Play Smart: An Enemies to Lovers Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Work For It Book 5), page 5
Hmm. This is starting to become less spy and more superhero. Strangely, that development is warming me to the idea. In this scenario, I’d be “Bike Boy,” of course.
“What’s so funny?” Marcos asks. His begging face is back to irritated face.
“Nothing. Are acorns nuts?”
His irritated face is now exasperated face. My work here is done.
I push up from the chair.
“I’ll loan you the money for that sound mixing board or whatever,” Marcos blurts out.
I freeze, turning slowly to face my roommate. His gaze locks on mine, blue-green eyes pleading with the force of a brother who’s earned a lifetime of favors. This is really that important to him?
And suddenly, I’m back in the rec room of the Bellevue Group Home for Boys, shaking and terrified as only one person stands between me and the bullies who decided early on I was the weakest link. The one person who claimed me as family when no one else on this planet would. I don’t owe Marcos a favor. I owe him my life.
With a heavy sigh, I drop back to the chair and lean forward. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I want a cool spy name.”
See, this is the problem with agreeing to help your roommate end corporate tyranny. They seduce you with rainbow promises of changing the world and then inform you that Denver Sandeke is insisting that the Reedweather spy take cover by “getting fired” so no one from Brighthouse will connect them to Sandeke Telecom. Oh, and it has to look real so no one at Reedweather Media will question their sudden absence either. According to Eva, I’m the ideal choice for that reason as well since, and I quote, “of all the current Reedweather Media employees, you’ve made the least impact and will be the least missed.”
I’d love to see that on a motivational poster.
Failure: Because sometimes being a zero makes you a hero.
Problem is, for this one project, they actually do need my useless, incompetent ass, so I’m still expected to execute our own version of the band sponsorship thing by continuing the Jarvis McKinnley campaign off-hours. Yep, now I get to work two jobs I don’t want, while being publicly branded “unqualified to flush toilets and operate soap dispensers” or whatever it is the Reedweather Media interns actually do. Just the thought of Paige’s gloating face when she finds out I’ve been fired is enough to make my eye twitch.
“How is this even going to work?” I mutter to Eva as we sit in her office the following morning so she can “terminate” me. (For the record, I perked up at the idea of being terminated instead of fired. That’s at least badass superhero lingo.) “Won’t it be obvious I’m still around when the Jarvis McKinnley campaign actually gets done?”
“No, because you’re going to be an unnamed consultant who will funnel everything through me. I’ll in turn pass it on to Paige, who will be the face of the campaign.”
I stiffen and laser a stare at her. “Hang on. You want me to do the work and then hand it over to Paige to get the credit?”
Eva shrugs. “Basically.”
“Will she know I’m the one doing the work?”
“Of course not.”
“Eva.”
“Nash.”
She waits with the poise of a less important politician standing behind the important one at a press conference. There will be no negotiating on this.
I groan and lean my head on the backrest of the chair. Staring at the ceiling, I try to think of anything worse than this scenario.
“Also, Chad will be your contact for the Brighthouse espionage portion.”
That’ll do.
“I’m sorry, what?” I say, straightening to look at her again.
“Chad will be the person handling the information you gather from Brighthouse and passing it along to the Sandeke powers that be.”
“Chad Smith,” I repeat. I mean, there are other Chads in the world, right?
“Correct.”
“Is my handler.” And other possible spy tasks. Someone has to get coffee and procure spy paraphernalia like those umbrella guns.
“That’s a bit dramatic, but sure. If you want to play pretend James Bond, he will be your handler.”
“How, though?” I groan. “In what universe is Chad Smith the answer to any question that isn’t, who do we not want running this project? And you’re the one who used the word handle,” I mutter, now pissed at everything, including words.
Her exasperated sigh is oddly reminiscent of Marcos’. Is that a couples thing like ending up with the same hairstyle and preferred candle scent? In related news, I’m single and never dated anyone seriously, so I don’t actually know about “couples things.”
“I get he’s not the ideal choice,” Eva says, drawing me back to the world’s worst intelligence briefing. “But my father loves him, and that’s enough for Denver Sandeke who really doesn’t want any involvement in this except a pat on the back for his genius.”
“So let me get this straight. Chad is my partner, Paige gets the glory, and I’m the one who has to deal with the bullshit from both sides of this circus?”
“Pretty much.”
“I hate you and Marcos. You know that, right?”
“Yep. And you also love him, so suck it up and go kick some spy ass, James Bond.”
I’ll be kicking somebody’s ass.
Also, I’m Bike Boy, not James Bond.
I plaster my best I-just-got-terminated look on my face as I return to my desk. Halfway there, I remember to switch my smile to a frown because most people think getting fired is a bad thing.
“You okay?” Paige asks, tilting her head in what could arguably be concern. Or maybe anticipation. Pretty sure she didn’t expect me to last as long as I did. It would blow her mind to know I was chosen for something over her, even if technically it’s because I’m the worst at that thing.
“Not really,” I say. “I just got—”
“Yo, Ellis. You ready to go undercover and take those Brighthouse fuckers down?”
Wow.
