Slow Play (The Rules #3)(11)

“I’ll get you a drink,” short dude pipes up, that grin on his face never fading. He turns it on me and sticks out his hand. “Hey. I’m Steven.”

“Tristan.” I shake his hand briefly. Friendly enough guy, though I hate him for hogging all of Alexandria’s attention. “You still want something?” I ask her. I want to tell her I’m sorry about Layla but not with Steven here.

Alexandria shakes her head, offering Steven a real smile, with teeth and everything. “I think Steven has me covered.” She doesn’t bother looking my way.

Anger rumbles in my veins and I take a deep breath. Figures. I blow off a deep throat offer for this girl and she’s kicking me to the curb. Women. They’re all the same.

Fucking annoying.

“Whatever,” I tell her before I turn and walk away. I refuse to look back. If she wants me, she can come running. Though I doubt she will. I’ve pissed her off twice. I bet she won’t give me a third chance.

“Nice meeting you,” Steven calls after me.

I’m tempted to flip him off but I keep myself in check. He’s just being nice and I have no idea what that’s like. I’m the farthest thing from nice. Shep tolerates me because we’re related and Gabe sticks close because he and Shep are best friends. I’m the third wheel most of the time.

It’s worse now that they have girlfriends. Jesus, I can hardly stand to be around them. I can hardly stand to be around anyone.

The only person that intrigues me is Alexandria. And she acts like she hates me most of the time.

I can’t win.

Deciding I need to go lick my wounds by myself, I push through the front door of the bar and head out into the cold night, lighting another cigarette as I stalk toward my car. I don’t need this shit.

I don’t need anyone.

I walk into the tiny office of the mini storage place and smile at Betty, who’s on the phone listing the various storage unit sizes and monthly rates. She runs the place along with her husband Daryl and they’re always kind to me. Betty offers me gentle advice, like noting the best times when I should stop by here and dig through my stuff.

“Nighttime is a bad idea,” she’d said with a scowl when she caught me rifling through my storage unit at sundown. “Unsavory people hang around this time of night, hoping to sneak in and steal stuff. You best watch out.”

I’d taken her advice, though I found the term unsavory rather amusing. She could be describing my parents, considering what they did. Not that I would ever tell her.

Betty doesn’t even bat an eyelash that I come at least once a week to sort through my things. When I first started coming around, I thought it was kind of weird but I noticed that other people did it too so I just ran with it. Besides, this is practically turning into a business for me, selling off my old stuff. A way to make fast cash.

And with my trust dwindling I need as much fast cash as I can get.

“Don’t linger too long,” Betty says after she hangs up the phone. I hand over my money order payment for the month and she puts it in her cash box. This place is beyond old fashioned. They even accept checks, though I don’t bother owning a checkbook. “A storm’s blowing in. Real nasty one by the looks of it.”

I glance out the window. The sky is definitely dark and full of threatening clouds, but we’re in California. There’s no such thing as rain anymore. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Cleaning out some stuff you don’t want?” Betty asks brightly. I told her about taking some of my nicer purses and things and selling them online. She never pries, never asks where did I get so much expensive stuff. Just smiles nicely and tells me I need to do what I can to survive in this day and age.

Direct quote.

“Yeah. I have some gorgeous dresses I don’t ever wear.” It hurts my chest thinking about those formal gowns I’ve collected over the years. Various functions with my family, proms and formal dances, that one year I was homecoming queen…they all necessitated formal dresses, cocktail dresses, sparkly pretty things that cost a ton of money. Back when I didn’t look at price tags and bought what I thought was pretty or stylish. Money had been no object and I’d shopped with the best of them but now, I’m a tightwad who doesn’t spend.

Instead, I sell.

What’s the point of having all those pretty dresses if I’m not going to wear them? I’m not in a sorority (old Alex would’ve been) so my formal-dance-going days are pretty much over. They just sit in my storage unit taking up space, getting older and more out of fashion the longer they’re hidden away in their protective covers. There’s a cool vintage consignment shop downtown that I spotted a few days ago. The perfect spot for my dresses to go and sell to someone else, where girls will actually wear them versus hide them away in a bag.

“Too bad you have nowhere to go with those fancy dresses of yours. You’re such a pretty girl,” Betty says with a sigh, making me blush. Yes, I’ve heard that before but I don’t feel pretty. Not anymore. Pretty little Alexandria McIntosh doesn’t exist anymore. She hasn’t for months, closer to a year.

Now I’m Alex Asher—I took Mom’s maiden name. I like the way it sounds. I’m starting to like who I am as Alex Asher. Studious, quiet, down to earth. The old Alex wouldn’t have given that guy I met at the bar Steven the time of day.