Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(238)

Javier's eyes narrow and he takes a half step back from me; “Yes, we can.”

“No, we can't!” I say sharply; “I can't!” I step to the side, away from him, and hold the towel tighter to my breasts. A million scattered thoughts swirl through my head, and I shut my eyes tight, trying to stop myself from drowning in the vortex of regrets suddenly twisting through my thoughts.

“Chelsea-”

“I'm the C.I.A., Javier! And you’re a fucking target! You’re wanted by-”

“You?” He says it with a smirk, and I know he's trying to lighten this mood, but there's nothing that would take back the horrible mistake I just made in kissing him.

“No.” I shake my head; “This isn't happening, Javier. Not with someone like you.”

The words sound far harsher the second they leave my lips, and I wince as my eyes dart to find his; “I'm- shit, I didn't mean-”

“Well what makes you think I wanted anything to do with an uptight bitch like you?” His words are cold, and he pushes past me into the motel room, grabbing his shirt as he heads to the door.

“Wait, where the hell do you think you're going?”

“Out, princess.”

I sputter, storming after him as I try and wrap a towel around my naked chest; “Hang on! You can't just leave!”

He whirls on me, his face tight and his eyes blazing fire; “Where the fuck am I going to go, princess? It’s a damn island, and I can’t seem to get away from you anyways.”

I open my mouth, but the words don't come as he strides out the door.

Javier shakes his head before he storms out the door, slamming it behind him.





15





Javier




Fuck this.

My head is still swirling with thoughts as I storm back downtown to the little shopping area where we were earlier. I march right back to the same fucking bar I was in before with Benson and his assholes. It may seem like tempting fate, but this time I can actually see people in there; people in Hawaiian shirts and touristy fanny-packs and startled looks on their faces when I slam the door open and stomp up to the bar.

“Tequila,” I growl, slumping over my elbows on the wooden bar-top. I chance one dart of my eyes around the room, looking for any sign of the Blackriver douchebags. But of course they're gone now, and I know I'm just being an idiot.

The bartender slides me a glass, which I instantly tilt back before sliding his way and nodding for another.

I sip the second a bit more slowly than the first shot, brooding about what just went down in the motel room with Chelsea. I rake the fingers of one hand through my hair, grimacing as they slip through the unfamiliar shorter length. I can't believe I let her cut my hair like that.

I snort and take another sip. Right, like I “let” her do anything. I know the altering of our appearances, however small a measure, is necessary, but it still makes me mad that I let her do it now, after that whole bullshit back there. It's more than just the general situation, too. I'm not a little pussy bitch that cries about the world not going his own way. I mean, believe me, I’ve had the world not go my way plenty of fucking times. Actually, I’m not sure it’s ever gone the way I wanted it to.

But I’m pissed because I can't think straight. No matter what happens in life, even when shit goes sideways, my head is always clear. I know where I want to go, it’s just a matter of picking the right path to get there, sometimes no matter what the toll is.

Except right now, for the first time ever, I’m lost. And I’m lost because now there’s something else in my damn head blocking my view of where I need to go and what I need to do; something young, blonde, and way more innocent than I should be fucking around with.

How the hell did I let that fucking C.I.A. chick under my skin? And now here I am griping and moaning about it like a pussy. I've lost my power and my edge somehow just fucking being around her. I smile thinly as I sip the rest of the glass in my hand, thinking about some story I vaguely remember from church when my grandmother could drag me there. I spent more time most Sundays trying to steal alter wine to sell to the older kids, but I do remember Sampson and Delilah.

And here I let that bitch cut my hair and break my throne.

Another memory takes over then as the tequila starts to mellow me out. Only this one isn't me as a kid, holding abuela's hand and going to church. No, in this one, I'm holding a gun. I'm in a concrete room in some shitty little smuggler stop-off outside Tallahassee, and I've got Logan Dempsey and Chelsea's sister Quinn tied to chairs.

And I hate it.

I hate that it's come to this and I hate how being what I needed to be has brought me to this place where I have no fucking idea who I am anymore. I don't know how I got to be the Goddamn bad guy, but when you’re up against a wall and out of options, it’s the only route sometimes.