Play Me

by Katie McCoy

  But thoughts of cramps and baths and literally everything else flew out of my head as a guy walked into the store. A hot guy. A really, really hot guy.

  Forget about Chris and Tom, my Netflix boyfriends, this guy had them both beat. He was tall and gorgeous, with dark brown hair that fell boyishly across his forehead. He was wearing a plaid shirt that fit him perfectly, emphasizing a narrow waist and a broad chest, and a pair of well-worn jeans that clung to his thighs. He walked past, and I quickly averted my eyes, knowing that I had been full on staring. Gawking. But I couldn’t resist taking a peek at him as he walked away.

  Damn. The back of him was just as hot as the front, with those faded jeans cupping a perfect ass . . .

  I was suddenly reminded exactly how long it had been since I had touched a guy’s butt, or a guy had touched mine. It had been a long, long time. No wonder I was staring at strangers in the drug store. I grabbed some more chocolate—a poor substitute for what I was now craving—and went to check out.

  The line was long, so I entertained myself by checking email and scanning the headlines of the various tabloid magazines that lined the checkout line. All of them were talking about the recent engagement of a rock star to his childhood sweetheart. I might have considered it cute, if I believed that any of those stories had any truth to them.

  I had been a romantic once. But then I turned four, and my dad walked out on my mom and me. Left us to start a new family with someone else. I found it hard to believe in true love after experiencing that.

  But that didn’t mean I wasn’t open to romance. Or sex. I was definitely open to sex. Unfortunately, my current life-work balance was leaning heavily on the side of work. Getting this job was the most important thing to me right now, and I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way.

  Someone bumped into me from behind.

  “Sorry about that,” a male voice said.

  I knew who was standing there before I even turned around. It was him. The hot guy. Because, of course he was. And of course, he had a sexy voice.

  I glanced back to confirm what I already knew. Yep. Hot Guy was standing there, looking delicious in plaid, his basket full of extremely masculine things like beer and peanuts. Was that beef jerky as well? He couldn’t have been more manly if he tried.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I told him.

  He smiled, and I was nearly blinded by a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. He had a dimple in his left cheek. Heat rushed downward, pooling between my legs. It had been a really, really long time since a guy had smiled at me like that.

  Calm down, Alex, I told myself. He’s just some guy. Yes, he’s drop dead gorgeous, but is he any cuter than the rock star that just got engaged to his childhood sweetheart? No. Ok, maybe a little bit, yes. It had something to do with the plaid. How it made him look all touchable and cozy. But in a sexy way.

  “You’re up,” he said.

  I didn’t understand until he looked past me, and I realized that the line was gone and the cashier was waiting for me.

  Feeling a little foolish, I hurried to the counter, putting my basket down.

  Hot Guy followed me, and even though I now had my back to him, I could totally sense his presence. His sexy, manly presence.

  The cashier was a bored-looking teen who started scanning my items and tossing them haphazardly into a bag. I was painfully aware of Hot Guy standing behind me, especially as the cashier got closer to the bottom of my basket where the most personal items were. I said a quick prayer that the pads and tampons would get rung up as quickly as the other items—too fast for anyone to really notice—but luck was not on my side that evening.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  The cashier scanned the huge bag of pads over and over again, getting a harsh beep each time. Grabbing the intercom, he punched a few buttons and his voice came in loud and clear over the store speakers.

  “Price check,” he said. “Price check on super-ultra-heavy-flow pads.”

  I wanted to die.

  I felt my face turn tomato red, and I pulled the collar of my light jacket up to try and hide it. I know, I know: periods shouldn’t be shameful, they’re a glorious part of womanhood (as my sixth grade Phys Ed teacher tried to tell us), but still, you just try being a glorious woman when a dude is screaming to the whole store about your super-heavy flow.

  “Ultra-heavy-flow pads,” the cashier said again, trying to scan the next item.

  Of course, it didn’t go through either.

