PLAYED - A BRITISH BAD BOY ROMANCE (14 page)

He paused with a groan.

“Do you even know what that means?”

“Of course I do, Lex. I
did my
research
, remember? I looked up how big a deal that was. You led me to
believe that you were just some football player on some rinky-dink team in
England.”

Lex’s eyes instantly flared into rage.

“Excuse me, what the fuck did you just say?”

If I wasn’t so bitterly angry, and with the moral high ground solidly
beneath my feet, I might have been intimidated. His eyes were wild with fury,
and he took a menacing step towards me, and another, until he was so close that
I could practically feel the heat pumping off of his body.

“Don’t you dare –
dare
–
insult my sport, my place in it, or the teams that I’ve had the privilege of
representing.”

“Oh,
boo the fuck hoo
,” I
mocked him. “You think you’re such hot shit? Well, maybe you are. Maybe I would
have taken you a bit more seriously if you’d been honest with me, instead of
pretending to blend in as some minor football player with some money in the
bank having a little fun on vacation.”

“I’m a big fucking deal back home, alright? Is that what you want to
hear? I can’t take a shit without some arse paparazzi taking a picture through
my window. I’m angling for a contract that will put my face on every piece of
merchandising beneath the Patrovo Corporation.”

“The Patro –
what now
?”

“The corporation that owns a third of the country,” Lex snarled. “I’m
here to get away from that life – to keep myself out of trouble. I’ll be
considered as their corporate mascot for the year. It’s a twenty-million pound
sponsorship… and I’m facing a rival who can rip it all away from beneath me.”

“Aren’t you already rich?” I snapped. “Why is it that the greedy just
keep getting greedier?”

“I’m beloved by the English populace,” Lex responded, glaring down at
me. “I’m a cultural icon. But it’s not just that… I’m one of the best fucking
players in the world. I’ve been world-class material for
years
. And now I
deserve
this.
It’s not about the money. Do you think Michael Jordan cares about the money?
This is about immortality.
This
sponsorship is my reward.
”

“Your reward for
what
,
exactly? Kicking a ball around better than the other guys? Keeping your pants
down so often that you’re in dozens of tabloid issues? Making a complete
fucking fool of yourself?”

Lex advanced, and I pressed my back up against the wall. I bitterly
returned his furious glare, letting a sly smile cross my lips.

“You could have had everything Riley. I’d have given you
everything
. I thought you were
different.”

“I am different! Do you think that’s what I’m after? Your money?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Lex began, but I cut him off.

“I didn’t even know who you were until today. You’re
not
the only badass in the room. Dozens
of galleries carry my art. I drew the attention of one of the most legendary
museum curators in the world. I’m an accomplished, award-winning, decorated
painter about to hit world-class… in my
mid-twenties.
I’ve got
decades
ahead of me to
hone and sharpen my craft and all it takes is for
one
painting to take off at auction, and everything I’ve ever
touched will be priceless.”

Lex stood there, silent.

“How long can you kick a fucking ball around on the field, Lex? How long
will
your
career last? I checked the
statistics. The usual professional athlete career lasts eight, maybe ten years
even at the highest level. You’ve already been on the field professionally for
years now. What are you going to do when the sun sets on your glory days, huh?”

Lex lowered his face down to mine, and I realized in that second just
how far I’d pushed him… I didn’t know if he was going to kiss me or hit me, and
I wasn’t sure which of those two things I was more afraid of… If he put his
lips on mine, would I be able to stop him? Would I want to?

“Fuck you, Riley,” he growled in a deep, dark voice, baritones lower
than I’d ever heard from him. “You’ve crossed the line.”

He pulled back to look at me quietly. One palm came down from the wall,
and then the other. He stood there, regarding me quietly for a moment, and
finally took a step backwards.

I summoned up every ounce of strength I kept down in my core. “I really
need you to leave.”

Lex looked pained, as if I’d just stabbed him straight in the heart. He
took another stumbling step backwards, glancing down at his open palms, and
searched my eyes with a glance.

“
Now
, Lex.”

“No,” he murmured. “We can fix this. I know you have feelings for me.”

“Lex.”

I let my face darken as I took a step towards him. “You’ve betrayed my
trust. I just want you
out
of my
apartment and
out
of my life.”

“Please, Riley,” he whispered.

I’d had enough of his bullshit.

“You haven’t listened to a fucking word I’ve said, have you, Alexander
Lambert?” I jeered. “You’re
trespassing
now.
Get out.”

He realized then that I wasn’t backing down, and his eyes narrowed at
me. He didn’t even bother to cast out one last, pathetic
please.

All I knew was that I wanted him gone. He could come back later, maybe,
after I’d cooled down and had some time to take in all of this new information
– about his past, about his reputation, about everything.

But for right now? He had to go. I needed some space and some time.

