She winced. “Speaking of him, is this four thousand dollars your daddy’s money?”
Now it was his turn to scowl. “Does it matter?” It wasn’t, but he tried to keep his private life as private as possible.
“I’m not accepting his money to thwart his attempts at finding you happiness.”
“My father doesn’t care about my happiness.” Did that sound too bitter? Hopefully that wouldn’t scare her away. Another thing his father could ruin for him.
Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.
“I have my own money. It will be my money I pay you, not his.”
“From what?” Her eyes twinkled, hiding something, but he wasn’t sure what.
“From… what difference does it make, as long as it’s mine?”
“Are you a drug dealer or something?”
He rubbed a hand over his face to hide his reaction. Drugs always made him think of his mom, and that was not something he wanted to talk about now either. He pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses, trying to get it together. This wasn’t going as smoothly as he’d hoped.
“If I’m going to pretend to be your girlfriend, won’t I need to know more about you?”
“You know, drug dealing is typically not very lucrative, not that I would ever do it.”
She held his gaze, narrowing her eyes.
“Fine. I earned it from tournaments, of course. And coaching.” He wasn’t letting on he’d gotten a real job to anyone yet. He’d grown sick of the tournament grind. Sick of living in houses with guys who got younger and younger than him. At twenty-six, he was getting too old for it anyway, as ridiculous as that was. Now he picked his own hours, worked from home, and had no boss, so maybe “real job” was a stretch. “I’m a private person. I don’t tell my family anything either, so there isn’t much you need to know.”
She didn’t look like she believed his claims, but she let it go. “How do you know I don’t already have a boyfriend?”
“Mouse said you broke up with him.”
She glanced down at her coffee, her brow furrowed. “Apparently I should tell Mouse to keep my private life more private.”
He winced. “Sorry. Is that incorrect?”
“No, I just— I mean, he broke up with me. I just told Mouse we weren’t together anymore. He must have assumed I did the breaking.”
Oh, shit. Shit shit shit. He did not know how to handle situations like this. Growing up with an absent mother, his father had mostly consoled him with stern talks about what a lucky little bastard he was. His brother would just punch him and then tell him to man up. Jack was fucking clueless in these moments, and he braced himself for impact. He groped for a way to move on and pretend the topic had never come up. “It shouldn’t really matter either way. It’s just a job.”
She glared at him.
“What?” Although he knew why she glared, he didn’t know what else he could have said.
“People usually say something like, ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ or, ‘Are you okay?’ Or express sympathy somehow.”
“Oh.” He frowned. He wouldn’t appreciate hearing any of those things in that situation; they all seemed like prying. How was he supposed to know she wanted to talk about it? “Uh, sorry to hear that then, Vio. I didn’t think it was any of my business.”
Her expression softened. “It’s okay. I guess I brought it up. On my mind these days.” She took a sip, dodging his gaze by looking out the window.
Maybe he should try to offer sympathy somehow. This is probably what his mother would have taught him, if she hadn’t lost herself to addiction. Or maybe another mother would have. Not his, but like, a good one who would have cared more about him than getting high. “If it’s any consolation, Mouse has frequently said you could do better.”
She waved it off. “He thinks he knows so much about men just cause he screws them too.”
“Also, he is one.”
She pressed her lips together and stared at her coffee.
He adjusted his glasses. He highly suspected Mouse was right, about both her and men in general, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Okay, I’m sorry, back to your… contract. Is there some time frame for this? Particular dates or something? How do you plan to trot out your fake girlfriend to scare them off?”
He winced a little at the sound of that, but it was accurate. “I think it’ll take about a month. There’s a barbecue this Sunday that would be key, a wedding toward the end of the month. I’d say maybe three… engagements in the next month should do the trick. That leaves one flexible.”
Her eyes bugged. “That’s like over a thousand dollars a night!”
“A day, yes. It should only take a few hours each. But I mean, I’m not sure. Other things could come up.”
“So I’ll be on call?”
“Does that mean you’ll take the job?”
Her mouth twisted. “I’m strongly considering it.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to make just any commitment, not that any actual girlfriend could be always available either. But it’s possible something could come up. Like something a real girlfriend would want to try to make it to.”
She frowned, looking thoughtful. “So like, if you get hit by a car and you’re in the hospital, I would probably want to come by and make an appearance.”
“Heh, well, yes, that’s a good example. But let’s hope it won’t come to that. Just one month—four weeks.”
She pulled out the calendar on her phone. “Starting today—January 8th, then?”
“Can we say Monday?”
She pursed her lips. “Sure. Till February 9th. Will I be conspicuously missing on Valentine’s Day? Also, what if a third date doesn’t come up?”
“I figured Valentine’s Days are usually celebrated privately, not with family, so I can always continue the ruse for a while on my own before we ‘break up.’ ” He made air quotes around his espresso cup. “If a third day doesn’t come up, you keep the full payment. Project fee.”
