Page 11 of The Longshot

In exhaustion, I toy with my options. Do I go about my business and pretend like I hadn’t seen him? Or do I acknowledge his existence and send him on his way?

With remorse, I opt for the latter and break free from behind the kitchen wall. It’s hard to take in the man's appearance given the glare that bounces back from the glass. Nonetheless, I gesture to his right, where the answer to his question is clear as day: a big ole’ red sign that reads “closed”.

I watch as his shoulders slump forward and his head dips in defeat. “Listen.” He shoots his head back up in another attempt to sway me. “I really need a cake. I’ll pay whatever you want for it. Just, please. I’m desperate.”

As I remain silent, the man continues to murmur frantic pleas under his breath before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. “How much do you want?” he asks, scanning through. “Twenty? Thirty? Fifty? A hundred quid? Whatever it is, I’ll pay for it?—”

Before I know it, I swing open the door and lock eyes with the brown-eyed man in front of me, who wastes no time flashing me a confident smile before saying, “Well… hello there.”

FOUR

W I L K S

I’ve grown up in Crawley my whole life.

I know this place like it’s the back of my hand.

Everything around here is familiar.

The streets.

The stores.

The fields.

There’s not a single thing in this town that I’ve overlooked, and although I don’t pride myself on having the best memory, there’s one thing that I will never forget.

A face.

Especially not one that looks like hers.

“Well… hello there.”

With her round cheeks she flashes me an impatient scowl, tapping her foot in a repetitive motion as she stares me down through the crack in the doorway. “Can I help you?”

Fuck, can she ever…

I suck in a deep breath. I hadn’t realized that one look of her had the power to rid my body of its ability to breathe.

Who is she?

“I, uh…” I’m tongue-tied as I speak. It’s an unfamiliar feeling.

Wilks doesn’t get tongue-tied.

Gary does.

Snap out of it.

I straighten my spine. “Can I…” I attempt to clear my throat. “Come in?”

Her baby blue eyes scan me up and down and without sounding like a pompous twat, it’s an action I’m of course no stranger to.

Yet, the way she’s looking at me is different. She’s not dissecting my frame like I’m used to. Instead, her eyes halt over my chest, a stare that forces a rush of confidence—I knew all my push-ups would come in handy someday.

I flatter myself, ready to take in the glorious view until I’m quickly humbled. Shit, she’s not looking at my chest because of my killer pecs. No. She’s looking at my chest because I’m covered in bloody frosting.

Great.

---