Read Truth or Dare (His Wicked Games #2) for Free Online

long hours that I rarely meet anyone outside of the
Center.
    “Come on,” Morgan teases. She leans forward.
“Ooh, was he bad in bed? Wait—does he have a small dick?”
    “What? No! No, of course not! His dick is
fine. More than fine.”
    “Ah, so you’ve slept with him then.”
    Damn—she’s an expert at this interrogation
thing.
    “No! I mean—” My cheeks are on fire. I didn’t
want to talk about this.
    “You have! I knew it. Tell me
everything.”
    “Morgan, I—”
    “Excuse me, ladies. Are we interrupting?” My
dad has appeared in the doorway, a man I’ve never seen standing
just behind him.
    “No, of course not,” I say, grateful for
their sudden appearance. “Morgan was just dropping off her supply
list.”
    Morgan smiles. “Yup, I was just about to go
finish preparing my classroom.” She turns to leave, but from the
look she flashes over her shoulder, I know that this conversation
isn’t over.
    When she’s gone, Dad steps forward, ushering
his companion toward the seat Morgan just vacated.
    “You have a minute, don’t you, honey?” he
asks me. “This is Asher Julian. He’s from the Intown Voice. He’s writing a piece on us.”
    “On us?”
    “On the Center. On all the changes we’ve been
making these past few months. Isn’t that wonderful?” My dad is
almost bouncing in excitement.
    I glance over at the man sitting across the
desk from me. He has sandy blond hair and bright, friendly eyes. If
I had to guess, he’s in his early thirties, but there’s a boyish
quality to him—probably only heightened by that dimple on his left
cheek. He’s dressed in jeans and a sport coat, casual but
put-together. He extends his hand to me.
    “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Frazer,” he
says, shaking my hand. “I must admit, I admire the work you two
have done around here. This place is truly an asset to the
community, and I think a lot of people would love to hear your
story. At the very least, I hope to give you a little more
visibility. Our little city could use more places like this.”
    Okay, this guy definitely knows how to butter
us up. No wonder Dad’s beaming. This sounds like an amazing
opportunity, but still, I’m a little wary.
    I used to date a journalist—Garrett, who
shall henceforth be known as The Psycho Ex—and I asked him once,
when we were still together, if he’d run a little piece on us.
Nothing crazy, or long—just a couple of sentences. A mention. Garrett laughed and kissed me on the nose and told
me that as much as he ’d love to do it, his editor would
never approve of the story. I knew he was telling the truth—after
all, he wrote primarily for a site that addressed national business
and financial news, and we’re a small community organization—but
his condescension stung all the same.
    And then, when the Center was struggling,
when we were trying everything we could think of to bring in more
funds, we contacted a number of local publications. The only ones
that bothered to respond just sent over their advertisement rates.
I want to ask Mr. Asher Julian where he was when we desperately
needed this attention, but the truth is, we still need it. We might
be on the upswing now, but we can still use all the help we can
get. Intown Voice is a small, local publication—the sort
that you find for free on racks outside of bars and coffee
shops—but to my admittedly limited knowledge they seem to have a
decent readership. And they focus heavily on community and culture,
making them a good fit for us.
    I smile as I squeeze the man’s hand in
return. “What sort of questions did you have for us?”
    Dad leans forward. “I’ve already chatted with
him for a bit, given him the basics about our history and programs.
But he’s especially interested in the changes we’ve made around
here recently, and since you were the brains behind all of that, I
told him he should talk to you.” To Mr. Julian he adds, “She’s
cleverer than me too. And a much cuter subject for