Page 25 of His Last Shot
His behavior is quite telling, so I know what he’s doing. He is just trying to get a rise out of me. Or trying to steer me away from Rachel and from joining the team. Scare me off, perhaps.
Won’t work.
Sitting my pool cue on the bar, I fish out my wallet and dig out four fifties. “I’ll do you one better.” I slap them on the bar. “Here’s two hundred.”
“You’re that cocky, huh?” He jams his finger into the bills and swipes them off the slick surface, not even offering to mention that I have given him too much. Or to pay Irene and not him.
I grab my cue, walking backward toward my happy place, smiling like a fool. “Like I said, I know my worth. Watch and learn… Dex.”
“It’s Dexter.”
I salute him. “I know.” Before I head towards the tables, Rachel emerges from the kitchen, and her eyes immediately meet mine. Her gaze darts to her uncle,then back to me, as a flicker of uncertainty spreads across her face. With each backward step, we hold our stare, a silent magnetic current flowing between us.
The weight of Dexter’s disapproval, heavy in his scrowl, swings back and forth between his niece and me.
He sees it. He knows.
But just to drive home the point, I give her a playful wink, which causes her eye to crinkle when she grins at my flirtation.
As the tables get closer with each step, a sudden clarity washes over me. I should expect a long, hard road ahead; nothing about being here at Dexter’s will be simple or straightforward.
But I am up for the challenge.
For the pool.
To keep an eye on sleezy Dexter.
And forher.
7
Are You a Serial Killer?
Rachel
“There’s one!” Johnny’s arm shoots up to the twinkling sky, his finger pointing to the shooting star that just streaked across the black void. He turns his head to me, his eyes bright and full of excitement. “Did you see it?”
A wide smile stretches across my face as I nod, the sound of my happy sigh filling the air. “I did! That was beautiful!”
We both settle back under the thick wool blanket covering our bodies as we lie on an air mattress in the bed of his truck and stargaze. It’s a chilly April night, but the bed of the Silverado is full of nothing but warmth. It’s like I’m being swallowed by blankets and pillows, and the low hum of the small space heater is doing little to drown out the beating of my heart.
He does everything to make this time together comfortable.
These little truck outings (they are not dates; I refuse to call them dates) have been a frequent part of my life since I met Johnny one month ago.
The last four weeks have been a whirlwind of joy and pain, the best and worst of my entire life. And that’s because of the gigantic tree of a man lying next to me, who shows up to win pool tournaments for my uncle.
Watching him play is quickly becoming my favorite pastime. And my number one distraction as I try to do my job. I’ve broken almost two glasses a shift as I drool over Johnny like a lovesick schoolgirl.
He is impossible not to notice, and that’s part of the problem.
And it’s not just the man’s looks. Which, I mean, come on. He’s Glen Powell and Justin Hartley rolled into one. He’s not playing fair. No other men stand a chance when he’s in the room. Every woman who enters fixates on him. And every time one of their claws tries to touch him, a wave of nausea and bitter jealousy washes over me.
And it shouldn’t. Johnny can date whomever he wants. I have no claim to him whatsoever. We aren’t dating. We aren’t a couple. And that is by choice.
My choice.
I’ve kept him at arm’s length, and he’s respected my decision, even if he doesn’t understand it. Which makes him even more desirable.
