Risky Play (Red Card #1)(34)

A little strangulation.

Run him over with my car.

Or all of my cars.

I grinned.

“I know that smile, you aren’t killing him.”

“Why?” I gritted my teeth. “He’s not as valuable as me. I’ll make him a martyr, he’ll thank me.”

“Yes, his ghost will haunt you for life and write songs about how you plotted his death.” He snapped his fingers. “Focus. We’re here for business and good food. We’re not here to talk about how to find a hit man because the guy is sharing a bread basket with Mackenzie DuPont.”

I stared harder. “He broke her bread for her. She can break her own bread, you dumbass!”

Matt groaned into his hands. “Where are we with that NDA?”

“Never mind about that.” I waved him off.

“Oh good, you slept with her again? Kissed her senseless again? Do I need to send a flower van this time?”

“Nothing like that.” I couldn’t take my eyes off her naked back. “I brought her takeout, we agreed to be friends . . . there was hugging.”

He choked on his wine. “Cool, did you braid hair later and prank call all the guys in your class too?”

I kicked him under the table.

He grimaced and bit out a curse. “And that’s why they pay you so well. I think I’m bleeding.”

“She’s . . . I mean we’re . . .” I poured more wine. “It’s complicated.”

He snorted as Jackass Jagger scooted his chair closer to her.

“I’m killing him tonight.”

Matt just sighed. “You can’t tell me that if I’m supposed to be your alibi. At least be smart about it.”

“I’ll go Dexter on his ass. He won’t know what hit him.”

“One day, soccer’s biggest star, the next, murderer. Yeah, just think of the headlines. I think you should do it. I’m in your will, right?”

“Don’t make me kick you again,” I growled. “Let’s just fucking order and get out of here before I really do walk over there and slam his face into the nearest table. I’m not feeling calm . . .”

Another snort. “Yeah, the steam coming out of your ears and the alarming shade of purple on your face wasn’t a dead giveaway.”

I glanced back at Matt. “Why are we friends again?”

“Because I shaved off one of your eyebrows at soccer camp when you were sleeping.”

“Right.” I nodded. “That explains everything.”





Chapter Twenty-Eight MACKENZIE

I’d texted Jagger the minute Slade left the house. Well, first I had to stop my hands from shaking. And then I was tempted to throw some water on my face.

Slade hugged me.

He pulled me against his hard body.

And I was haunted with memories of that night, of being free, with him. And I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t. It was a slippery slope and I would end up eating Twinkies on my couch missing him and Alfie while putting on ten pounds of emotional eating weight.

And Slade?

He’d be just fine.

It would be a blip on his radar.

A fun time with the help.

And he’d probably refer to it like that too. All obtuse and arrogant.

“So . . .” Jagger had his long brown hair slicked back, making him look older than his twenty-seven years. It made his eyes pop and gave way to such a sharp profile that he could probably cut glass with either side of his face. No double chin for that guy, bastard. He’d probably age well too, like fine wine. He’d be . . . a spicy Merlot with hints of bing cherry and a robust aroma. “How are you doing?”

“Is this a date or therapy?” I said it in a teasing tone, but I was serious.

He handed me a piece of bread like I wasn’t capable of reaching across the table myself. I wasn’t sure if I liked it or if it annoyed me.

Once I had my bread buttered with enough calories and fat to make me sigh in bliss, he answered. “Can it be a little bit of both?”

I offered a smile. “Huh, that must be how friendship works?”

“It’s one of life’s great mysteries: communication, words, sentences that build into emotional paragraphs actually help you understand where a person is coming from.” He winked. “Deep stuff.”

Okay, I was warming to him, even if he handed me bread. But if he ordered for me . . . all bets were off.

And if he suggested a salad, I was going to throw a lot of words at him, none of them kind or cheerful.

“I’m doing . . . good. Thank you for asking. Actually”—I pointed at him—“I’m doing better than I was, still not back to normal thanks to an emotional terrorist that finally backed down and apologized, but . . .” I lifted a shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Emotional terrorist, huh? I know one of those . . . has an ego the size of China and probably refers to himself in the third person when he’s alone.”

I choked on the bite I took and reached for my wine to wash down the bread that had lodged in my throat. “You know? I think I may sneak into the house late at night and see if he does exactly that.”

He snorted. “I wouldn’t, he’d probably assume it was an invitation.”

The blood drained from my brain, leaving me light-headed.