Play nice, p.1
Play Nice, page 1
part #1 of 2025 Series
NOVELS BY RACHEL HARRISON
The Return
Cackle
Such Sharp Teeth
Black Sheep
So Thirsty
Play Nice
SHORT STORY COLLECTION BY RACHEL HARRISON
Bad Dolls
BERKLEY
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Copyright © 2025 by Rachel Harrison
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Cover art by Andreea Dumuta
Cover design by Katie Anderson
Book design by Kristin del Rosario, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
Title page art: tail © backUp / Shutterstock; background © Dmitr1ch / Shutterstock
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Harrison, Rachel, 1989- author.
Title: Play nice / Rachel Harrison.
Description: New York : Berkley, 2025.
Identifiers: LCCN 2025000062 (print) | LCCN 2025000063 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593642573 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593642580 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Paranormal fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3608.A78368 P57 2025 (print) | LCC PS3608.A78368
(ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20250307
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025000062
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025000063
Ebook ISBN 9780593642580
The authorized representative in the EU for product safety and compliance is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D02 YH68, Ireland, https://eu-contact.penguin.ie.
prhid_prh_7.3a_152930747_c0_r0
Contents
Dedication
Epigraphs
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
After
Acknowledgments
About the Author
_152930747_
For the crazy girls. This one is for us.
Yes.
Yes.
I accept you, demon.
I will not cover your mouth.
—Anne Sexton, “Demon”
It needs, it seeks affection
Hungry, it fiends
Look at me, look at me, you lookin’?
—Doja Cat, “Attention”
Behind every crazy woman is a man sitting very quietly, saying, “What? I’m not doing anything.”
—Jade Sharma, Problems
1
We’re coming up on midnight. The room is loud, everyone champagne drunk, ignorant of volume, and, wow, the air in here is intense, all hot breath and designer perfume. Everyone wants to smell good because this is the hour it happens, when it’s determined who goes home alone, and judging by the pungency, a lot of people in here don’t want to end up in an empty bed tonight. They want to attract. They want to be chosen. So they sneak off to the bathroom to fix their hair, stare at their smudged reflections, primp, powder, perfume—spritzing excessively, with reckless abandon. I inhale.
It’s hope, is what it is. It’s sweet but also pretty desperate. Pretty boring.
I turn to the guy next to me. He’s deliberately underdressed in a white T-shirt and jeans. He’s drinking a beer. I thought this party was too chic for beer.
“Where did you get that?” I ask him.
“The bar,” he says in a tone I don’t care for. I stick my tongue out at him, and he cracks a smile.
“Clio Louise Barnes,” I say, holding out a hand.
He stares at my hand for a moment before shaking it. “Ethan.”
“What do you do, Ethan?”
“Really?”
“What?”
“Small talk?”
“We can exchange childhood traumas if you like,” I say, helping myself to a sip of his beer. He allows it to happen, and I decide I’m into him. He reeks of cologne, so I know I can leave with him tonight if I want to.
“We’ve already met. Several times, at brand parties just like this one,” he says. “I was waiting for you to remember.”
I do remember. But the easiest way to tell who a man really is, is to injure his ego and see how he reacts.
“I’m bad with names. And faces,” I say. “And I meet a lot of people. I’m sorry. Please don’t take it personally.”
He rubs his jaw, considering. “You really don’t remember?”
“Do you forgive me?” I give him puppy eyes, bat my lashes.
He sighs, then lifts his chin and points to a thin scar, about three inches long. “Car accident when I was five. Blood everywhere. Mom was driving. She was in a coma for a week.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yeah. She’s got scars, too. But that’s it.”
I sip my champagne. I like it better than the beer. I wish I had simpler tastes, but I don’t. “Lucky to live with scars.”
“Better to live without,” he says. “What about you, Clio Louise Barnes? Childhood trauma?”
I debate making something up, but I’m intoxicated. From the alcohol, yeah, but also from the balmy heat, the formidable amalgam of smells, the city outside alive with that magnificent Saturday night energy. So I tell him something true. “I grew up in a haunted house.”
“Incredible.”
“Sorry, not haunted. Possessed,” I say, bringing the coupe to my lips and taking a delicate sip, letting the effervescence dance across my tongue. I’ll need a refill soon.
“Possessed by what?”
I shrug. “That’s all I’ve got for you. If you get me another drink, maybe I’ll tell you more.”
“We’ve been down this road before,” he says. “You flirt with me, so I buy you a drink. Then you disappear at midnight like some kind of Lower East Side Cinderella.”
