Playing the Player, page 1
Playing the Player
Erin McCarthy
Copyright © 2021 by Erin McCarthy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover photography by Wander Aguiar
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Also by Erin McCarthy
About the Author
Chapter One
Mia
Getting stood up sucked. I stared at my empty martini glass and felt sorry for my broke and lonely self, fishing the olive out to eat it as the crowded bar and restaurant around me hummed with happy vacationers and upbeat Christmas music.
I was starving. Absolutely starving. I looked longingly at a server delivering something that smelled like happiness and holidays on a plate to the table next to me. My stomach churned angrily and my mouth watered at the sight of all that steaming hot food. I didn’t want to order an expensive dinner to sit there and eat it alone when I could fry up a toasted cheese at home, but that seemed like the very definition of sadness. It was also tempting to order another martini but then I would have to take a car service back to my apartment and spend more money I didn’t really have in my so-tight-it-squeals budget.
Did I mention being broke sucked? Even more than being stood up by a man I’d never met.
That thought was super annoying, so I tried to get my server to cash out on my lone drink, which hadn’t even gotten me buzzed. At twenty dollars a martini, it should at least have given me a buzz and told me my outfit looked cute. The server was younger than me, and kept giving me ticked-off glances that I was hogging a table and not ordering. She might have even been more annoyed than me that I had been stood up by my co-worker’s brother in-law’s cousin, Kyle. I pulled my enormous handbag off the back of the chair and prepared to leave in defeat. My whole life was in that bag because I only went home to sleep at night, bouncing most days between one of my three jobs.
I hauled up Mississippi, my handbag. Named by my grandmother, because she said like the river, a little of everything had been tossed into that bag, most of which would never be found again. Only thing missing was a dead body. But if you, me, or a random stranger in the ladies’ room needed anything, I probably had it in that bag.
The server had ignored my last three attempts to make eye contact, so I decided to just pull out some cash and leave it for my drink. The night was a bust, I was tired, and I needed some hot cheese like the desert needs the rain. Standing up, I grabbed my bag, swung it over my shoulder, and turned to get the hell out of there.
Only when I turned, both me and my bag collided with a solid wall of man muscle. Completely caught off guard, I stumbled in the heels I never wear—because Las Vegas hotel housekeeping staff have very little need for sexy footwear—and grabbed on to the random man’s arm.
“Are you okay?” a deep, smooth voice asked me.
After feeling a momentary regret that it wasn’t the snotty server Mississippi had nailed, I released my grip a little on his suit jacket, and looked up. Way, way up. He was tall. And broad-shouldered. With short caramel-colored hair, a strong jawline, dark green eyes, and a somehow charming jagged little scar along his temple.
He looked concerned.
And he should be, because something very strange was happening. I couldn’t speak. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth, my mind was a complete and total blank, and it felt like I had swallowed nine hundred olives instead of one. I had a lump in my throat, a knot in my gut, and a warm, liquid sensation deep in the heart of Trixie, my vag.
I name everything, I can’t help it. It’s called a quirk.
He was hot as hell and I was incapable of speech.
“You’re standing on my foot,” he said.
I looked down at the floor.
Yep. Definitely standing on his foot. There was one heel digging into one very expensive-looking black leather shoe.
That startled me into action.
“Oh, sorry!” I jumped backward, knocking my ass into the table I had just abandoned. The table shook, water splashing out of a glass, cutlery clinking, people turning to stare.
I felt my cheeks burn, which flustered me even more. I have so much pride it’s a personality flaw, and I never blush. Embarrassed that I was embarrassed, it was time to exit less-than-gracefully. I yanked my bag back onto my shoulder and shifted right, trying to find a way around the massive attractive man who was making me feel like a middle school girl. Only trying to maneuver around him in a restaurant filled with tables was like trying to skirt Texas on a road trip. You can’t just go around it. It’s too damn big.
It was also then that I realized he had a wet spot on the front of his shirt and an empty glass in his hand. He had been carrying a drink when I slammed into him. I groaned. “Did I do that?” I attempted to wipe it away with my hand, which was absurd. It was an amber-colored splotch on his crisp white shirt. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s just a shirt.”
“Come here,” I said, gesturing toward the bar. “We need to get some cold water on that.”
For a second, he looked like he was going to brush me off.
“I can save it if you get moving,” I said. “Time is critical in stain management. I work in housekeeping, so trust me on this.”
“You seem very confident about it.”
That made me feel better. “I am.” I needed to fix this because it wasn’t like I could fix anything else in my life. But stain removal was a skill I had perfected.
“Then I’d be stupid to turn you down.”
He followed me and I ordered an ice water from the bartender.
“Can you sit on the stool?” I asked the man. “You’re kind of tall for me to reach.”
