Read Playing Dirty for Free Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Echols
Sarah couldn’t tell whether he’d seen the Saturday Night Live imitation of George W. Bush or he really thought it was a word.
He looked at his cards, then looked at Sarah. His dark green eyes pierced her eyes, caressed her cheek, paused over her lips, stroked her neck, lingered at her cleavage. He had the audacity to tilt his head to make sure she knew he was contemplating her ass again. This was good for her bluff, though. The longer he stared at her, the closer she came to forgetting she held only a pair of threes.
“ ‘Let the Wookiee win,’ ” Owen quoted Star Wars in a bad British accent.
“I fold,” Quentin said finally, throwing two eights on the table.
Sarah turned her cards over.
“Oh!” the others moaned, and Quentin laughed. And laughed, and laughed, and started everyone else laughing because he was laughing so long. Sarah recognized that infectious laugh. A full thirty seconds of his laugh ended the album In Poor Taste .
“ Damn , woman,” he said finally, brushing away the tears at the corners of his eyes. “That’s some poker face. I got lucky the first time, and no luck since.”
“Story of your life,” Owen said. Erin giggled more loudly. Quentin’s eyes flickered toward them.
“You bluff well, too,” Sarah told Quentin, although she suspected it was easy for a blissful ignoramus to look noncommittal.
“Course, you ain’t as inebriated as we are,” he said, pouring her another margarita. He paused. “Inebri—Is that a word?” Now he faced her full-on, knee to knee with her. He stroked his fingers from her scalp all the way down to the ends of her locks.
She shuddered under his touch but didn’t dodge it. Flirting with this intense man was exciting and frightening and something Old Sarah never would have done. The tequila helped, too.
“I really like your hair,” he growled. “Did you know that?”
She shook her head, but not hard enough to shake her hair out of his hand.
“It changes when you move.” He slid his fingers down a blond strand and held it next to her cheek. “You’re a blonde.” He did the same with a brown strand. “You’re a brunette.” She suppressed shivers of anticipation as he touched her scalp one more time and selected a pink strand. “I don’t know what you call this .” He smiled at her. “I ain’t never seen nothing like it.”
“It’s pretty normal in New York,” she assured him.
“Let me clue you in on something,” Owen said. “Pink hair isn’t normal anywhere .”
Erin hit Owen’s chest and said, “Rude,” at the same time Quentin said, “Do you mind, dumbass? I’ve got something going on over here.”
“That’s what worries us,” Martin said.
Ignoring Martin, Quentin stroked Sarah’s hair again. “It’s like that ice cream with all the flavors. Napoleon.”
“ Neapolitan ,” laughed Erin, Owen, and Martin. Now Quentin was laughing, too, and Sarah laughed along. She wasn’t really Natsuko, and never would be. She had no real designs on Quentin. But wouldn’t Wendy just die if Sarah ended her yearlong celibacy by having a fling with this handsome idiot, bringing the grand total of her sexual partners to two in her lifetime? If only everything were different. If only he wasn’t a coke addict, he wasn’t a stupid hick, she wasn’t trying to keep him together with his band, and she wasn’t contracted to his record company, she would have had the most delightful decision to make: to ho or not to ho.
Martin’s mouth was moving. Quentin switched off the blender so he could hear what Martin was saying.
“—the matter with you?” Martin asked, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Drunk?”
“It’s hard to play dumb this long at a stretch,” Quentin said. “I may go cross-eyed.” Of course, he was also drunk, and he knew it when, pouring margaritas from the blender into the pitcher, he asked Martin casually, “Would you do her?”
“I knew it,” Martin scolded him. “You can’t do
He looked at his cards, then looked at Sarah. His dark green eyes pierced her eyes, caressed her cheek, paused over her lips, stroked her neck, lingered at her cleavage. He had the audacity to tilt his head to make sure she knew he was contemplating her ass again. This was good for her bluff, though. The longer he stared at her, the closer she came to forgetting she held only a pair of threes.
“ ‘Let the Wookiee win,’ ” Owen quoted Star Wars in a bad British accent.
“I fold,” Quentin said finally, throwing two eights on the table.
Sarah turned her cards over.
“Oh!” the others moaned, and Quentin laughed. And laughed, and laughed, and started everyone else laughing because he was laughing so long. Sarah recognized that infectious laugh. A full thirty seconds of his laugh ended the album In Poor Taste .
“ Damn , woman,” he said finally, brushing away the tears at the corners of his eyes. “That’s some poker face. I got lucky the first time, and no luck since.”
“Story of your life,” Owen said. Erin giggled more loudly. Quentin’s eyes flickered toward them.
“You bluff well, too,” Sarah told Quentin, although she suspected it was easy for a blissful ignoramus to look noncommittal.
“Course, you ain’t as inebriated as we are,” he said, pouring her another margarita. He paused. “Inebri—Is that a word?” Now he faced her full-on, knee to knee with her. He stroked his fingers from her scalp all the way down to the ends of her locks.
She shuddered under his touch but didn’t dodge it. Flirting with this intense man was exciting and frightening and something Old Sarah never would have done. The tequila helped, too.
“I really like your hair,” he growled. “Did you know that?”
She shook her head, but not hard enough to shake her hair out of his hand.
“It changes when you move.” He slid his fingers down a blond strand and held it next to her cheek. “You’re a blonde.” He did the same with a brown strand. “You’re a brunette.” She suppressed shivers of anticipation as he touched her scalp one more time and selected a pink strand. “I don’t know what you call this .” He smiled at her. “I ain’t never seen nothing like it.”
“It’s pretty normal in New York,” she assured him.
“Let me clue you in on something,” Owen said. “Pink hair isn’t normal anywhere .”
Erin hit Owen’s chest and said, “Rude,” at the same time Quentin said, “Do you mind, dumbass? I’ve got something going on over here.”
“That’s what worries us,” Martin said.
Ignoring Martin, Quentin stroked Sarah’s hair again. “It’s like that ice cream with all the flavors. Napoleon.”
“ Neapolitan ,” laughed Erin, Owen, and Martin. Now Quentin was laughing, too, and Sarah laughed along. She wasn’t really Natsuko, and never would be. She had no real designs on Quentin. But wouldn’t Wendy just die if Sarah ended her yearlong celibacy by having a fling with this handsome idiot, bringing the grand total of her sexual partners to two in her lifetime? If only everything were different. If only he wasn’t a coke addict, he wasn’t a stupid hick, she wasn’t trying to keep him together with his band, and she wasn’t contracted to his record company, she would have had the most delightful decision to make: to ho or not to ho.
Martin’s mouth was moving. Quentin switched off the blender so he could hear what Martin was saying.
“—the matter with you?” Martin asked, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Drunk?”
“It’s hard to play dumb this long at a stretch,” Quentin said. “I may go cross-eyed.” Of course, he was also drunk, and he knew it when, pouring margaritas from the blender into the pitcher, he asked Martin casually, “Would you do her?”
“I knew it,” Martin scolded him. “You can’t do