“Oh, was I flirting?” I say with a grin. “My bad.”
He doesn’t react.
“The drinks here are free.”
“And?” he asks.
“So, what do you have to lose?”
He downs the rest of his beer. “All right. Another champagne?”
“Yes, please.”
He takes my near-empty coupe. “You better be here when I get back.”
I cross my heart.
* * *
—
We step onto the sidewalk, the click of my heels echoing, harmonizing with the rest of the city sounds—traffic and drunken gossip and subway squeals and club bass. Ethan is warm, which is convenient, because it’s early April, and the night air carries a tenacious chill, winter dragging its feet.
“What time is it?” I ask him. He’s the CEO of a cool, successful watch company. He used to date my friend Veronica’s friend Laurie before the cursed launch of her lipstick line. She named the shades stupid things like “Get Him Back” and “Divorcée” and the supremely controversial “Jailbait.” Then customers found hair and a mysterious gritty substance in the product, and just like that, her career was over. She moved to Florida, and now she does makeup for Disney weddings.
I’m not sure if Ethan broke up with her before or after the fiasco. Not sure it matters.
“Clio?”
“Sorry,” I say. “What time?”
“One twelve,” he huffs, annoyed at having to repeat himself.
“Amazing,” I say, spinning. “I didn’t turn into a pumpkin.”
“Do you want to get an Uber?” he asks. “We can’t walk to Brooklyn.”
He thinks he’s coming home with me. I suppose it’s a fair assumption since we left the party together, but I still haven’t made up my mind.
I like that he’s warm. I like that he’s good-looking.
I don ’t like that he’s got on so much cologne. I don’t like how he thinks he’s so successful that he’s above a dress code. And I don’t like that I’ll forever associate him with poor Lipstick Laurie. Maybe it isn’t his cologne that I’m smelling but the persistent stink of someone else’s failure.
“Your phone’s ringing,” he says. “It’s been ringing.”
“Mm.” I hear it—my phone—I’m just keen to ignore it. I watch a group of girls in short dresses stumble out of Scorpio, a nightmare of a club no one goes to if they know better.
“Are you going to answer it?” he asks.
“Nah,” I say, swinging my gift bag from the party. “Nobody calling this late has anything good to say.”
“What if it’s important?” he asks.
“Relax, Daddy.”
“I don’t get you,” he says, shaking his head. He’s not mad, just disappointed.
“All right, all right,” I say, unclasping my clutch to get to my phone. My hand shimmers, covered in glitter from the party, which is to be expected since the theme was “All That Glitters.” A jewelry-line launch, Veronica’s partnership with Shine Inc. Gold charms. Cute but nothing special. I take out my phone to discover I have seventeen missed calls, all from my sisters. “Uh-oh.”
“What is it?” Ethan asks. “Everything okay?”
“I’m about to find out,” I say as my phone rings again. It’s Leda. I hit ignore and call Daphne instead. Whatever the reason they’re calling, I’d rather hear it from Daphne.
She picks up immediately. “Hey, baby Cli.”
It’s bad news, I can tell by her voice. Daphne’s like a shape-shifter, a side effect of being the middle child. She adapts to the circumstances, fits into whatever space she’s allotted; the queen of appeasing.
“What’s up, Daffy?” I ask, walking away from Ethan. I turn the corner, lean against a boarded-up, graffitied storefront.
“Did you talk to Leda?” she asks.
“No. Why?”
She takes a breath. “Where are you right now?”
“Out,” I say. “On the town.”
“Are you with someone?”
“Considering,” I say. “What’s going on? Is it Dad?”
“No,” she says. “No. Dad’s fine. Amy’s fine. Leda’s fine.”
“Don’t tell me it’s Tommy,” I say, picking at my gel manicure like you’re not supposed to.
“No, it’s not Tommy,” she says. “Thank goodness.”
“Thank goodness,” I repeat, crossing myself. Tommy is Leda’s pushover husband, who wears sweater vests in earnest. He’s too pure for this world and we love him.
“It’s Alexandra,” she says.
She doesn’t call our mother “Mom” because she hasn’t been that to us since we were kids. It’s cruel, I think, but it’s Daphne’s prerogative. Leda’s, too.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
“She’s…she had a massive heart attack. She called nine-one-one, but…she was gone before the paramedics arrived.”
“Oh.” I bring my glittery hand to my face, press into my cheek. “Gone as in…”
“I’m sorry, Cli,” she says. “Hold on. Leda’s texting me asking if she can talk to you. Can you call her?”