He obediently sat and set his empty glass on the bartop. “You work in housekeeping?” he asked.
I nodded. “For Caesars. This isn’t an oil-based stain, so it will come out. If it was lipstick, we would be screwed.”
“If it was lipstick, I wouldn’t be sitting at the bar by myself,” he said, the corner of his mouth turning up.
I paused. Was that… flirtatious? It had been so long since I’d dated, I honestly wasn’t sure. I glanced at his hand. No ring. Well, not a wedding ring, anyway. He was wearing some gaudy class ring but nothing else.
“Then you’re really not having a good night,” I said, trying to sound light and flirty.
I must have succeeded because he said, “It’s turning around.”
He had green eyes with flecks of gold in them and he smelled like expensive cologne. I suddenly and inexplicably wanted to sit on his lap.
The bartender plunked a water down on the countertop in front of me. Hard. She brought the water faster than I would have expected, and the sharp movement startled me out of my gazing into the eyes of the random hot guy. She also smiled at me, which never happened when I ordered a water. But then I realized she wasn’t being helpful on my account. The smile was for the random hot guy.
Of course. She either thought he was hot, because he was, or she recognized he was more likely to be profitable for her than me. Which he also was. He looked like he had about two bazillion more dollars than I did.
“Can I get you another bourbon?” the bartender asked him, leaning forward to give him a view of her cleavage.
I rolled my eyes. Unfortunately, she saw me and gave me a disdainful sniff.
“I would love another bourbon. And whatever the lady would like,” he said, gesturing to me.
“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m fine, I don’t need a drink. And I’ll pay for your drink. It’s my fault.”
“You’re not paying for my drink. I was in your way.”
I dug in my bag, trying to find the credit card I kept in the zippered interior pocket for absolute financial emergencies. I shoved it at the server.
“Stop,” he said, reaching to grab my wrist. “You don’t have to pay.”
“It's a three-hundred-dollar bourbon,” the server said.
I dropped my credit card and stared at her. “A bottle?”
“A glass.” She shot me a gleeful look, taking in my dress, which was from a discount store. Cute as hell, thank you very much, but not designer and not expensive.
I had made thrifting and bargain hunting something of an art form. It might even be called a hobby. To think that the little splash of liquor in that glass cost more than I’d spent on my wardrobe all year was mind-boggling.
I cleared my throat, my palms starting to sweat. That bourbon better taste like liquid gold and give him a hand job for that kind of money. “That’s fine,” I said, trying to sound casual. Like it was no big deal and not actually have the potential to give me a heart attack.
But the man was already retrieving my credit card from the counter. “No, it’s not. Put it on my tab.” He looked at her name tag. “Tiffany. Thank you.”
&nbs
When she moved away I took a deep breath, hoping there was a polite way to ask for my credit card back, which he was still holding. I picked up a napkin and dunked it in the water. I liberally blotted the wet bourbon spot on his shirt, trying not to think about how muscular he seemed to be under that fabric and how long it had been since I’d had a man in my bed.
“What makes a bourbon that expensive?” I couldn’t resist the question because that seemed like a lot of money for about two fingers of booze.
“It’s rare. They only made like nine hundred bottles of it thirty years ago.” He shrugged. “A buddy of mine started his own distillery and was telling me about it. I was curious to taste it.”
“And what does it taste like?”
“Bourbon.”
That made me laugh. “I should hope so.”
He smiled. “I don’t think I’m sophisticated enough to know the difference. I do not have a refined palate. Though I think there is a vanilla hint.”
“I’m not even sure I have a palate.” I reached into my bag and rooted around until I found a stain stick. I pulled the cap off. Quickly, I rolled it over his shirt, not wanting to linger.
“I find that hard to believe, Mia,” he said. “You seem like a woman with a lot of layers.”
“How do you know my name?” I capped the stick and met his gaze, my heart starting to pound a little faster than it should.
“It’s on your credit card.” He held it up between his thumb and forefinger. “Mia Abernathy.”
“Oh.” Duh. I reached out for it. He shifted it away from me. I was more amused than I was nervous. It wasn’t like he could rack up a bill on that card. I had about two hundred dollars’ worth of available credit, not even enough to buy his bourbon shot. “Stalker,” I said, impressed with my flirtation skills despite their lack of use.
He laughed. “Says the woman who has been all over me for the last five minutes.”
The bartender silently slid his bourbon over to him and he lifted it to his lips for a sip.
I raised my eyebrows. “I wiped a stain. That’s all over you? That seems like a stretch. I was just trying to be helpful. I’m like that. Super helpful.” I dropped the stain stick back into my bag. “Toss your shirt if you want—fill in the blank with your name here.”
“It’s JJ.”
