Page 99 of Unmanageable

“I’m an adult, Cash,” I say, my voice dropping as I sit up. “I need you to understand something. I am not broken. What happened was a long time ago, and I have had plenty of great, entirely consensual, normal sex since then. I am not fragile, and I don’t need you to tread lightly around me. Okay?”

Cash stares at me for a long three seconds, his jaw setting as he processes the sharp edge in my voice. Then, the cautious, careful look melts off his face, replaced by a familiar, dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Message received, Sharky,” he says, his voice losing that gentle edge, turning back into the cocky, solid tone I’m used to. “Good to know you’re still a pain in my ass first thing in the morning.”

The tension breaks, and I let out a genuine, sharp breath of relief. “Good. Now, we have six hours before we have to hit the road. What are we doing?”

Cash glides out of bed, his long strides carrying him over to the small laminate table in the corner. He rummages through a dusty drawer and pulls out a battered, taped-up cardboard box.

“The front desk guy said the previous guests left this behind. Connect Four. Prepare to get dismantled.”

“Dismantled? At a children’s plastic vertical checker game?” I slide out of bed. “Drop the checkers.”

We sit cross-legged on the floor between the two double beds, the yellowing plastic grid set up on the low nightstand between us.

Ten minutes in, the easy morning energy turns hostile.

Cash plays like he defends the crease—aggressive, territorial, and entirely focused on shutting down my lanes. He drops a yellow checker with a loud, metallic clack, blocking my diagonal line.

“Watch the flank, Scottie,” he smirks. “You’re leaving the back door wide open.”

“Don’t lecture me on the back door,” I mutter, my tongue poking out between my teeth as I slide a red plastic disc into the third slot. It clicks into place, blocking his row of three. “I see exactly what you’re doing. It’s predictable. It lacks creative vision.”

“It’s efficient,” he says smoothly, instantly dropping another yellow disc straight down the center column. “Connect four. That’s game three, Scottie. You’re down by two.”

“The grid is defective,” I say. “The plastic is warped on the left side, it’s throwing off the gravity of the red discs.”

“Right. Gravity,” Cash laughs. “Just admit that your mind can’t handle a basic defensive trap.”

“I am going to handle your face in a second,” I snap. “Again. Drop the first piece.”

We are moving faster now, the plastic discs slamming into the slots with a rhythmic, aggressive pace. Cash is leaning forward, his broad shoulders crowding my space, his breath warm against my forearm every time he reaches for a checker.

I drop a red piece, locking him out of the top row. “Boom, asshole.”

Cash doesn’t even blink. He slides a yellow checker into the adjacent slot, his knuckles brushing against my wrist as he pulls his hand back. “You missed the bottom row.”

I look down.

He’s right. A perfect row of four yellow discs is staring back at me from the base of the grid.

“Oh, go to hell,” I say, and before my brain can process the sheer, juvenile impulse, my hand flies out.

I smack the side of the yellowing plastic grid, sending the entire game tumbling off the nightstand. The board clatters against the wall, and forty plastic checkers explode across the brown carpet, rolling under the beds and bouncing off Cash’s sneakers.

Cash freezes, his hands still holding a final yellow disc, a massive, slow grin spreading across his face. “Did you just flip the board?”

“Fuck that game.”

“You’re a maniac,” he laughs. “All that legal training and you have the emotional control of a toddler.”

He stands up, stretches and groans. “God, I’m starving. I’m going to call down and see if they can slide some room service under the door before we pack up. You want something?”

He reaches for the motel phone on the nightstand, his eyes lingering on mine.

I look at him—the split knuckles, the hard, unyielding line of his jaw, the absolute lack of pity in his expression. The competitive fire from the game instantly twists into something entirely different, something thick, heavy, and hot that settles straight into my lower stomach.

“I want you,” I say.