Me calling him Zeke almost seemed. . . special. That bubble is popped when Frankie throws his nickname around so lightly. “It’s been a while.”

Zeke blinks as if seeing Frankie for the first time, and then . . . the nationally known promiscuous playboy blushes . “Hi, Frankie. Yeah, it has, uh—” He clears his throat, hand twisting in his pocket like he can’t get comfortable. “It’s good to see you again. Too. I mean—” Nervous laugh. “Yeah.”

I eye the two of them. Other than a few trips to Gemini together, the three of us haven’t hung out that much. Certainly more than enough for Zeke to be comfortable speaking to him, though. Or . . . I take in Frankie, seeing him in a new light.

With some exotic blood running through him, Frankie isn’t unattractive to look at. His skin is naturally olive-toned, whereas I have to tan frequently to keep any color to mine. His hair is always perfect, just like his makeup, which is slightly more exaggerated than mine. Although small framed, he’s been dancing for years longer than me, and his muscles are clearly defined, shown off by his sleeveless cropped tee and black skinny jeans. His nails are bright yellow, the kind of color that draws attention in public and in the blacklights at the club. I’ve always been jealous of his boldly rimmed eyes, full lips, and square jaw—all places where I fall just a little bit shorter than him.

I look at my freshly painted nails. The periwinkle color matches my hair, but maybe I should have gone bolder. I always get almond-shaped, but his stiletto ones are a lot more flashy. Does Zeke prefer Frankie’s?

God, does Zeke prefer Frankie ?

“. . . to go?” Frankie’s voice brings me back to the conversation I’ve apparently missed.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I ask, looking between the two of them.

Zeke seems . . . off. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek and staring at Frankie in a way I don’t understand. And Frankie has one pointy yellow nail directed behind us.

“I said,” Frankie repeats before Zeke can get a word in, “we have some more shopping to do. Are you ready to go?”

“Oh. Right. Yes, let’s . . . um, let’s go.” My gaze finds Zeke’s, and I swear he’s about to say something. I don’t want to stay long enough to find out if it has anything to do with Frankie. I think it might actually break my heart to hear him flirt with someone else. “Goodbye, Zeke. I’ll see you next week.”

He opens his mouth, pauses, closes it again. Then, he eventually says, “Yeah, I can’t wait. I’ll see you then, bunny.”

I’m gifted with a kiss on the cheek before Zeke returns to our friends waiting for him a few vendors down. I catch Tahegin’s dramatic facepalm and Hendrix’s thoughtful frown. As the other two turn away, my best friend catches my eye and waves once.

I wave back until they disappear around the corner. Once they’re gone, my head falls into my hands, and I groan. “That was torture!”

“No,” Frankie declares, pulling my hands from my face to stare at me with wide eyes. “That was awkward as fuck. What happened between you two? I thought you said the breakup went fine—and that you two are going on vacation together like some weird double date with your friends. That encounter did not scream ‘we’re fine.’”

Sighing, I begin walking toward our next destination. “Come on. I’ll tell you on the way.”

“Tell me what?” he asks warily, though he hurries to match my quick pace.

“How I convinced the man I love to break up with me but couldn’t give him up entirely. So, I made a deal to keep being friends while fucking him on the side.”

“You what ?”

“I could use a drink right about now.”