Page 6 of DILF

“You told me she couldn’t play,” Lars, Randy’s friend, says to Charlie. We're at the Rusty Nail where they have two pool tables, stale beer, dim fluorescent lighting that flickers constantly, and greasy bar food. But I don't care about any of it, because I've just swindled the guys at pool.

Charlie winks at me and shrugs at Lars. I swipe the twenty dollars I just won from the pool table and go to the bar and use it to buy another pitcher of beer. I’ve already shown them my fake ID, just in case, and they didn’t hesitate in serving us.

“I like a chick who can hustle me out of twenty dollars.” Lars grins, standing a bit too close to me. I’ve known Lars for as long as Charlie’s been dating Randy. He’s about six-feet tall, lean with short blonde hair, and really cute. He’s wearing a graphic tee and jeans that fit him well. His face his perfectly clean-shaven and he doesn’t look like he has any tattoos, which makes my mind automatically wander back to Mr. Edwards. Why? I don’t know, and it bothers me. Lars is polite, even if a little too touchy. But he smiles. He’s sweet. He’s attentive. And, a few days ago, he would have been the perfect guy for me. My type through and through. Now, all I can think of is that beard, those green eyes with a hint of crow’s feet around the corners, those tattoos, and those damn abs.

I come back and set the pitcher down as Lars sets up the table for another game.

“So how long are you in town for?” he asks me.

“Two weeks.”

“Maybe we can catch a movie or something while you’re here?”

I take a pull of my beer and think about it. A movie? Cute. Sweet. Safe. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Tomorrow?”

I shake my head and swallow a cold gulp of beer “My parents are leaving tomorrow, so I have a busy day.”

“Monday, then?”

“Monday might work.”

“Finally! I get a maybe from Lily!” he teases.

We hang around for the next hour, drinking, and laughing. I’m with Lars toward the back of the bar playing darts while Randy, Charlie, and some other friends that I don’t know well are in a booth eating. Suddenly, I hear a commotion. I look over my shoulder, and full-on shock rips through my body.

Mr. Edwards is standing with both hands flat on the table leaning into our group. “She is not twenty-one!” he roars, all the muscles around his neck bunch up., and Charlie’s lips quiver as he turns to Randy. “Is this the kind of shit you do in the Hamptons, boy?”

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper and head toward the melee.

“If my daughter is drunk, so help me God.”

The group is too shocked to speak, and the silence has become deafening. “Relax, it’s not like you didn’t drink at eighteen,” I say casually, from behind where’s he’s standing. I’ve never spoken to Mr. Edwards this way, but after the way he spoke to me this morning, I feel as if I have the right to. Or maybe, I just don’t give a shit. I’m an adult; it’s not like he can do anything to me. Or maybe I’m drunk and therefore brave. Except that: It’s the Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

Mr. Edwards straightens, and slowly turns around, his eyes roaming me from the tip of my head down to my toes, and my entire body ignites. He takes a step forward, and I take one back almost bumping into Lars. That doesn’t help the situation either, as Lars steadies me by my shoulders and Mr. Edwards’ eyes narrow.

“Daddy!” Charlie yells as she slides out of the booth. Lars gets closer, as if he is actually going to protect me. If I wasn’t currently scared of the gorgeous man who looks like he’s going to wring my neck, I’d laugh at the irony of Lars trying to protect me. Linc could bench-press Lars, or break him in half.

“You.” He points to Lars, but his eyes are locked on me. “How old?”

“Twenty-two.”

“You know she’s only eighteen?”

“Yeah, so. She’s legal.”

Again, wrong thing to say.

Very. Fucking. Wrong.

Mr. Edwards’ head whips to the side, and he gets close to Lars as he seethes. “Legal? Legal for what?”

Oh, jeez. Not legal to drink, obviously. Which only leaves voting and sex, and I doubt that Lars was thinking about politics.

Mr. Edwards’ eyes narrow, and I see, for the first time, a tall leggy woman, around Mr. Edwards' age, late thirties or early forties, put her hand on Mr. Edwards’ forearm. “Honey, they’re just being kids.”

“Who are you?” Charlie asks. This brings everything to a screeching halt.

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