Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(40)

He glances up at me, his eyes filled with amusement. “He’s an ass, baby, but he’s efficient. If for any reason you have a problem here in the hotel while I’m playing, he’ll handle it.” He hands me back my phone. “Just remember that if you do call me or text me, I can’t look at my phone when I’m in an active cycle. They usually run twenty to thirty minutes.”

I zip my cell back into my purse, and at the sound of the elevator’s ding I jerk around to face it, that clawing, claustrophobic feeling overwhelming me. I desperately need to conquer this stupid weakness.

“I got you,” Jason promises, his arm sliding around my shoulders again as he walks us inside and selects the lobby floor button. “Focus on me,” he instructs as the doors shut and he faces me, stepping into me, our legs pressed together, his hands going to my face and tilting it to his. “How long has this been an issue?”

“I don’t even know when it happened.” We start moving and I shut my eyes.

“Look at me,” he orders, and somehow I do, and somehow he consumes me rather than the slight sway of the car. “You didn’t clarify. Is it small spaces or heights? Or just elevators?”

“Claustrophobia,” I admit.

“So heights are okay?”

“Not really,” I say. “I really don’t like to talk about this.”

“What happens in Vegas,” he reminds me. “Talk to me, baby.”

Baby. Why does him calling me that always make me feel warm all over? “Because I feel trapped in elevators. And this whole thing makes me feel really silly.”

“Don’t say that, Skye. We all have our thing created by another thing.”

Afraid he’ll ask what that other thing is, I quickly ask, “Do you have a thing?”

“Control. I don’t like losing it. As in, ever.”

Obviously there’s a story there for him, just as there is for me. But ultimately, I think of how blackmail must feel for someone like him.

“And,” he adds, “I’d say that control is really at the root of claustrophobia, now isn’t it?”

“It’s not a thought I’ve really considered.” But thinking back to all the ways I’m motivated to have control over my life, which I’d never had as a child, it actually makes sense and it’s ridiculously obvious.

The car dings, and he strokes a lock of hair behind my ear, a tender, unexpected gesture that does funny things to my belly. “And the ride is over.”

I barely remember it at all. There was just Jason, who really is an escape in ways that are proving unexpected in the best of ways. The doors open, and once again he laces the fingers of one hand with mine and leads me into the lobby, where we’re immediately accosted by fans. “And so it begins,” he murmurs softly, releasing me to shake a man’s hand.

I mostly observe, watching as he signs several autographs, proving as friendly and charming with what morphs into a good seven people as he’d been with Ben. And during the entire encounter, I don’t miss how he finds ways to touch me, and I’m again struck by a sense of something happening between us. It’s as if a tiny seed has been planted, with potential that was never expected.

When we finally break from the fans, he puts his arm around my waist to guide me into the casino. “Now we really have to step it up and get to the tournament area,” he says, hurrying us to a center walkway and quickly forward.

When we reach what appears to be a conference center set up with bleachers and about a dozen tables in the center, there are people milling around everywhere, but not many in their seats. “The event won’t start for an hour,” Jason says, signaling one of the officials. “It won’t fill up for another thirty minutes or so.”

And within ten of those minutes I’m wearing a badge, and any number of people have greeted Jason while offering me surprised looks that confirm that he really doesn’t bring guests to his tournaments. And it’s not an unpleasant realization, either.

“I’ll walk you to your seat,” Jason offers, at the same moment that an incredibly tall man in jeans and a cowboy hat steps in front of us.

“Who’s the pretty lady?” he asks.

“Skye,” Jason says. “And fair warning: she isn’t going to take your shit, Cowboy.”

“Well, damn,” the man says. “I like my women willing to take my shit.”

“Skye,” Jason says, his hand resting on my lower back. “This is Parker Woods, otherwise known as Cowboy, and one of the featured players in the show.”

“Nice to meet you, Skye,” he says, giving me a curious look before he smiles and simply disappears.

“Everyone is going to treat me like I’m a species from outer space, aren’t they?”

“I told you,” Jason explains, stepping in front of me, his hand now at my waist. “I don’t bring women to these things.”

“Why?”

“It didn’t fit my narrative of ‘f*ck and goodbye.’?” He softens his voice. “Neither do you, Skye, and I can’t seem to find a problem with that.” There’s an announcement for the players. “Let’s get you to your seat.”

“Go focus on your game and show,” I say. “I’m fine.”