Page 87 of His Last Shot
It was incredible.
I left roughly an hour ago, just to come home and shower. Then, I’ll head back to help her close up so we can celebrate alone. A sense of urgency propels me to hurry because that is something I am really looking forward to.
Mostly, I can’t wait to prove Drew wrong and show her who really is the best kisser.
Is it petty? Sure. But it will be fun showing her who the better man is.
As I get out of my truck, my world is free, complete, and full of hope, and—
SNAP!
My head whips around toward the noise, my ears straining to pinpoint the source.
What was that?An animal? I scan the area around my truck and home, but nothing is amiss.
Just me, the crickets, and passing cars.
Whipping my keys around my finger, I shut the door and head to the garage. I lift the keypad panel and type in my code. Rachel's birthday. With a slow drag, my garage door opens as my pool table greets me. I swear she smiles. This beautiful rectangle has meant more to me than—
SNAP!
What the?
Once again, a sharp sound slices through my thoughts, making me jump. My yard and house are silent, each glance raising my heart rate, a rising tide of fear threatening to overwhelm me.
“Hello?” My voice strains against the black void.
Nothing.
With a tad bit of unease swirling in my gut, I hit the button to shut the garage. The huge white door starts its descent as I retreat into my sanctuary.
Creak, creak, creak, creak….
I take one, two, three steps, and that’s when two things happen at once. A shadow moves in my peripheral vision as a crushing blow to my back slams me to my knees. The garage door starts an unexpected upward crawl. The jarring impact echoes in my ears alongside the grinding metal of the door.
The pain is blinding. I grab onto the rail of my table for balance.
Footsteps, lots of them, fill my ears, each one a sharp reminder of my precarious position as I attempt to stand. And that’s when I hear him.
“Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,” he clicks his tongue. “I warned you, didn’t I?” His voice, menacing and scary, rasps like sandpaper, each word a threat. I stumble as I attempt to stand. “Get him up,” he commands to whoever is behind me and trespassing on my property.
“Shut the door,” he bites out his next demand. The weight of two men on either side of me is immense, their arms heavy around mine as they haul me to my feet. Their colognes overpower my nostrils. A searing, sharp pain shoots down my back. Pure white agony forces me to gasp at the jolt.
As the door descends, a metallic groan echoes in the confined space, closing us in. The burly men roughly turn me, revealing Dexter and two others besides the two gripping my arms. The smell of stale sweat and fear hangs heavy.
Now, look, I’m a big guy. Bigger than most. But these four goons areenormous,each nearly as large as the wrestler The Undertaker, and they fill my garage with their presence.
I’m guessing they haven’t come for coffee and a quick game.
One is holding a cold, heavy metal bat, the weight of which I can still feel on my back. The other man casually rests a sledgehammer on his shoulder, the metal gleaming faintly in the dim light. And I recognize both of them. They were the ones I saw that very first night at Dexter’s. Shoving that beaten-up man out the side door.
A shiver, like ice water, runs along my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms.
Rachel flashes in my head. She’s with me, nestled against me in my truck, watching the stars twinkle above. The memory of her laughter, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles—I hold on to that vision because it might be the last time I see her.
“You didn’t throw the match.” Dexter has a habit of pointing out the obvious.
I lift my head. The room sways slightly, as I struggle to focus on him through the haze of the earlier blow; a ringing in my ears adds to the disorientation. But I have to keep my cool. “Well, no one can say you aren’t both smart and observant, Dex.”