Paige’s eyes narrow in confusion as Chad lifts his fist for what I’m assuming is the customary spy/handler fist bump.
“Undercover?” Paige asks.
“Shh!” I hiss at Chad.
“What’s going on?” she says, directing her hazel gaze at me. I shudder at what that look would do to me if I actually liked her. Which I don’t. At all.
I blink to clear my head and fire a glare at Chad once I remember we’re now super-secret spies and he blew our cover literally twelve seconds in.
“Nothing. Just…” Shit.
Chad widens his eyes and covers his mouth in another unhelpful spy reaction. Man, I’d love to play poker with this dude. He probably sends screenshots of his cards every round.
Paige looks testy when I turn back to her. Love her or hate her, the woman is razor sharp. Hell, she probably would’ve figured this weak plot out in an hour anyway. And suddenly…
No, Nash. You’re not seriously considering this.
My eyes drift to Chad, who I’m not entirely convinced knows what a spy actually does. Back to Paige who would have a plan mapped out, indexed, and filed in the time it’d take Chad to find his way out of a bathroom stall.
Yeah. I’m doing this.
I glance around to make sure no one’s paying attention before leaning close to Paige. “Can you take your lunch break now and grab coffee with me?”
She tenses, her cheeks flaring an adorable shade of pink. Her eyes dart to mine, just inches away and blistering with the last thing I expected to see in her potent greenish-brown irises: fire. Bold and burning as her gaze sinks to my lips.
Wait… Hang on…
No freaking way.
My heart rate picks up as my own focus slides to her full mouth, and suddenly I forget why I’m even hovering like this. I breathe in the sweet scent of vanilla and something floral as my fingers clench the back of her chair, my other hand braced on her desk. I have her trapped between my arms, almost a foot away, but mere millimeters in my dick’s measurement system. Because he seems to think she’s right up against—
“It’s a secret,” Chad whispers at our ears, making us jump. How did he get to our side of the desk so fast?
Paige twists her head toward him, and I swear she looks as disappointed as I am.
“Obviously,” she mutters. Her attention returns to me. “And sure. I can take my break. Now?”
Has she always smelled like an intoxicating mix of vanilla and lavender? Have her lips always been so full and shiny? God, they’re practically edible, and suddenly I’m picturing them caressing the tip of a pen. A straw. My aching di—
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to join you. It’s Wednesday,” Chad informs us.
Right. We’re at work.
“It’s Wednesday?” I repeat.
Chad nods and straightens. We watch in silence as he stalks back to his office, clearly satisfied with that exchange.
Okay? Well, thank god it’s Wednesday, I guess.
The Bluesy Bean is one of my favorite spots to chill. Not only do they have good coffee. I’ve done some of my best writing in the small seating area at the back of the café too. Kaitlyn Parker turned me on to this place about a year ago. I guess she used to work here back in the day and still stops in whenever she’s in town. They even named a cappuccino after her when she made it big as a songwriter. I ordered it once, but the Kaitlyn Kappuccino is just a regular cappuccino with a K carved into the foam.
Right now, my favorite table in the back has two occupants, however: me and an overachieving redhead who’s pretending she’s not checking me out every five seconds. Then again, I’ve been on the same covert observation schedule. At present, I’m glued to the image of her perfect lips on the cup, as sexy and distracting as I imagined. When the tip of her pink tongue slips out to collect an errant drop on the rim, I force my attention to the stupid portfolio she carries to center myself.
This woman is an all-American Ivy-League princess. Probably comes from money and privilege. The polar opposite of you and your broke, orphan ass. In other words, zero chance, overzealous dick. Stay in your pants.
But she’s making it hard with the way her gaze keeps tracing my tattoos and piercings. Like I’m Bachelor Number Four on the list of Dudes Your Parents Would Never Let You Date. It’s hot, being the forbidden fruit, especially when her fingers tighten around her cup as if she’s trying to distract them from grabbing me.
What part would she explore first? With clothes or without? Where would we be when she finally gave in to temptation? Bedroom? Living room? Office… My blood fires hot at the growing dirty wish-list.
“So is there a reason you brought me here?”
And she’s back.
I offer a familiar shrug to return the favor.
When she rolls her eyes, I know equilibrium has been restored.
“Nope. Just looked like you could use a break. Your brain…” I motion toward her head. “It was emitting all this smoke and shit. Safety hazard.”
Double eye-roll for that. I didn’t even know that was possible.
“Come on, Nash. I only get an hour.” She crosses her arms, then must remember she needs them to eat the bagel she ordered. I don’t even try to hide my amusement as her brain trips into hyperdrive to figure out how to rebound from that misstep.
“You want me to feed it to you?” I ask with a smirk.
“Huh?”
I grin.
She glowers.
“I meant, excuse me, not huh,” she says, untwisting her arms from the anatomic puzzle. “As in what confusing thing are you talking about now?”
“Your bagel. You were trying to figure out how to eat it since you crossed your arms out of spite.”
Her eyes widen. “How did you…”
“Am I wrong?”
Her hunger must finally win out over pride when she goes in for the bottom half of her bagel. Interesting. My bagel-eating technique also starts with the bottom portion to save the best part for last. Maybe successful partnerships have been built on less.