With one last, withered look – a look that boiled into relentless anger
– Lex Lambert slammed the front door behind him, disappearing into the night.

Chapter 12

Lex

When I stormed out of her apartment, I wasn’t thinking straight. All
that I knew was that I needed to get out of that place and away from her.

The painful, vicious things she’d said.

The buried memories she’d drudged up.

I needed to blow some steam, and fast.

While wandering along the French Quarter, surrounded by bar upon bar, I
gave some serious consideration to popping into any one of them and drinking
myself into a blinding stupor.

Luckily, I was thinking clearly enough to recognize how fucking awful an
idea that would be. I could imagine Jess’s furious face, screaming obscenities
at me:

What if you’re caught on
camera?

What if they drag you out to
the street?

What if you
hurt
somebody?

Grow the fuck up, Lex!

With a low growl and an absent-minded wave of my wrist, I banished the
apparition from my thoughts. Sure, Jess was going to be pissed – both as my
best friend
and
my publicist – but I
couldn’t help but require some time to simmer down.

That was, even if I
did
keep
her fears in mind. After all, if she knew where I was and what I was doing at
the time… I was aware that her perceived thoughts on the matter weren’t exactly
incorrect.

My eyes scanned the windows of another bar as I passed by. This one,
however, caught my eye. Two words:
billiards
tables.

I allowed myself a sliver of a smile.

Now…
there’s
a thought.

My heel turned, and I found myself strolling into the bar. The bouncer
at the front, some fat fuck picking his teeth, let his jaw slacken as he spotted
me.

“Whoa, partner,” he shook his head. “Not sure this is exactly your kind
of place… whatcha want from in here?”

“Pool table,” I grunted.

“Lots of places in town with a pool table,” he observed, lifting his
chin to stare me down his fat, pudgy nose. “Places more suited to a man of yer,
uh, refined tastes…”

“Where’s the closest one?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, then,” I smiled, “that’s just too far.”

He shook his head lightly. “Suit yerself.”

I gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement as I passed into the bar. I
could see why he had tried to steer me elsewhere. This was a bit of a rougher
place: darker, grittier, and with an obvious change in clientele. Black leather
and cut, plaid jackets dominated the scene… a scene in which I stood out like a
sore thumb.

But I was already committed to the course.

A few pairs of eyes wound up on me as I passed through the entrance, and
those eyes belonged to men who elbowed those to their side. Within moments,
like a great wave of attention, half the bar was staring at me.

None of them seemed to be making trouble. No one stepped into my way or
brushed against my shoulder; nobody called me out or shouted for me.

See?
I thought to myself.
These
gentlemen know how to be civilized.

I stepped towards the bar, pushing a bar stool aside and falling into
place near a great, slovenly man and his equally fat wife. Dressed in comically
undersized cowboy/girl attire, they studied me carefully and gnawed on what was
either gum or, more likely, chewing tobacco.

“Bourbon, neat,” I requested.

“Well?” The bartender tried to clarify.

“Yeah. Sure.”

A bigger, grizzlier guy himself, the bartender nodded once. He dropped a
few cubes into a tumbler and poured some whiskey over it, and I handed him some
cash.

“Yer change, sir.”

“Eh,” I closed an eye at him, quickly gritting my teeth in thought.
“Keep it.”

He looked dumbfounded for a moment. I might have accidentally handed him
a twenty instead of a ten, not that it was particularly any skin off of my
back. After all, I was still getting used to American currency, even with the
big numbers in the corners.

I downed the drink and requested another, being certain to tip him a
little more appropriately. This one, I carried over to the only free pool table
around.

Digging around in the pockets, I withdrew the lost pool balls and racked
them all up. Buffing the tip of a cuestick with the chalk, I dusted my hands,
then broke the pyramid and began to play myself.

My residual frustration with the events of the night was throwing me off
my game, but I managed to keep the cue ball from flying off the table. Still,
my playing was substantially less than ideal, and I was starting to think that
I was embarrassing myself.

I lost a game or two with other players before I really started to
finally hit my stride. Guiding my anger into careful precision strikes, I began
dominating the corner. My resolve strengthening with each turn, I continued
proving to myself that I was the reigning alpha on more green fields than one.

An hour passed as I downed another two, maybe three drinks. My playing
continued improving, surprisingly enough. I was starting to draw some attention
from the other tables, and players began watching me instead of their opponents
during their games.

I was keeping an eye on some of them, too, and this particular kid
caught my focus. He was a really sloppy player, scattering the balls poorly and
accidentally ricocheting the cue ball off the table on more than one occasion.
Some of us started to chuckle at his ineptitude, although I noticed the passion
in his eyes for the sport.

Give it a few years, kid,
I thought to myself.
With
dedication like yours, you’ll get good at this…

The cue ball sailed off the table again.

…
Eventually.

