Page 72 of Scoring the Player
“Not since my first breath.”
Same.
“Is California home for you?” I ask.
Arnaz
“Fuck no,” I reply. “I wouldn’t even want to be buried there.”
“It’s like that?” His eyes widen. “Why?”
“The sun.”
“Explain.”
“Wish I could.” I bite into the crab puff he offers. “You?”
“I love my home in Brooklyn. I hate being on the road.”
“That’s the best perk of the gig.”
No boxes to unpack. It’ll all be gone tomorrow.
“I can’t feel at home unless there’s a kitchen.”
That makes me grin.
“What does your piercing feel like raw?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.
He coughs. “Wow.” He takes a swig of water and drums on his chest. “You really”—he coughs and swigs another sip—“don’t go on dates, do you?”
“Sorry.” But dammit, I need to know. “I know your…ex told you.”
He chokes out a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“Your whole body just shuddered at the wordex.”
Pfft. “I’m not the jealous type.”
He pats my leg.
I’m not.
“Did he sleep over often in your sex-dungeon bedroom?”
He squints. “My what?”
“YouTube.” I roll my eyes as a slow grin tugs apart his sexy lips.
“Answer me.”
“Nah, we weren’t exclusive, so we strapped. And yes, he stayed over often.”
“Never?”
He arches an eyebrow.