“JJ Beckett, enjoy your bourbon,” I said, gripping the end of my credit card and tugging it, trying to extract it from his large hand. He didn’t release it. “Now give me my card back.”
“Only if you agree to have a drink with me.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m not a fan of blackmail.”
He released my credit card. “Then have a drink with me because you spilled bourbon on my shirt.”
I tucked the card away in my bag, more entertained than I wanted to admit. “I don’t like guilt either.”
“How about because you find me sexy and charming and intriguing in a James Bond kind of way? My real name is actually James. Feel free to use it.”
For a second, I hesitated, then I thought I would have to be an idiot to say no. I’d been willing to meet up with Kyle, a total stranger. Why not spend ten minutes talking to this guy? It was my night off, which didn’t happen that often, and I liked my outfit, personally. The short velvet dress with the empire waist made me aware of how long it had been since I’d put much attention into my appearance. This was the first time in months I’d even bothered to do my hair and makeup. Did I really want to go home and put on pajama pants again? No. No, I did not.
He was sexy.
I slipped onto the stool next to him.
“I can work with that, James,” I said.
Chapter Two
JJ
A boring night had just gotten way more interesting. Thank God. I’d been on the verge of falling asleep sitting at the bar, bored with my routine, craving excitement, and disappointed my buddy had cancelled on me at the last minute, even though he had a good reason.
Mia, from housekeeping apparently, plunked her giant handbag on the bartop. It was the size of carry-on luggage and beat to hell and back. It looked like she had dragged it through a river and ran it over with her car. The fabric was undetermined but could best be described as carpet. It was as quirky and offbeat as she seemed to be.
I had actually been on the way to talk to her when she had popped out of her chair unexpectedly and plowed into me with that giant bag. For the twenty minutes prior I had been watching her and it was obvious she had been stood up. She kept checking her phone, glancing toward the door, waving off the server, and growing more and more irritated looking as she slowly sipped her one martini. Bored with my own company, and hating that she had that self-conscious expression on her face, I had intended to offer for her to join me.
Instead, she’d smacked into me, and then had proceeded to tend to me like it was of the utmost importance that she save the life of my Hugo Boss dress shirt. I didn’t care about the shirt. I had a dozen more at home.
What I did care about was the fact that Mia didn’t seem to have a clue who I was.
Not to be an asshole about it, but when you play pro football, sometimes people know who you are. At six foot five I tended to stand out in an average crowd anyway. Ninety percent of the time, I enjoyed the attention. Who wouldn’t love the admiration of little kids playing peewee football? But sometimes, with women, it got old, the fakeness of it all.
I raised my hand for the bartender, who I knew would come over immediately. She’d seen my own credit card with my name on it and had commented about the postseason prospects. She knew I was a pro football player with a fat bank account and she wanted a great tip and maybe something more. She’d been flirting with me all night, but I wasn’t interested, not because she wasn’t attractive, but because I knew she just wanted to wake up in bed with a player and go home and brag to her friends. It was just… played out. Been there, done that. Or more like been there, done a different version of her.
On the other hand, I had given my name to Mia, curious if she would react or call me out on it. She hadn’t, despite hearing my last name from the bartender. She also had clearly been intending to walk away and not pursue further interaction with me. I was glad she had decided to stay.
“What are you drinking?” I asked Mia.
“A vodka martini.”
I ordered one from the bartender, whose smile had stiffened a little, and then studied Mia.
She was average height, curvy, with lush lips that were tempting me to taste them. Her nose was straight and strong, her cheekbones high, and her auburn hair was wavy and thick. Her dress wasn’t showing a lot of cleavage, but she had an enticing hourglass shape in a green velvet dress, and overall she was sexy and gorgeous and didn’t deserve to be stood up.
“What do you do for a living, James?” she asked, resting her feet on the bar on the stool, her hemline shifting up higher from the movement.
I forced myself to lift my eyes from her legs and that shadow it created right over her knees. It was the perfect hole to slide my hand into and touch her creamy thigh. I cleared my throat, cock starting to harden at the thought.
It was also making me hot to hear her call me James. No one called me that. Not my mother, not my friends, not Sunday announcers during games. It made me feel like a businessman. Like she was taking me seriously.
She was waiting for my answer.
Was that a trick question? Did she actually know who I was? But she just looked mildly curious, nothing more. It seemed to be a polite question, not anything leading.
I opened my mouth and did something I never do.
I lied.
I wasn’t even sure why. But it was interesting that she had no preconceived notion about me, because to her I was just another guy alone at a bar in Las Vegas. A businessman in town for work who bought bourbon he probably couldn’t afford. It was odd but liberating. Like whatever she said to me would be honest, natural, not tainted with any sort of agenda tied to money or fame.
