Page 2 of Playing for the Dark
Chapter 2
Ellinor
“Come on, we need to get you cleaned up.” I get down from the barstool, and I feel him place his hand on my lower back. It’s like he’s doing it to make sure I don’t fall over, like he’s just a protector. I walk into the back office where I know a first-aid kit is hiding somewhere.
He’s the first to break the awkward silence. “Where are you from?”
“Very original questioning, Zamir, but I’m a Vegas native.” Most people think it’s preposterous growing up in Vegas, and sometimes I agree. I had a childhood I shouldn’t complain about; people have it a lot worse, but I’m also in the process of trying not to downplay my trauma. “Are you from here?”
“Nope. Chicago, born and raised,” he says in an honorable tone.
I motion for him to take a seat in the office chair. The gash on the side of his temple is pretty deep, but I don’t think it’s bad enough to need stitches.
“This cut is pretty bad,” I say, pointing to his head. I begin rummaging around the office to find the first-aid kit. “Ah-ha, I found it,” I say, setting the kit on the desk. He’s so close to me in the chair that I can feel the heat from his legs encasing mine. His spicy yet woodsy scent fills the tiny office but is quickly covered by the smell of the alcohol wipes. I grab his chin to turn his head to see the cut better. He’s sprawled out in the chair, leaning back like he owns the place. I’m busy admiring his strong jaw in my hold and the tattoos that come up to where my hand is holding him. He’s wearing a black V-neck and every part of his skin that’s showing is littered in tattoos. I find myself wondering if each one has a story behind it or if they’re all just for fun like mine are. Hand and neck tattoos are such a heavy weakness for me. To top it all off, he has a black hoop nose ring that matches the rose gold hoop in mine.I wonder if he has anything else pierced?
I place the alcohol wipe on his cut, and he hisses in pain. “Sorry.”
“This is not your fault. Don’t apologize for that pathetic excuse of a man.” His tone is stern but, oddly enough, comforting. I suddenly feel the urge to blurt out, “Sir, yes Sir,” but I holdmy tongue.
“I’ve never seen you in here before. Are you new to town or a strip-goer?” We rarely get a ton of foot traffic from the strip, especially not people who look like him.
“I’ve lived here for about four years now. I don’t typically frequent the bars.”
“What’s different about today?” I’m prying, but something about him just seems so intriguing. I probably just seem like the normal, nosey bartender with stars and dollar signs as eyeballs. I usually try to steer clear of talking to athletes, so I’m chalking it up to being in the middle of fixing his cut to keep his mind off of it.
“I just finished a terrible practice. The new rookie that started last week has been a pain in my ass,” he replies on a huff.
It’s my time to shine. Let’s piss him off. I play a dumb bitch all too well. “Practice? What are you, some adult rec league player?” I am internally laughing; nothing hurts the ego of a pro player quicker than not knowing who they are.
He replies in a sarcastic tone, “No,Shpirt Im, I’m not in a rec league. I’m the starting wide receiver for the Vegas Rebels.” There’s that honorable tone again. “The fact that you think I would be that worked up over a rec league wounds me.” He places a hand over his heart and flops back in the chair like I just shot him, completely ignoring the fact that I’m trying to put a butterfly bandage over his cut.
“Would you hold still and cut the dramatics? At least until I get the bandage on this cut.” I grab his shoulder, pulling him to sit up again. Goddamn, this man’s shoulders are pure steel. I must be gawking again because he has that shit-eating grin covering his face.
“You didn’t fall to your knees when I told you I was a Rebel?” he questions, acting wildly surprised. Finally, I place the bandage on his cut and give him a tap on his shoulder to signal that I’m done. I lean back, both hands falling to the desk to hold myself up, but his knees and legs still encase mine.
“Why would I?” I answer in a bitchy tone, my practiced mask slipping back into place. Who does he think he is? We’re in Vegas. Seeing celebrities out all the time doesn’t shock you when you’re from here and grow up around them. I would get way more excited over seeing anyone other than some dumbass football player.I do love some football, though.
He’s staring off, lost in what looks like a painful thought. I think his head is banged up more than we thought. “Usually, girls,”—he pauses—“and guys are all over me. You pick whether that’s because of my money, fame, or status. I’ve seen and heard it all at this point.” I forgot he’s one of the openly bi pro-football players in the league, and to say there are not many is an understatement.
“Is CTE getting your ass? I’m not that kind of girl. You being an athlete makes me want to run as far away aspossible. Your God complexes are too much for me,” I counter back truthfully.
He abruptly stands in front of me, crowding me against the desk and scowling down at me.
1 “I like your energy,” is all he says before running his hands up my arms. I’m still staring up at him in a trance. Every touch from him has elicited curiosity from my body, but my head is screaming for me to run.He’s too fucking pretty.
He has this hidden darkness about him that I can’t pinpoint, and I know this isn’t just some football player. I saw it oozing out of his soul when he threw Randy to the ground minutes ago. He didn’t miss a beat. I didn’t overlook how he knew exactly how to restrain him either. He has a facade in place, and I’ve seen it crack a few times already in the hour I’ve known this man. I should be fearful of him and that darkness, but it has a way of pulling me in.
Men are good for one thing, and that’s good dick—and that’s only about five percent of them.Five percent may be a little too generous.
My ex was everything I thought I wanted at the beginning of our relationship. He was sweet, caring, and well-mannered. Well, that’s the character he was playing at the time. That’s the best way I can explain whathe did. Slowly, he became what I was trying to avoid my whole life: controlling, hateful, and narcissistic.
I ended things with him eight months ago, but he still texts me at least once a week, stalks my socials, and I’m pretty sure I see his car outside from time to time. He did not take the breakup well, but I won’t put up with him treating me like he did.
The dating scene is nothing shy of cringe-worthy, so I’ve practically given up. Blair, my best friend and roommate, is always on my ass about being closed off from men, but I just can’t imagine opening up like I did again. She doesn’t have room to talk; the guys she has been on dates with have also been absolute disasters. She’s drooling over someone so off-limits it’s not even funny.
Trying to break the silence, I say, “I probably need to get back out there to help Jessica. It’s just us two tonight.” He chuckles while giving me a small nod, and he moves like he’s going to let me pass, but he traps me in even more. His eyes search mine, and they track down to my lips and back up. There’s want radiating off of him, lust and erotic energy bouncing between us. I’m staring into the depths of the green that makes up his eyes, and I catch myself looking down at his perfectly plump lips. He licks his bottom one, and I follow suit. He leans into me but doesn’t make contact. He’s waiting for me, but I pull away, shaking out of whatever the hell that was.
And then I’m walking as fast as I can to get away from him.