Page 3 of His Last Shot
“Good grief, Johnny. What did you do to piss him off?” he asked once we were back in his truck after leaving Dexter’s the day we walked through the place with him.
“Nothing! He’s a know-it-all blowhole. You can tell,” I retorted. “I hate people like that. You know me.”
“Yeah, maybe, but he’s a client now, so try to not turn your nose down at him all the time. I mean, seriously, everything he said, you bounced back, correcting him in some way.”
“Well, he was wrong. Abouteverything.That man hasn’t used a hammer his whole life, I guarantee it. Yet, he was talking down to me about the trade I love. I wasn’t having it.”
“You’re right, but just do me a favor and avoid him while on the job. I don’t need any issues with this.”
So that’s what I did. Dexter hovered while the work was being completed, but I kept my distance. Not sure I would have been able to compose myself if he tried to school me on something I was working on.
But now that the job is done, Dexter’s no longer our concern.
As Scott texts Laura that he’s on his way home, something catches my eye through the bar commotion. A man stumbles out of a back hallway, looking alittle worse for the wear. The shiner on his eye is huge, and he’s holding a bloody rag over his lip. Two other men follow behind, shoving him out the side door. And then Dexter trails behind all three, looking over his shoulder.
He scans the crowd, probably hoping no one saw the scene that just played out. Briefly, our eyes lock. Then he turns and disappears out the door.
Great.
Ever since the day I met him, I got a bad vibe about this man. Immediately, my gaze roves over the bar, looking for the tall brunette. She’s occupied with customers and doesn’t see the men leave.
“Anyway, I’m glad the reno is over.” Scott’s words snap my attention back to him. I nod as he slips on his worn leather coat to leave. I glance at the side door, waiting for any movement, but it remains closed.Oh well, whatever happened is none of my concern, anyway.
Scott smiles. “We should do this again soon. This felt like old times.”
And by ‘old times’ he means us partying, being young and crazy. Not sure, at my age, I want that version of ‘old times,’ but yeah, he and I could use more of this, so I agree, hoping we can make it happen. “It was fun.”
“You sticking around?” We both head toward the entrance, passing the packed dance floor. My attention roves to the bar; she’s still there, the murmur of conversations surrounding her as she flashes fake smiles to people who probably don’t deserve them. As I watch her, a jolt of electricity pierces through me. I’ve reacted to a beautiful woman before, don’t get me wrong. But with her, there is just … something.
She is stunning.
Scott follows my line of sight. “Ah. I get it.” He grins. “Good luck. See you in the morning, and I expect a full report.”
My lips curve into an evil grin. “Do I ever strike out?” I don’t normally, and when I do, it doesn’t matter. But this woman? Well, striking out feels like heartbreak waiting to happen.
He grabs the handle of the door to leave. “Rarely.” His light chuckle follows him out into the night.
Nerves erupt in my stomach at the thought of talking to her, and I do not know why. Talking to women, flirting with them, dating them—it’s pretty much my specialty. The excitement of the chase is thrilling. Right now, though, I am anything but excited. I am a big goofball, full of nerves. Every time I look at her, and with every step I take, butterflies swarm in my stomach.
Wait … strike that. Not butterflies. It’s more like falcons are flying in there, clawing at my insides with their sharp talons.
With my case in hand, I weave through the remaining crowd toward the bar, my focus only on the tall, statuesque brunette serving up drinks.
She’s mesmerizing.
Resting my stick and jacket on the empty seat next to me, and with the scent of alcohol and regret hanging in the air, I settle in.
Sitting, waiting, watching, and drooling.
She slides what appears to be a glass of water over to one of the three older gentlemen, five stools away from me. She leans forward on her elbows. “So Slick, did your grandson graduate school?” she asks him with an ease and familiarity that suggests she knows these guys well.
“He did! Last week, actually. Well on his way to becoming a pilot,” Slick answers as he grabs the glass and raises it to his mouth. The man is older than my forty-five years. He’s probably pushing seventy and looks weathered with experience. The way life does to a person.
“That’s awesome! He will have to take me on a flight sometime.” The gorgeous bartender beams.
“Oh, he would love that more than you know,” Slick answers with amusement.
Another of the older men, whose leathered face is etched with wrinkles and eyes crinkled at the corners, turns and sees me sitting and waiting. “You better stop talking to us old geezers and wait on your customers, Rachel.”