It was after that game finished that I noticed him handing bills to the
other player, a look of dejection and defeat across his face.
He’s gambling? Is he hoping Lady Luck will
kiss his cheek?

My opponent bought me a drink after I won, and the kid crossed my path.
By now, he’d played just about everyone near the pool tables, and I was the
single contender left.

“Want a round?” He asked.

I studied him for a moment.

“Nah, kid. I’m good.”

“You sure?” He asked. “I’ll bet ya a hundred bucks.”

“Hundred dollars, eh?” I asked, sizing him up with different eyes.
“That’s more than you’ve been giving the others…”

“Dad’s rich. I just enjoy playing with his money, even if I’m not too
great at this,” he shrugged. “I think I’m starting to get a hang for it.”

“You want some pointers?” I asked.

“Much obliged… but I’m one of those ‘learn as I go’ types,” he smiled
toothily and scratched the back of his head. “I’ve gotta let my body figure it
all out by itself, and then I just do whatever winds up working.”

“Muscle memory,” I acknowledged, nodding to myself. “I know what you’re
talking about. Friends of mine are the same way.”

“So, you want a round, or nah?”

I scoffed. “…Fine. One round.”

“Sweeten the pot?”

“Don’t need to,” I shook my head.

“Oh, come on, bro,” he chided me. “Guy in a nice suit like you? You can
afford to piss away a hundred bucks, losing to me.”

Something clicked in my head. Looking back on it, it was less like an
idea popping, and more like disarming the safety on a revolver.

“That’s a lot of smack, coming from a kid with your losing streak,” I
grinned. A few other patrons nearby were taking interest, nodding their
approval.

“Put yer money where yer mouth is.”

I dug into my front pocket and whipped out my wallet, glancing through and
pushing the wad of hundreds aside, looking for some twenties. I counted out a
hundred in the sheath and slipped it back into place.

“Alright, kid. Hundred bucks,” I agreed. “What about you? You’ve been
bleeding dollars all night. What have you got left?”

He slipped his hand into his pocket and showed me a handful of crumpled
twenties. “I’m good for it,” the kid nodded.

“What’s your name?” I asked, setting us up for a fresh game. “I like to
know my opponents when I face them on the green.”

“On the green?” He asked, shaking his head. “That’s a weird way with
words you’ve got yerself there… name’s Dylan. You?”

I thought for a moment. “Alex.”

“Alex,” he nodded. “Well, Alex, ready to get your butt whooped?”

An amused smile crossed my lips. “By all means, friend.” I lifted the
triangle, leaving a perfectly shaped pyramid of balls in position, and set the
cue ball right into place. I stepped back, waving towards the table with my
wrist.

“Ladies first,” I goaded.

Dylan’s face fell. “Ain’t no lady.”

“Prove it.”

A sly smile spread across his face, and he buffed the end of his cue
stick. Spectating players stepped aside as he strolled over into position,
lined up his shot, and broke the triangle… knocking two solids straight into
their pockets, and leaving complete disarray that put stripes at a
disadvantage.

My teeth gritted as I surveyed the aftermath with a second’s glance.
That’s not luck that made that shot work…

I tried to line something useful up, but it wasn’t happening. Instead, I
decided to knock some of the balls further around, and spent my turn
splintering the battleground.

Dylan took advantage of this, knocking another solid into the pocket.
His shot sent a second one towards the corner, but it hovered near the edge of
the hole – clearly lined up for another perfect shot.

“You’ve hustled me,” I acknowledged. I couldn’t really be angry. I’d
fallen hard for his little ploy. Some of the patrons chuckled in agreement;
after all, they’d already made some money off of the kid, and it was all at the
expense of the suited, foreign newcomer.

Dylan looked wounded. “Just a few lucky ones, man. I knew my fortunes
would change, sooner or later…”

I didn’t buy it for a second, even as I sank in a striped ball per turn.
With each successive move, Dylan blocked me, sent one or two balls in, or
completely fucked my approach. When he got to the eight ball, he banked it off
three bumpers before burying it in the corner pocket, just to be an ass.

And he was smiling wide as can be.

“You got me Dylan,” I said, tossing the twenties on the table. “Well
played.”

 
Dylan didn’t move. He looked
down at the money like I’d just insulted him.

“What the fuck is that?”

I looked back at the table, the five twenties spread across the green
felt.

“That’s one hundred dollars. Don’t spend it all in one place, kid.”

He took a step toward me, then another. I stared down at the scrawny kid
as he grabbed my shirt, twisting it in his fist. “We were playing for the
thousand dollars you’ve got in that fucking wallet of yours.”

I almost wanted to laugh in his face. I could crush this kid. I could
kick him hard enough to send him sailing across this godforsaken bar. I reached
up and peeled his hand free, holding his wrist in the air.

“So you’re a hustler and a thief?” I asked, anger starting to well up
inside me. The little prick thought he could jack up the bet now that the game
was over?