She legit grunts as she shakes her head. “No. Just… How did you know that?”
I lean back with my mug. “I read people well.”
“You do?” she asks through a bite. “Because you come across as the opposite. Like, completely oblivious to the world around you.”
Ouch. “Just because I can read a person or situation doesn’t mean I care about it.”
My statement comes off as more bitter than I intended, but I guess that’s what happens when you find yourself in a situation there’s no way you should be in. For example: a lunch date with Paige Andrews.
But she doesn’t snap back at me like I expect. Instead, she lowers her bagel to the plate and studies me. “Interesting philosophy. Know what I’m reading in you?”
I try the eye-roll to see what all the fuss is about. Okay, yeah, I get it.
“I’ll tell you,” she continues. “I think you do care. I think you care a lot. You just pretend not to because you’ve been hurt in the past.”
I let out a dry laugh. Hurt? God, she has no idea. It’s also none of her damn business.
“And?” I say in a bored tone.
Her expression darkens. “And maybe if you stopped pretending to be a lazy, apathetic moron you’d actually accomplish something.”
I flinch and look away. Wow.
Harsh? Yes. Correct? Also yes. But what she doesn’t understand is that not all of us grew up with self-esteem cheerleaders and chocolate chip cookie chats about our hopes and dreams. Some of us had that cookie snatched out of our hands by Billy Stanton while his friends looked on and dumped the rest of our lunch in the trash. Some of us cried ourselves to sleep every night from cold or hunger or fear, only to get bullied even more for it. Some of us grew up in a world that didn’t give a shit about what you could or could not accomplish. We learned early on that no one gives a fuck about you so why the hell should you give a fuck about them?
Read people? Yes. That’s just survival. Care about people? That’s stupidity. There’s only one person on this planet I trust, and it’s not the person sitting across from me.
“Sorry. That came out wrong,” Paige mumbles, going back in for her bagel as if you can retract a statement like that.
“Did it?” I ask, testing her with my gaze. “Because it sounded like it came out exactly how you feel.”
She meets my cold stare, blinking through what looks like genuine regret.
Regret. Another thing that means jack shit.
“I already said I was sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that you think it.”
She studies her plate, but now that old wounds have ripped open, I’m suddenly spiraling into a completely different mission. I don’t even know what, but nothing seems as important as explaining why I’m a lazy, apathetic moron.
When she opens her mouth to continue, I brace for the fight.
“I don’t think that,” she says quietly.
My retort freezes on my tongue.
Thick lashes blink over her wide eyes as she searches my face. “I think you’re intelligent and incredibly talented. I’m upset because you hide that from the world and pretend to be the opposite. It’s like you don’t want to be special or succeed at anything.”
That was not the response I was expecting. Not even close. Rocked, I don’t know what to say. I avert my gaze and pick at the edge of a napkin.
“Don’t you ever dream?” she asks softly. “You’re a musician. An artist. You’re so talented, have so many connections. Why are you here doing nothing? What is it you want from life?”
I look up again, suppressing a pinch in my chest at the sincere, ridiculous question. I’d even laugh if my head wasn’t such a mess right now.
What do I want? Not to hurt. That’s it. I just fucking want to not hurt.
But no one’s interested in that conversation, least of all some woman who hated me an hour ago. With a deep breath, I suck all the poison back inside. Swallow it. Absorb it into the marrow of my being and do what I do best, apparently—transform into a lazy, apathetic moron.
“We got off-track,” I say in an even tone. Not a trace of the pain remains.
Not a trace of the pain remains.
Nice. I file that for future song lyrics.
“The reason I brought you here was to talk about why I was really in Eva’s office all morning. I’m not supposed to share this, but since Chad already did, I kind of don’t have a choice. Besides, I actually think you might like this project and be able to help.” Somehow I bet she’ll love the Mission-Impossible-James-Bond thing way more than I do.
Her brow is furrowed in lines I can’t distinguish from the previous conversation, so I keep going before she can direct us back to that atomic wasteland.
“They’re going to tell you I was fired this morning. I wasn’t.”
6—PLOTTING
PAIGE
There are people you figure out in five seconds. Chad. My cousin Stephanie. Her boyfriend Josh who once said raisins are grape seeds and “the state of Alaska is a hoax.” Then there are people like Nash who you suspect will never be solved. Can’t be solved because they operate on a level—in a world—you don’t understand. Instead of figuring him out, those five seconds of analysis make it clear you know nothing about him. Maybe no one does.
“Let the waves of darkness break, and take, the pain below, purged by the undertow…”
How much is he hiding? A whole damn lot.
And me? I’m hopelessly attracted to challenges.
The fact that we can’t stand each other only adds another layer of intrigue that now has me studying his beautiful, complex existence as he leans over his laptop on the coffee table at his apartment.
After the Bluesy Bean confession, we both decided we needed way more debriefing time, and I reluctantly agreed to meet him at his place after I got off work. Well, maybe reluctantly is a strong word. And maybe I don’t hate the plain white t-shirt he’s wearing that shows off even more of those sexy tattoos I want to know everything about.