  “And a price check on super-absorbent tampons with applicator. Super-absorbent,” he repeated, just in case the entire state of Illinois hadn’t heard him. Hot Guy was standing a couple of feet away from me; there was no way he hadn’t heard that. If a sinkhole had opened up right there in front of me, I would have gladly disappeared into it.

  Finally, the cashier got the correct prices on my ultra-heavy and super-absorbent items. Of course, when he finally rung everything up, my card refused to work. All I got were those same obnoxious beeps every time I tried.

  “Come on!” a woman said from behind me, clearly annoyed at the delay.

  Grabbing my purse, I pulled out the last two twenties I had and practically threw them at the cashier. He took his sweet time giving me change, as I hugged my bag to my chest. The minute the receipt was in my hand, I rushed out of the store, keeping my head down. I couldn’t risk a look back at the Hot Guy, because the last thing I wanted was for him to remember the face of the girl who was buying stuff for her period in front of him.

  Not exactly the way I wanted to be remembered by anyone: Heavy flow and super absorbent. I should get a tattoo.

  I detoured via the bank on my way home to restock on cash. As it turned out, my office was always chipping in for birthday cards and cakes, and even though my student loans didn’t leave much left over, I refused to be known as the office tightwad. The bank branch was closed, but they had one of those vestibules with ATMs, so I swiped my card and stepped inside—just as someone followed me.

  I tensed.

  “I swear I’m not following you,” the voice said.

  I turned to find Hot Guy from the drug store standing in the tiny room with me. He flashed me a smile as the door clicked shut behind us.

  “Oh,” I blurted. “It’s you.”

  And then, just as I was scolding myself for sounding so lame, the lights suddenly went out.

  2

  Alex

  “I think we’re trapped,” Hot Guy said, giving the door a tug.

  It was dark in the vestibule now, but I could see him in the glow from the streetlights and traffic outside.

  “We should call someone.” I put my bag down and picked up my phone.

  Anything to distract myself from the reality of the situation. Aka trapped in a tiny, dark box with the hottest guy I’d ever seen. A guy who already knew my taste in feminine products and junk food.

  This time I was grateful for the dark because it hid the blush that was creeping back up my cheeks as embarrassment set in.

  Using my phone as a light, I found a number on the ATM to call. When I was connected with someone, the woman on the other end was sympathetic, but told me that I needed to call the power company.

  “But the streetlights are still on,” I told her. “I think it’s just the bank that’s experiencing the power outage.”

  “Sorry,” she told me. “You can try calling the city.”

  I hung up, feeling frustrated, but Hot Guy had already pulled out his phone and was dialing.

  “I’ve got this,” he said, as if he was calling in a personal favor to the mayor.

  I didn’t say anything. I was tired and my feet hurt and the rest of my body was bemoaning the lack of a bath at that exact moment. So instead, I leaned up against the wall of the ATM and watched hot guy speak to someone about our situation.

  “I totally understand,” he said, his voice smooth and calm. “But we are trapped in an ATM. It’s late, and my girlfriend is a bit claustrophobic, so I’
m sure you can understand how stressful this might be for her.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that. Girlfriend?

  “Thank you,” he finally said and hung up.

  “Claustrophobic?” I asked, crossing my arms.

  I couldn’t tell, but I thought I saw a sheepish look cross his handsome face.

  “It worked,” he told me. “They’re sending someone over now.” He paused. “Though it still might take them a while to get here. They said fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”

  I slumped back, longing for my pajamas and the ice cream that was melting in my shopping bag. Hot Guy sat on the ground, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and I watched enviously, wishing that I could do the same. Unfortunately, I wasn’t wearing a pair of beat-up jeans like he was. I was still wearing my work clothes: a crisp light-gray suit with a tight pencil skirt, silk blouse, and heels. Perfectly acceptable for a stuffy law firm but not exactly “lounging in the dirt” kind of clothes.

