Page 67 of Play With Me

I blinked and went for the door.

32

Trenchcoat Mike

Boston, MA

Will

The studio location wasn’t exactly public knowledge, and Lou didn’t have neighbors who just stopped by. I watched her cross the room in fuzzy socks, tugging her sweatshirt down over her hips as she went.

“Did you order something?” I asked.

She shook her head without slowing. “No.”

That did it.

I moved closer—not in her way, just close enough to see past her as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

A delivery guy stood there holding two cardboard trays stacked with breakfast containers, steam curling up into the cold air: pastries and something fried and smelling delicious.

Right, and who do you belong to?

“Tip is paid,” he said, mouth turned down at the corners.

He piled it into her arms, already turning away. No explanation—just the food and a folded note tucked under the handle of one of the bags.

Lou shut the door with her foot and laughed softly. “Okay, that’s weird.”

She set the trays on the table and picked up the note.

Her smile faded as she read it, and I leaned in enough to see over her shoulder.

Hope you had a blast in NYC. We should go together next time :)

No name or number. My stomach tightened.

Hasan hovered near the coffee maker, suddenly very invested in the way the water was pouring. He didn’t look over or ask any questions. Some friend, Malik.

“You tell anyone you were out of town?” I asked.

She frowned, thinking. “No. I mean—no. Not even Rachel.” She glanced up at me, amused again, like this was cute instead of concerning. “Just work.”

I didn’t smile. Mike knew.

My eyes went to Hasan. He was still facing away, jaw tight, hand wrapped around his mug like it might run away. He caught my look in the reflection of the window and gave the slightest shake of his head like he didn’t know anything either. What the fuck?

My brain jumped tracks, fast and ugly—back to the text Lou had gotten after the Ball. The one she’d brushed off. It hadn’t sat right with me then, and sure as hell didn’t now.

“Lou,” I said carefully. “This isn’t funny. Don’t eat that.”

She scoffed and waved me off, already opening one of the containers. “Will, relax. Someone’s just being nice.”

“Someone knows where you live,” I said. “And when you weren’t here.”

That slowed her—just a fraction.

Communication passed between her and Has. There was something they weren’t telling me, and I had a feeling Mike was involved. He was always asking where Has was, like he needed to keep eyes on him when “Isa” was around. It annoyed me that he got to call her that. Prick.