Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(30)

“Stay away from her!”

“What’s your problem?” Aiden’s chest heaves, his fists curled.

“Your attitude!”

His jaw pops. “Dude. I won’t hurt her!”

“You’re a kid! You don’t know how to treat her!”

He shakes his head at me, his face reddening. “You’re an asshole—you know that? I’m not gonna hit you, even though you deserve it. But I can guaran-damn-tee you that I’m gonna see her again, so you better get used to the idea.” He snatches his towel off the weights and storms out of the gym.





Chapter 8

GISELLE

Driving a red Maserati to Walmart makes me cackle. On the inside, though, I’m freaking out. I googled how much the car was worth as the valet drove her around for me, and I started sweating. Over $140,000, but knowing Devon, it has more bells and whistles than the one I looked up. Sweat slides down my back.

With my hands gripping the black leather steering wheel, I inch along at two miles an hour for a place to put Red so she won’t get a door ding. I picture Devon’s face if I were to wreck. Dark and stormy. Maybe how Vureck looks when Kate crash-lands his ship on that rocky planet.

A horn blares behind me, and I check the rearview. An old lady in a Cadillac flips me the bird.

I whip to the back of the lot, away from all cars, park, and head into the store, already pulling out the quick list of essentials I made. Some cheap shirts and shorts, underwear, a pair of flip-flops, apples to snack on, makeup and toiletries, and some food for Pookie. Definitely pee pads. Deep in thought, I don’t notice the man at the entrance of the store until I bump into him.

“Sorry, excuse me,” I say with a smile and move to step to the right—only he puts his hand on my elbow.

“You know Devon Walsh?”

First instinct is to always tell the truth, but self-preservation knows when to kick in. “No.” I pull my arm away, and he holds his hands up in a placating manner.

He’s older, around forty, with clipped brown hair. I catalog other details: height, weight, a scar on his right cheek, tattoos on his neck. I frown at his shirt, an old black one with a lion crest and faded writing.

“Sorry, Miss, but I know you do. It’s my job. Tell Devon we’re looking for his dad. He owes us money.”

My gaze narrows. “You look familiar.” I point down to his shirt. “Daisy High School. Small world.”

He takes a big step backward, eyes wary. “Look, just tell Devon—”

“No, you look, buddy,” I say, my southern accent thickening as I inch closer to him. I put my hands on my hips, feeling brave, maybe because this has to do with Devon, and I’d slay a dragon for him. “I’m assuming you followed me from the penthouse, which is just horrible. Don’t you have better things to do? Not to mention it’s downright rude to approach a young woman with your demeanor and an ominous attitude—”

He blinks. “I can’t help the tattoos or the scar!”

“Regardless, I never forget a face, and yours is tugging at me. I may not know your name—yet—but my mama is Cynthia Riley, and she knows everyone.” His eyes bulge. “That’s right. You must know her, and when I tell her you put your hands on me—”

“Please don’t tell your mama! I just had to get your attention!” He’s already walking away, darting looks over his shoulder as he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like Get the hell away from her.

My lips compress as I call out, “Creepy message received. Now scurry on back and hide. Cynthia is coming for you.”

I watch until he gets in an old black truck near the back and squeals away, relief swamping me as he disappears down the road. Worry inches up my spine as I walk inside the store. What’s going on with Devon’s dad? Frowning, I text Devon what happened and hit send. My phone dies right after, and I groan and add phone charger to my list.



“She needs another day or so for us to monitor the arrhythmia in her heart.” The doctor looks at me. “Besides the atrial fibrillation, her glucose and iron levels are low. Her knee is sore and swollen, and the cortisone shots we administered will alleviate some of that in the next few days. However”—he gives the woman in the bed a firm look—“a knee replacement is recommended. I have a list of orthopedic doctors who are excellent.”

Myrtle pushes up in bed. “Like I already told that nosy nurse, all I need is my cannabis. Some studies show it helps arrhythmia.”

The doctor arches a brow. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know about your cannabis. I’m not aware of this study.”

“Well, get busy earning my money, and read it and write me a prescription,” she huffs. “As it stands, I have to sneak around and buy my special cigarettes on the sly.” She looks wary and a little scared. My protective instincts flare; they’ve been doing that a lot today.

The doctor is a tall man with white hair and wire glasses and seems acceptable to treat my bestie, but he’s in a hurry, already eyeing the door to get to his next patient in line. That bugs me. “Where did you go to medical school?”

“Vanderbilt.”

Well, of course, it’s top notch, but I stand firm. “Nice. Now, perhaps we should revisit the issue of cannabis. It’s the elderly who benefit the most from medicinal marijuana,” I tell him, not even caring that I don’t have a medical degree. This is Myrtle, and she’s been enjoying her Mary Jane since the eighties. “She smokes because of migraines and her knee pain.” Mostly. “What are the guidelines for getting a recommendation for a prescription?”