Page 34 of His Last Shot
She squeals and jumps with excitement. “I did it!!” I scoop her up, twirling her above the floor as our joyful shrieks fill the quiet space of the bar.
With both of us panting and with hearts pounding, I gently sit her on the table. Our eyes lock once again in an intense, silent stare. All playful laughing now replaced with yearning. Longing.
Her legs dangle off the edge as I swipe a piece of hair off her forehead. I inch forward, tossing my cue on the table, standing between her legs, and resting both of my hands on either side of her hips against the rails. Her gaze trails down my face, stopping at my lips; a spark ignites in those chocolate browns.
I remain still, not even a muscle twitching as the seconds pass. I white knuckle the rail to stop my hands from shooting up and grabbing that tiny waist again and pulling her to me. Teddy isn’t singing, and the silence is heavy, thick, and unsettling, broken only by our steady breaths.
A soft sigh passes her lips as she arches her back, angles her chin, and closes her eyes. Her lips part slightly and graze mine. Feather-light and perfect. I don’t move, letting her take the lead. She hesitates, contemplating, pulling back just an inch, then her lips brush mine again. A whisper of a kiss.
A frantic rhythm thuds in my chest, and instantly, one hand lets go and finds its way to her waist, pulling her into my embrace. Her hesitancy vanishes at my touch. She tilts her head, and our lips meet in an all-consuming kiss as I suck in a breath. Saying what we are both feeling, yet saying nothing at all.
Yes! She’s surrendering to this.
Releasing my other hand from the rail, I rest it on her hip, where it fits like a glove. Our lips stay locked, moving with ease yet overwhelming every single one of my senses.
She scoots closer to me, which only spurs me on further, and I’m happy to oblige. My grip tightens around her waist, tucking her closer as she sinks into my touch, and my other hand squeezes her hip. Then —
“AH!” With a sharp cry, her head snaps back, her stick flying from her grasp and clattering onto the floor. Her hand instinctively shoots to her hip, her face contorting in a mask of pain.
Oh, my God. I hurt her.
A wave of guilt settles in my gut. Our connection shatters, leaving a ringing lull in my ears. And it’s all my fault.
She quickly glances off to the side as her fingers skim her lips. Her other hand leaves her hip and rests on the table, leaning back, trying to get as far away from me as possible. With a soft thud, she slides off the table, and I quickly step out of her way. The room is silent, and the air between us that was full of explosive electricity is now thick with tension.
I have todosomething. Say …something.
“You should leave.” But she beats me to it. Her words hit me hard, like a punch that takes the air out of your lungs. I choke on the emptiness.
“Rachel, please. Is it me?” I plead as I bend and pick up the cue, handing it to her.
This hurts. So much.
With a frustrated shake of her head and a sigh, she walks over and carefully places her pool cue back in its rack. “No. It’s not you.”
“Then what? Is it Drew?” Because Lord help me if so.
An amused chuckle rumbles from her chest. “God, no. It’s definitely not Drew.”
As I approach, my hands settle on her waist, gently. She flinches, probably afraid I’ll hurt her again.
The fever of her skin through her shirt is a welcome sensation against mine. Her hands rest on my chest, our bodies close. Yet so far away. “Then tell me, Rachel. Tell me what I need to do to make you comfortable. Because I will do it. Anything you need.” The quiet is suffocating as she gazes at the floor, avoidingmy pleading stare; the thick tension coiling between us. Without saying the actual words, I’m begging her to open up to me.
She raises her head, and we connect. For a millisecond, there’s a glimmer of hope in her stare. She may say yes.
She might give us a chance.
Givemea chance.
But then, her shoulders sag, and her hands push back against my shirt.
I step back, giving her the space she is asking for without words.
A tear, slow and silent, tracks a path down her tan cheek. She whisks it away. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Johnny.”
With a silent nod, I make my way to the pool table, the click of my shoes on the floor echoing softly, to retrieve the brush and ball box. We finish closing, neither of us saying a word. And as we lock the door and stand face to face at the entrance, the world spins and blurs, a dizzying rush of emotions overwhelming me.
All I want to do is hold her close and whisper assurances I’ll carry whatever weight she’s bearing, freeing her from all the burdens she has.
