“Here’s how we’re going to play this, Pulitzer,” Beaux says as she kneels down on the mattress beside me, glass still clinking like a cowbell in a warning that she’s here to stay. “I’m going to ask you a question, and if you refuse to answer it, you take a shot. Then my turn.”
I slide a glance in her direction and see that she’s leaning over, cleavage on display, as her proposition takes up real estate in my mind. Kind of ballsy on her end, and I like that. “We only get to ask the question once, right?” I need to make sure the rules of this game are clear before I agree, because in my line of thinking, she’ll ask the questions she wants to know the most first, I can take the shot, and by the time I’m drunk and a little looser in my responses, the most pertinent ones will be off the table.
Plus, I make a living asking questions and then re-asking them in a completely different way after they’ve been evaded. This shouldn’t be a problem for me.
“Agreed.” She finally sits with her back against the wall with a sound of satisfaction. “You can go first, since I’m sure your ego’s going to need nursing once I drink you under the table.”
I snort. The amusement in her tone told me she knows there’s not a chance in hell of that happening, but I respect that she can talk a good game.
“Thanks for the mulligan. What to ask… what to ask…” I make a production of coming up with something. “Where were you coming from that morning I met you in the stairwell?”
That’s most definitely not the question I had planned on asking, and it sure as hell isn’t any of my business, but the whole idea of her being with somebody else is driving me crazy. I stare at the night beyond us as the city begins to come alive, not wanting to see the look on her face and whether my question has surprised her. But the clink of the bottle’s neck against the glass gives me the only answer I need.
She clears her throat from the sting of the straight whiskey and blows out an audible breath. “Your turn. What really happened to Stella?”
Knew that one was coming. I reach over and take the bottle from her without so much as a word and toss back the shot, welcoming the burn.
“Beaux versus BJ. Which one and why?”
“I used BJ for work. It was easier to get my foot in the door if people thought I was a guy. Show them my portfolio via a Web site, reel them in, then meet them in person. It’s ass backward, but when you’re up against the good ’ol boys club, sometimes you have to do what it takes. Beaux is the real me.” Her voice softens, causing me to turn my head and watch her in the waning light. When she averts her gaze immediately, I’m intrigued. “Very few people get to know Beaux.”
Something about the way she says the last sentence tells me there’s more to the story.
“Beaux.” I murmur her name, and for the first time she doesn’t reject it coming off my lips. A part of me warms from the thought while the rest of me listens to those damn alarm bells ringing again. “Why do—,” I start to ask, but she immediately reaches up and puts her finger against my lips. Her touch causes my body to stand to attention, my instincts warring with that first shot beginning to hum through my bloodstream.
“Be warned. Asking a follow-up question out of turn earns you another shot.” She moves her finger away just in time for me to speak.
“You’re changing the rules on me now that we’ve already started? I have a feeling you don’t play very fair.”
A smile plays at the corner of her mouth momentarily, and it takes a whole helluva lot for me to tear my eyes from those lips of hers. “There’s no such thing as playing fair. Besides, playing dirty is a whole lot more fun,” she murmurs, the suggestion in her voice as clear as damn day. “So what does your wife think about all of this?”