Her eyebrows rose ever so slightly at that. He was trying to give her as favorable terms as possible because as long as it got that bastard off his back, he’d agree to practically anything. Was he overdoing it? “This is weird,” she said. “Are you sure about this? Also, can I write up a contract?”
“I’m sure about it. And yes to a contract, or I can if you prefer.”
“I have one I can use. We can haggle over the details later.”
He also had a contract template or five. But as a contractor, he knew using your own was preferable. And he would certainly let her in this case, especially since it would prevent any more prying questions about why the heck he even had a standard contract and whose company was that on the letterhead.
“So… we have a deal?”
Lips still pursed, she eyed him for a long moment, then nodded. “Sure. Deal.”
“Do you have my email?”
“Just your Steam ID.”
Of course she only had his built-in game messenger name. “I’ll message it to you. Just send over the contract, and I’ll sign and return.”
She held out a hand over the table. He blinked for a moment, staring at her sparkling black nail polish and a ring made from a bullet casing, then remembered himself. He shook her hand.
Chapter 2
Violet pulled up her Rabbit outside of Sin’s house and took a deep breath. Well, it was more of a mansion than a house, which figured for this neighborhood. Not exactly the double-wide she’d grown up in. Was someone going to suspect his family of being robbed, with her crappy car parked out front?
I’m here, she texted him.
Was she really doing this? She was really doing this. She had been a girlfriend lots of times, so this should be easy, right? Easy money. Give her brain a slight vacation for the day. But… she had never pretended to like someone, not for personal gain or for any other reason. She was honest to a fault. And she had never pretended to like someone as much of an asshole as Sentinel.
Sure, he was a talented, world-recognized player in a game she loved. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit that turned her on, especially after the compulsive attention she’d given to today’s outfit and Thursday’s. And she did feel a little bad for him, given his family’s machinations. Nobody deserved that shit. He hadn’t acted like a dick Thursday, but more like someone who truly wanted to be left alone, to be free of his past or maybe even his present.
Talented and wounded. It was kind of her thing.
But he had also been a total fucking shithead plenty of times. And she was trying desperately to make that not her thing. Not anymore. She’d had enough of that for a lifetime.
She smoothed down her khaki skirt and conservative black cami and cardigan with her palms. No bullets or skulls anywhere. She’d pulled half her hair up so the streak was less obvious, but there was really no hiding turquoise in black hair. The eyebrow stud was new and therefore not going anywhere. She’d kept her heavy black ass-kicker boots. It was cold for a skirt anyway, and at least the boots covered her calves. She wasn’t sure his father would believe he would go for a woman with boots like these, blue hair, and an eyebrow ring. Definitely not with the bullets or the skulls. She wasn’t sure she believed he would, either.
Sin believed it, though. She was still wrestling with that idea. As much as he’d been clear that this was simply a job, there was still the implication that he saw himself more plausibly with someone like her than whatever girl his dad had dug up. Although, perhaps she was reading too much into it. Perhaps Sin thought she’d scare the shit out of them and they’d give up trying to understand what might have made him attracted to someone like Vi. Perhaps she was just the only girl he knew who would say yes to this sort of thing. Or maybe the only girl he knew, period. Maybe he was gay like Mouse, and this was all to avoid that discussion until he was ready. Hmm. An interesting hypothesis.
He appeared at the door, throwing on a heavy gray parka, the wind whipping his dark hair around and tussling it even more than usual. His jaw was even more scruffy today and even more attractive in that state, damn him. She got out of the car, her black trench doing little to stave off the now-frigid wind. He stopped where the sidewalk met the wide stone path into the house.
“Um, who has a barbecue in January?”
He snorted. “Yeah, I know. Stupid. You’ll see.” Then he smiled, a truer smile than she’d seen from him before. He’d liked her comment. Satisfaction swirled in her chest, and she wanted to groan. Maybe if she went for the king of the assholes, she’d finally break herself of this shitty habit.
“Give me your hand,” she said.
He frowned. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, but he listened and relinquished one.
She took it and tried to ignore the fact that his hand felt warm and strong against hers. All those tournament wins hadn’t come from nowhere. He had quick, dexterous fingers. Could he push her buttons that quickly? One or two in particular?
God. What the fuck was wrong with her?
“I decided it’s unavoidable, and we need to practice so the first time isn’t when it counts,” she said by way of explanation. “Besides, this is pretty clear evidence people can spot from afar. Otherwise, I might just be some girl standing beside you.”
“You put some thought into this.” He sounded impressed.
She nodded crisply. “Well, you hired me for my girlfriend expertise.”
He smiled, an expression that reached deep into his eyes. He pulled her toward the house. “That outfit is—different.”
God. He hated it, didn’t he? “Figured I should clean up to hang with the aristocracy.”
“I wouldn’t adopt it permanently, if I were you.”
She winced. Ah, there he was, King of the Assholes. If he were really her boyfriend, she’d let go of his hand right now. Instead, she just gave him an icy glare, then smiled sweetly. “Wow. Okay. Whatever you say, dear.”
His smile disappeared. “You usually have more… bullets.”