“Is she upset?” I ask.
“I think she’s worried about you.”
“Why?”
“Come on,” she says.
“Are you upset?”
“I’m processing,” she says. “I’m actually driving right now. I’m on my way to Dad’s. I think you should plan on making the trip tomorrow.”
“All right,” I say. My phone beeps. Leda’s on the other line because of course she is. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Yep,” she says. “Love you, Cli.”
“Love you.” I switch over to Leda. “Hey. Daphne just told me.”
“We all had our own thoughts and feelings about Alexandra. But I know just because she wasn’t an active presence in our lives doesn’t necessarily make it easier to know she’s no longer with us,” Leda says. She for sure has been rehearsing this line since the moment she found out. Maybe even before then.
“Thanks, Leeds.”
“I wanted to be the one to tell you,” she says, stating the obvious. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“Daphne did a fine job,” I say. I notice a shadow creeping into my peripheral vision. It’s Ethan, standing at an awkward distance, watching me, a concerned look on his face.
“She was our biological mother,” Leda says through what sounds like a clenched jaw. Someday Leda will discover Xanax, and her quality of life will improve drastically. Until then, she needs to wear a night guard so she doesn’t grind her teeth to powder.
“Are you going to Dad’s?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m packing now.”
“ ’Kay,” I say. “I’ll catch a train in the morning.”
“If Aunt Helen calls, ignore it. I will handle,” she says.
“All right,” I say, aware that Ethan’s hovering ever closer. “I’m about to get a car back to my apartment. I’ll call you in a bit, yeah?”
“Text me when you get home,” she says.
“Will do. Love you with a cherry on top.”
“I love you, too,” she says.
I hang up and immediately open the Uber app, request a car.
“What service! Mitt is only two minutes away,” I tell Ethan. “Silver Toyota Corolla. Plate ends in X3.”
“Uh, is everything okay?” he asks me.
I drop my phone back into my clutch and pinch it shut. “My mom died.”
Seconds pass. A siren sounds somewhere in the distance. Someone else’s misfortune temporarily louder than mine.
“Wait, for real?” he asks.
I nod. “For real.”
“Incredible. I’m so sorry.”
Mitt pulls up in his Toyota. I open the door, look back at Ethan, who stands stiff on the sidewalk, his eyes watery and wide, as if he were the one who’d just gotten the gloomy news.
“You want to come home with me or not?” I ask before sliding into the back seat.
He climbs in beside me, undeterred by my tragedy. Or perhaps motivated by it. If he wants to be my knight in shining armor, so be it. I snuggle into him, steal his warmth.
That’s all he is to me, body heat.
If there is an afterlife, if any of the wild things my mother believed are true, she’s somewhere watching me, proud.
I’d rather you girls open your legs before you ever open your hearts, she said once, half a bottle deep. I was too young to understand then. So many things.
“Actually,” I tell Ethan. “I changed my mind. Get out.”
2
Rain taps at my window, a polite alarm. My eyes are slow to open, yesterday’s mascara gluing my lashes together. I got back to my apartment and fell into bed without undressing, brushing my teeth, or performing any of the many steps of my p.m. skincare routine.
“I have forsaken my serums,” I groan to no one.
There’s makeup smeared across my pillow, glitter all over my sheets. I roll onto my back and hear a soft crunch, reach underneath me to find my gift bag from last night’s party. I finger the heart-shaped tag with my name on it, then dump out the bag’s contents. Metallic tissue paper, clumps of glitter that will linger for eternity, and, finally, a small gold jewelry box with Veronica X Shine Inc. written in loopy script across the top. Inside the box is a pink velvet pouch, and inside that is a charm. A white gold snake with tiny diamond eyes.
I hook a nail through the jump ring and hold up the charm. There are a few ways I could take this. Veronica chose this charm for me because it’s the edgiest and most expensive in her collection and suits my style better than a heart or key or flower or whatever. Or I could be offended that she would gift me the snake, read too far into it. Thinking back, I don’t think I’ve ever done anything to her that would earn me the title of snake, but who knows.
My feet find the floor and I shuffle over to my dresser, to my jewelry tree, pick out a suitable chain, slide the charm on, and clasp it around my neck. I lift my eyes to the mirror, to my reflection, to study how the charm looks resting against my skin, but instead I see my mother, the traces of her face in my own, and I remember she’s gone. She’s dead, and I’m supposed to go to Dad’s today. Which means I need to take New Jersey Transit. As if the one tragedy wasn’t enough.
