Page 6 of The Love Wager

“I don’t know, but I’ll bet it isn’t over. Keep your eyes on them.”

He waves his hand toward the bat my fingers are laced tightly around. “What were you going to do to her, boss? Bat her into the outfield?”

I growl, muttering to myself as I storm back into my office. I don’t know who this girl is, but I’ll be glad when the night’s over and my life returns to normal.

THREE

Indie

Missy giggles excitedly next to me. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe you did that. He’s so scary looking.”

I peer over my shoulder at Butch and shake my head. “That man is a teddy bear, through and through. All bark, no bite.”

We huddle back into the booth, the table now covered in a smorgasbord of half-devoured appetizers. I pop a salty pretzel bite into my mouth and reach for my drink. This game is out to kill me. First, a twisted ankle after a near-perfect performance, then Mr. Buzzkill came rushing out with a Louisville Slugger ready to bash some heads in. At this rate, I might need the money for bail.

“Okay, ladies, here’s where we’re at for the night. It’s almost midnight, and you have a little less than two hours to boost those points and get in the lead. Right now, our top three contenders for the jackpot are Maureen with fifteen points, Indie’s coming in second with eighteen, and our leader is Chels with twenty-one,” Tay announces.

I’m close to moving into first. If I take another five-pointer, I can get there and monitor the score for what to do afterward.Considering my last fiver almost got me kicked out by the proprietor of this lovely establishment, I need to be careful.

Taylor unzips her belt bag and drops a small stack of envelopes on the table. “These are eight-point cards. You can only take one, and I’ll warn you, they’re a little riskier than anything else you’ve seen tonight. If you dare take one and don’t complete the challenge by last call, you lose eight points from what you’ve already won. To win big, you have to be willing to go big.” Tay stares us down like it’s a life-or-death situation.

The other girls look unsure about Tay’s new option. Knowing her, it could be anything, and even I’m hesitant to take her up on it. When no one moves, she deflates, and the biggest pouty lip and puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen fill her face.

Fuck it.

I snatch one of the eight-pointers and throw her a piercing stare. “If the cops get called, or I get kicked out, do I automatically win?”

She’s happy again, and I feel like the hungry fish that took the bait, thinking I could get away with it.

“You better hope you knock out the challenge before and get the points,” she confirms with a laugh.

Blowing out an exaggerated breath, I rip open the note card and reveal my next challenge. “Oh, come on. You know this is going to piss off Mr. Happypants. There’s no way I’m not getting kicked out for this, Tay.”

I flip the card around for her to read, and she does a little happy dance. I know she added this specific card to the game because she loves doing it, especially when she’s drunk.

“Karaoke time!” She squeals.

When she reaches for a box at the back of the booth and pulls out a wireless microphone, I realize there’s no getting out of this. Even if I were willing to forfeit the points, we’d still end up singing tonight.

The mass of people from earlier has thinned, chilling the place out just a smidge. The copious amounts of alcohol are taking hold of everyone. This place doesn’t have a stage, but there’s no way I’m climbing back up onhis barto make another spectacle of myself. Maybe the booth will do.

“Hand it over.” Taylor plops the silver menace in my palm. “How the hell does this thing work?”

“Just hit the power button. Then, use the up and down buttons for the volume.”

The microphone crackles to life, screeching in protest when it gets too close to my phone. “Any requests?” I ask Taylor, since she’s the only one still at the booth.

The other girls have taken their lower number cards and are off trying to make them count.

“Hmm, how about some Spice Girls? They're iconic, or you could go with Carrie Underwood and make the men worry. Wait! No, I’ve got it.” She steals my phone, taps away, and slides it back to me. “That’s the one,” she says with a pointed look.

The title and lyrics pull a very unladylike snort from the back of my throat. Gretchen Wilson’s “Here for the Party” is loaded and ready.

“If you insist.”

The music plays, magnified by the microphone cradled in my hands next to the phone, reading me the upcoming lyrics.

In one fell swoop, the bar quiets, all eyes swinging in my direction, ready for their next performance. I’ve made our booth my new personal stage, and at this rate, I feel like the talent for the night.

---