Page 4 of Playing for the Dark
Reacting fast has to come to you naturally when you live in a home like I did. Surrounded by killers at all times… My own father being the one I had to watch out for most often. The beer bottle I took to the head at the bar didn’t even hurt compared to what I endured when I was younger. If I showed any kind of reaction to his abuse, it would only lead to him picking up the broken glass and carving my skin up until he saw fit… or I passed out. Whichever came first. It was enough to train my psyche to never show any weakness. It’s been a while since I’ve taken a bottle to the head, but I remember them all too vividly.
The dumbass at Shenanigans wanted an autograph. Usually, I wouldn’t hesitate. I love my fans, but I was just over it today. He just would not shut the fuck up about signing his fucking hand.Yes, his hand.I had enough and told him to fuck off, but he clearly didn’t take the hint. Once he hit me with the bottle, his fate was sealed. I wanted to do a lot more damage but figured doing anything super violent in public is never good when you’re a household name… I decided a dose of embarrassment would be plenty for him. Most of the time, embarrassmentworks better than pain. Some days, I do wish I was just the ruthless mafia enforcer my father bred me to be.
“Z! What the fuck, man? Are you okay?” Shit, I forgot he was talking to me through my helmet still.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just fighting with the rookie. Anyways, what do you want me to do about our fathers?”
“I just wanted you to know about it. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”
“I will. Keep me informed if anything goes south.” And I hang up.
I give our doorman a nod. “Hey, Tom, good to see you, man,” I say, jamming the button for the elevator. Tom’s not the typical old doorman you think of. He’s still ripped to shreds, and from what I can tell, he’s in his sixties. It’s giving “I’d fuck him,” if the man didn’t have a lovely wife and kids.
I ride in silence up to the twenty-sixth floor; the penthouses.
Marcello Barone owns this building, and when you live in Vegas, you know that name means steer clear of him and his men. He runs the Italian mafia here and also lives across the hall from me. I don’t think he knows of my ties back home, so I leave it alone. However, I knew the building would be secure with him owning it and also living here. That’s one thing about a mafia man. Nobody’s fucking with them, their businesses, or loved ones. I have one of the three penthouse apartmentson the top floor, and to say I’m obsessed with it is an understatement.
I had this place decorated when I moved in. I didn’t want to take the time to do it, but the guy I hired hit the nail on the head. The living spaces’ gray and dark tones are minimalist, but it fits me well. The kitchen has light gray cabinets at the bottom, white cabinets at the top, stainless steel appliances, and industrial lights over the island. Being that this building is a little further out, the skyline of Vegas is framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows.It’s a great place to plaster a face up against while railing someone.
This place was one of the main reasons I didn’t want to be traded to a different team. That, and I love the coaching staff at the Rebels. My teammates are great, and the GM and owner aren’t terrible either. The teammates and I get along great; that is until this fucking rookie quarterback came marching in like he owns the goddamn place.
Nash Hayden.
The bane of my fucking existence currently. I typically get along great with the rookies. They usually stay out of my hair, most likely scared of me, but Nash has been a different story. He played for Palm University like I did, so I figured we would have more in common. He’s come in here like his shit don’t stink. Yes, he was drafted number one, and he’s good—I’ll give him that. That doesn’t explain the attitude though.
The quarterback and wide receiver have to have a perfect relationship or at least be able to communicate without being at each other’s throats. That’s all we’ve done since he joined the team the past week. He even fights with me while we’re in the weight room. That’s why I ended up at that hole-in-the-wall bar earlier, but I’m about to thank his dumbass for pissing me off. Blowing off steam there put me right at the feet of my new obsession,Ellie.
The only thing I can pinpoint to have upset him this much is when I called him pretty boy the other day in the weight room.I’ll just do it in my home language instead. It was the second time I had met him. I don’t usually comment on looks, but goddamn, this man could get a nun to question things. But whatever it is, he better figure it out before the darkness that’s been peeking out of me takes over one day and I knock his teeth down his throat.He won’t be so pretty then.
Zamir
Good morning,Shpirt Im.
Shpirt Im
Excuse me. Who is this?
Zamir
Zamir? From the bar last night. This is Ellie, right?
Shpirt Im
This is Ida. I wasn’t at a bar last night. I’m eighty-three years old.
Shpirt Im:*Incoming Call*
*Voicemail*
**Deletes contact info. Blocks number.
She gave me a fake fucking number, and it belongs to an old lady. She called and left me a joyful voicemail, yelling at me for texting her. Great, now Ida has my number.
What the actual fuck is going on? I really thought we hit it off. I may have read the situation all wrong, or maybe came on too strong? I don’t think I have ever had a fake number given to me. No wonder she wrote it down instead of just putting it in my phone and texting herself. That isnotwhat’s going to happen next time I see her.
She’s not slipping out of my hands.
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