  Still, hot guy patted the ground next to him.

  “You may as well settle in,” he said.

  “I would,” I told him, before gesturing at my outfit. “But I’m not sure that this suit and that ground are a good match.”

  “It is a nice suit,” he observed. His eyes grazed over me, and I got all warm as his

  eyes dragged from the tips of my toes all the way to the top of my head, taking his time to examine every inch of my body. It felt like years went by before his gaze returned to my eyes. And when they did, there was a heat there, too.

  “I have an idea,” he said, and

  I watched as he dumped his purchases out onto the ground and spread out the plastic bag into a makeshift seat for me. Not that it was easy navigating myself into a sitting position in that skirt. I settled onto the ground next to him not entirely sure I hadn’t flashed him a good glimpse of my panties. If I had, he was at least gentleman enough not to say anything.

  He held out a hand. “I’m Emerson,” he said. And just like that, Hot Guy had a name. It suited him: sturdy, but interesting.

  “Alex.” I shook.

  His hand was warm and rough. I could feel the callouses on his palms. It was unbearably sexy. And he only got more attractive the closer I got. Sitting next to him, I got a good whiff of his scent and was immediately intoxicated. It was pure masculinity, beer and salt and some kind of good, fresh soap that I wanted to rub over my entire body.

  Or just rub him over my entire body.

  “Short for Alexandra?” he asked.

  I blinked, wondering how many times he’d had to ask that, because I had completely zoned out.

  “Yep,” I answered.

  Emerson leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms.

  “You know, typically in situations like this, I would be asking what you do, if you’re from here, all that kind of stuff.”

  “In situations like this?” I smiled. “You get stuck in ATMs with women a lot?”

  He laughed, and the rich sound vibrated through me.

  “Not a lot,” he said.

  I gave him a look.

  “OK, not ever.”

  “This is my first time, too.” The suggestive words were out of my mouth before I even realized what I was saying.

  “I’ll be gentle,” he teased, and I was close enough to see the corners of his eyes crinkle.

  “You know what I mean,” I said, hating that I kept blushing around him.

  “What I was trying to say,” he continued, “was that we could do the whole small talk thing, getting to know each other, and all that. Or . . .”

  “Or?”

  “Or we could do something a little more interesting.”

  There was a twinkle in his eye. A naughty twinkle.

  “Define interesting,” I said, annoyed that the naughty twinkle had given me a naughty tingle between my thighs.

  You don’t have time for this, Alex, I told myself.

  Time for what? I countered my mental voice. I’m stuck in an ATM with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. I don’t have time for anything but this. And I don’t even know what this is.

  “We could play a game,” Emerson offered. “Like truth or dare.”

  “Like truth or dare?”

  “OK,” Emerson grinned. “Exactly like truth or dare. Basically, we could play truth or dare.”

  I laughed. The whole thing sounded silly and reckless and fun. When was the last time I’d had fun? Work had become my life recently, and though I loved it, I also knew that it required sacrifices.

  “OK,” I agreed. “But we need rules.”

  Emerson raised an eyebrow.

  “I think you’ll like these rules,” I told him.

  His look went from skeptical to intrigued.

  “No sharing of personal details,” I ticked off on my finger. “I don’t want to talk about our jobs or family members or anything like that. No small talk.”

  “I do like that rule,” Emerson quickly agreed.

  “You can refuse to answer a question or complete a dare, but if you do, you have to drink.” I pointed at the six-pack of beer that was now laid out on floor with the rest of Emerson’s purchases. “Unless you mind sharing.”

  “I don’t mind sharing at all,” he said, that naughty twinkle returning. “Do you mind sharing?”

  I reached into my bag, making sure to avoid the tampons and pads, and pulled out the wide variety of snacks I had purchased, including the ice cream.

  “Too bad we don’t have a spoon,” I said. It wasn’t hot out yet, but still, who knew how long the ice cream would last outside of a freezer.

