Play Me Right by Tracy Wolff Page A

I’m never going back. Not when the Atlantis and a number of my father’s other holdings are in such a precarious financial state. I can’t walk away from that.
    And I can’t walk away from Aria.
    The thought comes out of nowhere, steals my breath and tightens my gut. Because it isn’t supposed to be like that. It isn’t supposed to be so serious, so all-consuming, that I’m willing to stay in a city I despise just to be close to her.
    Not when I’ve only known her a week.
    Not when I messed up so fucking badly.
    And not when I don’t have a clue how to fix it—or even if I’ll be able to fix it.
    Fuck. The not knowing is killing me. The inability to control how this is going to turn out.
    I don’t even know why I care so much. I mean, yeah, Aria’s amazing and I care about her. And I enjoy fucking her more than I’ve ever enjoyed anything in my life. But still, I’ve enjoyed fucking a lot of women and never have I been this…obsessed. Or this worried about getting them back if we had a fight. For most of my adult life, my philosophy has pretty much been treat them well, enjoy them while you’ve got them, move on before things get sticky.
    So why, when things are stickier than they’ve ever been, when I have so many things on my plate that need my attention, am I throwing that philosophy away? Why am I obsessing over Aria instead of just waiting to see how things play out? Or just moving on, like I usually do.
    Because she matters.
    The thought sends a skitter of panic down my spine. Because I know it’s true. And worse, because I wouldn’t change it if I could.
    I shove back from my desk, walk over to the picture window where I first fucked Aria and stare out at the city far below. It’s morning now—and early to boot—so the lights aren’t as bright, the glitter not so apparent. Even from all the way up here, you can see the sex pamphlets on the sidewalks, the leftover remnants of another debauched night, the grime just below the glamour.
    Most people don’t like Vegas in that first hour after dawn, when the Strip is as quiet as it ever gets and everything looks just a little too fake, a little too garish, a little too dissolute. But it’s always been my favorite time of the day here.
    Partly because my best memories of Dylan all took place in the early morning hours, when he was coming down from whatever drunk or high he’d been on and he was just the guy I used to know. The friend who punched a rich kid in the nose for me when we were seven because he stole my Batman action figure and broke it just to be mean. The guy who listened and philosophized and talked the weirdest, most interesting shit just because his brain worked that way.
    And partly because I’ve always thought it was beautiful. The way the sun rises over the desert. The way the lights burn through the early morning dusk. The way the decadent turns so easily to the debauched. It’s a weird thing to love, but I’ve always found beauty in the unmasking. In the complete and utter honesty.
    Suddenly, I can’t stand the idea of being cooped up in this goddamn office one more minute. One more second. Though it’s only a little after five a.m., I’ve been working most of the night and I’m beginning to feel like the walls are closing in on me. Like this goddamn job is closing in on me.
    Fuck it. Grabbing my wallet and my keys from the top drawer of my desk, I head out. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m going to do when I get there, but I know I can’t stay here. Not for one more minute, not for one more second. At least not if I don’t want to go stark raving mad.
    But I don’t even make it to the front doors before someone calls my name. For a second, I think about ignoring it. About just walking out the doors and saying to hell with my responsibilities. To hell with everything.
    But in the end I turn around—of course I do. And stare for long seconds at my father’s nurse—and my father. Nancy has him in a