Now there’s only one question on my mind.
To play or not to play.
I toss a shy smile in his direction and shrug, as if to say I’ve been caught, and what now? He takes the bait and gestures his drink in my direction.
Want one?
There’s a moment’s hesitation before I concede and move in his direction. He wears the same cologne, and it makes me sick when I smell it, but I take a seat at the bar and hold my breath. Up close, his face is more angular than I remember and his eyes darker. But beneath the surface, he’s still the same boy I used to know. Refined. Smart and observant and razor-edged. Everything my mother always praised about him is on display right now. His best traits. The perfect match for me, she’d said.
My hands are in my lap and I need to let go of my rage and get a grip and not think of anything but making him my bitch. I will handle him incrementally. In five second intervals. And this time, I will win.
These are my streets. My territory. And my game.
He might be a cop, but he doesn’t know how things work here. He never could. He hasn’t immersed himself in this world the way that I have. He hasn’t lived it the way that I have.
I observe him cautiously and run through the list of questions in my mind.
Is he the one who hurt Kylie?
And what does he want with me?
These things are important. I need to know them to win.
He gestures to the bar, and there are already two fresh drinks there. One for him, one for me.
“I’ve played that game once before,” I tell him. “Didn’t work out so well for me last time.”
“That was foolish of me,” he says. “I could order you another one.”
“Or you could get to the point.”
“I’m Royce.” The words roll off his tongue like honey. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
I laugh.
He glares, and I laugh some more. People are staring and he’s embarrassed, but I’m not the debutant anymore and he needs to know it.
“So, that’s how you’re going to play it, huh? We’re just a couple of strangers, meeting in a bar for the first time.”
“That’s the way it usually goes.”
His face is devoid of humor or sarcasm and I have no idea what his angle is here, but I won’t let it rattle me.
I’m tempted to make up something as ridiculous as Royce, but I don’t. I give him my street name, which I have no doubt he already knows.
“Scarlett.”
“Like Scarlett Johansson,” he remarks. “You look like her.”
“Cute.”
He used to say that all the time. Bragging to his friends about his hot celebrity look-alike girlfriend. And then they’d ask if he was banging me yet and I’d let him lie about it because he wanted to save face.
His phone rings, and it annoys me that he considers anything else worthy of his attention at this moment. As if he hasn’t been hunting me. As if I’m going to sit here and wait for him the way that I used to.
“Scarlett.” He taps the bar with his hand as if he’s speaking to a dog. “You have my apologies, I need to take this. I’ll only be a moment.”
“Sure, champ.”
