Page 30 of Lucas

Marnie spreads her palms wide. “You can see why we might be concerned.”

“I can’t tell you right now, Mar,” I say, gently, though a confession brims on the top of my tongue. It’s killing me not to talk to my friends about Lucas. Bad enough that I have to hold my tongue when things are awesome, but it will be so much worse when it comes to an end. I’ll have no choice but to hold my chin up and stare heartbreak in the eye—I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to do that alone. “I promise, I’m good. Really.” Please let that be enough

Her expression further softens. “I’ll let it slide for now, but someday soon, you’re going to have to come clean with us. We deserve that.”

I duck my head. She’s right—at some point, I’ll have to tell them the truth. I owe them that much. The problem is, I’m beginning to wonder if my relationship with Lucas isn’t the least of what’s fueling this guilt. What if I’m losing respect for the magazine altogether? What if the reason I’m not meeting their expectations is because I’ve stopped caring for Rubberneckers?

* * *

I loop my arm through Lucas’s and we weave through the crowd of people milling around the booths at the giant market. It’s impossible to get a look at the vendors, but it doesn’t matter—we’re heading straight for the pinball tables, where Lucas promises to “whoop my ass at Pac Man.”

Bring it.

I was still the reigning champion at NYU when I graduated, and rumor has it, no one since has beat my top score. We have to wait in line for that particular game, so Lucas wanders off to nab us some drinks, leaving me with a fistful of change.

“I can pay for pinball,” I say, slightly embarrassed.

“You’re my date,” Lucas says smoothly. “You never have to buy a thing.”

It’s not like I haven’t tried to cover the cost of dinner or a beer, but Lucas is traditional if not stubborn, and hasn’t let me spend a damned penny. Another, albeit subtle, reminder that Lucas is a billionaire, which bugs me more than I admit aloud. Still, I’m grateful that he doesn’t flaunt his wealth, unlike many of the assholes profiled in Rubberneckers.

The guy in front of me loses his last ball and the machine makes a whomp whomp noise. He slams his fist on the glass surface and stalks away. Sore loser. I plunk a quarter into the game, and flex my fingers while the machine clinks, clanks, and whirs to life. My hands vibrate with excitement.

People are stationed at every machine in the room, laughing, cheering, and egging each other on. Through the open doors at the far end of the room, an energetic game of ping pong draws a healthy crowd of onlookers. I only catch glimpses of the ball whizzing through the air, the thwack of it hitting the table drowned out by the clanging machines all around me.

Lucas comes up behind me and nuzzles his chin into my shoulder. “Excellent timing,” he says, and sets my beer on the side table next to the game. “I’ll even let you go first.”

“That’s your first mistake, rookie.” I move the first ball into play and it whizzes up the right size, plunking into the “Magnificent Maze” slot. Lights flash, sirens sound, and holy shit, the balls come flying out of nowhere. I hammer on the flippers, keeping all but one in play. The points start racking up, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Lucas’s eyebrows lift.

“Impressed?”

He nods. “Not a bad start.”

The balls eventually fall out of play, and I reluctantly hand over the game. My hands and face are sweaty. I chug back the beer, eyes on the still-rising point-o-meter. When I crack a million, it slows to a stop. “Your turn, hot shot.”

From the first few seconds, I see how I’ve underestimated him. He maneuvers the flippers with ease, not even flinching when the ghosts glow and the music switches to invoke a sense of impending doom.

He is cool under pressure.

My eyes are drawn to his flexing biceps, and the concentration in his steely eyes. The scorpion on his neck twitches, but Lucas never loses focus. Not once.

“You’re good,” I admit.

He doesn’t respond. With four balls in play, his eyes are on the prize. He leans left as though his body can physically stop the balls from slipping through the flippers, and at one point thrusts his groin against the game to dislodge a ball that gets stuck.

“Damn good,” I amend.

The points continue to climb, but it’s not until he passes me that I see the start of a smile. It grows steadily until it almost splits his cheeks in half. And when the score tally finally ends—with him being almost a million points in the lead—he pumps his arm in victory and hip checks me with enough force I lose balance. “Take that, sucka.”

I choke on a laugh. “There is no way you haven’t played since college.”

“I never said I haven’t—you did. And you just assumed I hadn’t played in a while either.” He’s got me dead to rights. I should know by now not to make assumptions—Lucas is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. “We have a games room at the office,” he says. “I’m the current reigning Pac Man champ.”

“You jerk!” I punch him in the arm, laughing at how easily I was duped.

The laughter continues throughout the night, even though he passes on Karaoke. “No one needs to hear me sing,” he says.

“That’s kind of the point.”