She snickered. He had noticed that? “Oh, was that part of the ‘scaring them away’ plan? The threat of actual violence from me?” She couldn’t help but grin. Some people definitely found her style a bit… off-putting. She hadn’t meant to undercut that. Her style was usually off-putting enough for average folks, even without bullets.
He shook his head. “No, you just look… less like you and more like them.”
“Does it matter?”
He shrugged. “No. No, of course not. Why should it matter?” He opened the front door and led her inside.
Music thudded through the house, a deep house beat that she felt in her chest. Was this a barbecue at his dad’s or a frat party? Or… was there a difference? Three red Solo cups lay abandoned on the beige tile of the foyer. Many more rested in the hands of people standing and chatting in every room and up the stairs. He took her coat and hung both it and the parka in a largely ignored hall closet, then guided her to an empty corner near the kitchen.
“Stay here. I’ll get you a drink.”
You didn’t ask what I wanted, she wanted to say, and what if I don’t want a drink, but he was already off. Hmph, stay here. What was she, a dog? She scowled and rummaged in her purse. Ah, there it was. She slipped the bullet ring back on. At the same time, she watched him like a hawk as he ignored the large ruby punch bowl decorated with pineapples and—was that a hula skirt? He went straight toward a fridge behind the crowd and pulled out what looked like store-bought iced tea. Well, good. She wasn’t going to drink anything if she hadn’t seen where it came from. He didn’t seem like the type to drug her, and that would be kind of strange and stupid when she had his financial information and that weird contract for what she had ultimately described as “acting” services. But better safe than sorry. Some people were malicious deep down and good at hiding it. Max was testament to that. Damon had been pretty malicious too, although he hadn’t really tried to hide it.
Sin scanned the room with sharp eyes, getting the lay of the land as he poured. Finding the dad and the girlfriend candidate? For quicker exposure to them, or to avoid them?
He returned with two drinks and handed her one.
“Is this alcoholic?”
“No. Everything else is. I figured you wouldn’t want to drink.” He shifted his weight and stuck his free hand in his pocket, looking out over the crowd again.
“One drink probably wouldn’t hurt.” Might need it to take the edge off of these people. She took a test sip. “It is iced tea. Are people going to think we’re lame?”
“Don’t you get enough drinking on campus? Isn’t that what people do in college?”
“Well, why’d you drop out then?” She’d never been much of a drinker, but he seemed like the type. Especially in this environment, he blended right in. Although he never played online drunk, as many of her friends did. Probably didn’t want to damage his super-perfect-mega ranking.
He glared viciously at her in response.
Maybe that was too low a blow. “I’m in grad school. We have to work and drink.”
“Hmm.” His still-dark eyes scanned the crowd.
“See your nemesis anywhere?”
“Not yet, but she’s here. Isn’t she technically your nemesis?”
“Whatever. Our nemesis. What should we do now?”
“I’m not sure. Charging over to my family… seems implausible. I normally try to avoid them.”
She glanced around. No one was nearby. “Well, what would you do if we were really dating?”
He looked thoughtful, then held out his hand. Apparently he agreed with her holding-hands strategy. It would broadcast what he intended even if they never got within ten feet of his family, which in fact might be for the best so they wouldn’t realize the two of them actually hated each other. Or at least, hardly knew each other.
She took his hand and let him lead her down a hallway.
“Let’s not mention that in case it can be overheard,” he said.
&nb
sp; “There was no one around, I checked.”
“Still.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“This way.”
She followed him, drink in hand. Music throbbed through the house, in contrast to the stiff, formal decor. Someone had artfully decked out the house in beige and brown and the occasional pop of red. People were chatting everywhere, many of them wearing fake leis and already at least halfway to sloshed.
“Was I late? It seems this has not just started.”
“No, but I didn’t want you to get cornered by them if there was no one here at the beginning.”
Oh. That was smart. As he led her through another elegant hallway, she wondered just how big this mansion truly was. For a moment, she felt like the made-over geek girl who’d removed her glasses and been suddenly vaulted into popularity in some made-for-TV movie. Right about now, she should be headed to her rich boyfriend’s room to make out, only to realize the right guy had been in front of her all along. Wait. Her eyes bugged out. Making out. That was probably what he’d be doing if they were really dating. Was that where they were headed?
An image of him pressing her against a bedroom wall and covering her mouth with a fierce kiss as his hand slid up her thigh flashed through her mind.
No. No—he’d been quite clear on the fact that that would not be required. Or even expected.
Or possibly even desired.
He led her down some stairs into the basement. The suspense was killing her. What if there was some kinky dungeon down here, and he was going to—
Stop that. Why couldn’t she fantasize about a nice guy who actually liked her for once? Gah, what the hell was wrong with her? Maybe it was today’s hoodie, sprawling with kanji from his trip to the Tokyo International.
A game room opened up in front of her, and a huge projection screen on one side flashed Call of Duty. At least a dozen guys crowded around the couch, leis and all. He frowned at them.
Good Game_A Gamer Romance Page 2