His Plaything | 18+

Framed

[Bianca]

"Bianca Campbell."

An officer's voice echoed through the cell block, startling me. I looked up from where I sat on the hard bench, my back aching from the endless hours of staring at the ground. The officer, a broad-shouldered guy with a slight frown and a ring of keys at his waist, nodded at me. "You're free to go. Someone posted bail."

I stood up, brushing my hands against my jeans as his keys rattled within the lock. He pulled the cell door open. "Come on out."

I walked out of the cell with my head down, my heart pounding, trying to think of an explanation to make what I did sound right.

As soon as we rounded the corner into the waiting area, there he was, in dark shades and a purple hoodie: Grayson. The only person I'd thought to call. I broke into a run and threw myself into his arms, burying my face in his chest.

His strong hands enveloped me. I'd promised myself I wouldn't cry—I really had. But the moment he began to rub gentle circles on my back, my resolve melted. I buried my face in his chest, gripping his jacket as though he were the only solid thing left in my world. My eyes leaked out as I tried to apologize. "I'm so sorry, Gray... I just—I didn't mean for this to happen. She was just—"

"Hey, hey." He shushed me, his hand moving up to cradle the back of my head. "You don't have to explain, B. Not to me." He sighed, "I would have got here sooner but the earliest flight wasn't until this morning and I had to pay in person."

I pulled back, feeling ridiculously pathetic as I wiped at my eyes, probably smearing whatever was left of yesterday's mascara. I glanced up at him, my breath catching as I took in the familiar face I'd missed so much. Grayson was towering at six foot six, dark-skinned, his short dreads framing his face. With those dark, expressive eyes and that easy smile, he looked the part of his profession. He had double piercings on both ears, adding a rebellious touch to his otherwise laid-back look.

He studied my swollen face, his gaze softening as he let out a deep chuckle. "Damn, B. You look worse than that time you took a swing at Julia Farris for calling me... what was it—gay Gray?"

I laughed, sniffling. "You mean that time you hid behind me like a wimp while her underlings had a go at me?"

"That's the one," he grinned. "But hey, look at me now." He struck a casual pose as if the whole NBA should be bowing down. "Took a whole lotta work to get out of wimp territory, you know."

"Yeah, yeah. You're a hard worker," I teased, finally letting him go. Grayson was my rock. It didn't matter how many poor life choices I made; he was there, with no judgment, no hesitation. I truly didn't deserve him.

"Come on," he said, looping an arm around my shoulder and guiding me out. "Let's get you home before you start swinging punches in the parking lot too."

As we walked out to his car, he informed me that there was going to be a restraining order from Christoph's wife. She wasn't pressing charges but I was to stay at least ten feet away from her at all times. I sank back into the seat with a sigh as we pulled onto the main road.

"So," I said, clearing my throat, "enough about my prison escapades. What's new? We barely spoke in person while I was in the hospital." I tried to keep the mood light. He was the only one who'd sent me flowers and cards during my stay at the hospital. Aside from a few strangers that stopped after the first year. Who could blame them?

His eyes were still on the road but a grin lit up his features. "Where do I even start? So, I finally got the contract."

"Oh my god, Gray!" I squealed, feeling a rush of pride as if I was the one he was talking about. "When was this? I knew you'd make it!"

"About a week ago. Wanted to tell you in person after you got out. It's a lotta work, B. Between training, endorsements, the game schedules—it's a madhouse. Oh, and there's this guy." His face softened, a shy smile sneaking its way out. "Met him through one of the assistant coaches. Smart, funny, kinda too-good-to-be-true, you know?"

I chuckled, watching him glow. "So, are you saying Mr Wimp has finally grown a spine and asked someone else out?"

"Ha ha, hilarious." He shot me a mock glare. "Don't mistake me for the high school version of 'gay Gray', alright? But, speaking of changes, I think it's time you thought about a fresh start too. Ever thought of moving to L.A.?"

"L.A.?" I scoffed, trying to imagine myself moving out of New York which had become my home away from home. "I don't think I'm ready to leave."

Grayson chuckled, but there was worry in the way he clenched the steering wheel. "You sure? It might do you some good to get away from... certain people." He raised an eyebrow, clearly referring to Christoph.

I sighed, feigning indifference. "Christoph's not even on my radar anymore. Besides," I added, offering a small smirk, "I've got my eye on someone else now."

His interest piqued, and he shot me a curious look. "Oh? Is he handsome? Rich?"

"Very," I said, keeping my expression carefully cool. The last thing I wanted was to admit that I barely knew Dante outside of a wild one-night stand that had somehow scrambled my entire brain.

Grayson snorted, shaking his head. "B, if I ever catch you putting up with another jerk, I swear..."

"Hey, hey, don't worry." I waved him off, quickly shifting the conversation. "So, tell me more about this mystery man of yours."

After some minutes of driving, Grayson parked in front of my apartment building and we walked down the corridors chatting. Most times, I saw him as an older brother. His presence was a reminder that maybe—just maybe—I wasn't completely alone. But we lived in different cities and he had a busy career unlike me.

The closer we got, the more I noticed the sounds. Men's voices echoed down the hall, the scrape of boxes against tile, and the dull thuds of furniture being shifted. I stopped, confused, glancing up at Grayson who tensed beside me.

"A new neighbour?" He queried as if I was supposed to know.

As we rounded the last corner, I froze. Two men in blue uniforms were hauling my coffee table out the door. A third was putting books into a pile of boxes—my unpacked boxes—which were stacked along the corridor.

I sprinted toward the movers, brows creasing as my temper boiled up.

"Hey!" I shouted, reaching the first man I could find and tapping his shoulder. He looked up, startled, a large duffel bag in his hands. "What the hell is going on here?"

He frowned, looking me up and down. "Are you Bianca Campbell?"

"Obviously!" I snapped. "Now tell me what's going on. Why are you moving my stuff?"

He shifted awkwardly, glancing back at the other men who didn't stop working, then leaned in, lowering his voice. "The owner got a tip of some... interesting materials in your apartment." He raised the bag in his hand, his expression hardening as he dangled it in front of me. I stared, horrified, at a plastic bag of powder clutched in his fingers.

"What?" I choked out. "That's not mine. I've never seen that before!" I wasn't even an addict!

He shrugged, unimpressed. "I just do the moving, lady. The orders came from the owner himself. We're supposed to pack you up, and you can either leave quietly or we call the cops and you can do a drug test."

My heart raced as I heard the words 'drug test.' Of course, I couldn't be tested without knowing what Dante had injected me with less than forty-eight hours ago. I clenched my fists, gritting my teeth. "And who's the owner?" I asked though I had my suspicions.

He eyed me, likely wondering how I'd moved in without knowing the owner. It was the hospital that had helped in that sense. "Mr. Dante Wentworth," he replied with a nonchalant shrug, shaking my hand off and getting back to work.

Of course. Who else would go out of their way to torment me if not that devil? But why would he do this? First was my job, and now it was my accommodation. Why the hell was he trying to ruin the life I was still getting back together?!