  “That’s what you think.” Emerson reached into his back pocket. In order to do so, he had to roll onto on hip, and his arm bumped up against mine.

  He was wearing a shirt, and I was wearing a blouse and a jacket, but I still felt the spark. Felt it like a jolt of lightning. If Emerson felt the same way, he recovered quickly, pulling what looked a Swiss army knife out of his pocket. He flipped it open, revealing a spoon attachment.

  “Were you a boy scout?” I asked as he opened the ice cream.

  “Maybe,” he said, giving me a look. “I thought we weren’t going to do small talk?”

  “Is that small talk?” I grinned.

  “No personal details,” he reminded me with a smile.

  I held up my hands as if surrendering. He grinned at me, and used his Swiss army knife-spoon-thing to scoop out a fair sized portion of Chunky Monkey. I completely expected him to eat it, but instead, he offered it to me. I took the spoon and the bite gratefully.

  Chivalry wasn’t dead.

  Somehow, Chunky Monkey tasted better when I was locked in a dark ATM with a handsome stranger. The sigh of satisfaction that escaped my mouth echoed in the quiet of the small room.

  “That good, huh?” Emerson smirked.

  I swallowed quickly and passed over the spoon.

  “What can I say?” I lifted my chin, hoping to hide what seemed to be an ever-present blush around him. “I like my ice cream.”

  “I like your ice cream too,” he murmured, before he had even taken a bite.

  Somehow, the vestibule seemed to get smaller and warmer. I didn’t mind one bit.

  “I hope that thingamabob of yours has a bottle opener on it,” I noted, finding that the beer bottles didn’t have twist-off tops.

  “What kind of boy scout would I be if it didn’t?” he asked, flipping the Swiss army knife around to reveal a bottle opener.

  “I guess not the kind that won’t admit he was a boy scout,” I teased.

  “This is your game,” he reminded me. “I’m just a mere player.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I murmured. Guys who looked like that always were.

  Emerson gave me a look, but didn’t respond to my comment. Instead he gave me another once-over, but this time, I could sense that he was looking for answers to questions he hadn’t even asked yet.

  “Let me guess,” he said, cocking his head. “You do somethin
g important. High-powered.”

  “I thought we weren’t sharing personal details,” I said, uncapping a bottle of beer.

  I peered at the label—I didn’t recognize it, but it looked like some fancy small-batch brewery. Something a beer snob might drink. That surprised me. From the look of Emerson, I would have taken him for a Budweiser kind of guy. Simple and easy.

  “I think we should play another game,” Emerson suggested.

  “But truth or dare was your idea,” I reminded him.

  “This game will be more fun,” he told me. “Trust me.”

  I had no reason to trust him. None at all. He was a complete stranger. Yet, when he smiled at me like that, I couldn’t help it.

  “OK,” I said. “What’s this alternative game?”

  “I tell you what kind of person you are.” He opened his own bottle of beer. “Just by looking at you. And you tell me if I’m right or if I’m wrong.”

  “Hmm.” I took a drink of beer. “And what do I get if you’re wrong?”

  His gaze went hot. “What do you want?”

  Wasn’t that the million-dollar question?

  “I’ll take your beef jerky,” I said, chickening out of anything more suggestive.

  “Deal,” Emerson said, and we shook on it.

  He gave me a gleeful look as he rubbed his hands together. “OK,” he said. “So you work in a high-powered position.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s a very vague statement,” I told him. “Don’t expect to get any hints that way.”

  He grinned. “Fair enough,” he said, crossing his arms. “Well, from the way you’re dressed, I can tell that you don’t work from home.”

  “True.” I scooped out a spoonful of ice cream and licked at it.

  “I’m guessing you work in an office with a strict dress code,” he observed.

  “Also true,” I responded.

  “You’re not an assistant,” he told me.

  “No?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You’re dressed like someone in charge.” He paused. “Or someone who wants to be.