Page 28 of Rush of Jealousy

I make a mental note that either he is lying or the alias Skeleton Man—who said he was in grad school—is lying. Communications or business. Maybe both are just bogus majors. This is messing with my mind. He obviously has something to hide. I am almost certain there is a connection between him and all the crazy things that are happening to female agency workers.

Only a dozen or so people are down here and most are watching some fight on the big-screen. Beer cans and bottles litter every end table and coffee table. If I lived here, I would make everyone pay a cover charge just to use the money to hire a cleaning service after every large party. This is disgusting.

I watch carefully as Paul only pours liquor and mixers from their original containers into a shaker. Should be safe for me to consume then. He retrieves two glasses from the cabinet and fills both to the brim.

“What is it?” I ask, taking the first sip.

“A cross between a cosmopolitan and a Moscow mule.”

“Moscopolitan.”

Paul chuckles. “Sure.”

“It is really good.” It is true too. This guy knows how to make drinks—with the female palate and alcohol tolerance in mind.

He takes a sip of his and agrees. Then he pulls down a huge snack bin from the top of the fridge and allows me to pick something to munch on. I choose the trail mix. When I struggle to open the package, he takes it from me and rips it with ease.

He points to my bandage. “I bet you had to relearn how to do a lot of things with your hand.”

“Yeah and it sucks majorly too. Especially brushing my teeth.”

His smile is warm and for a second, I almost want to believe he is trustworthy. “Want to play some pool?” he asks.

“I haven’t played in years.”

“I don’t mind winning.” He flashes a sultry smile.

“What are we betting?”

“Any ideas?”

“Let’s just turn it into a drinking game. Make it easy,” I suggest.

“Okay…so whoever loses does a shot.”

“So you want me to die?” I joke.

He chuckles over my exaggerated question. I have him exactly where I want him. Overconfident and soon to be drunk.

Paul racks the balls, and I send Claire a quick text saying I am safe. She texts back a selfie of her and Ethan with the caption—Apparently my butterfly costume was a mistake or one of my more genius moves. Ethan looks happy to be with Claire, despite not having any costume on except a shirt that says, “Here For the Boos.”

“Ladies first,” he says, handing me my stick. “You sure you can play with your hand like that?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

I chalk up the tip and then lean over the table to line up the cue ball. I pull back on my stick and gently rock it. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then, back one more time and forward hard. The pressure hurts like a bitch but it’s worth it. The sound of the balls cracking together fills the room over the sound of people beating the crap out of each other on the TV screen. Three stripes go into three different pockets, and I jump up and down wildly—like I just won the lottery.

“Stripes,” I call out.

Paul groans as he watches me sink two more balls before I miss and it’s his turn. Paul gets one of his solids in and then misses. I clean up the table and then land the black into the end right pocket, securing my win.

“I thought you said you hadn’t played in years.”

“I haven’t. But I never said I sucked when I did play.” I laugh the entire way over to the bar. I grab a shot glass and fill it with some 160 proof vodka that I see skirting the back rail. The rim is nearly overflowing when Paul tips it into his mouth and down his throat.

He shakes his head as if that is going to make it magically taste better. Yuck. I need to keep winning if I want my plan to work and to avoid that nasty crap. I was never big on shots.

We go another two rounds, and while some matches are close, I end up pulling in the victories. Two more shots go down Paul’s throat, and I forgo my mixed drink just to keep a clear head for my next goal.

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