Page 37 of Wild Side
“You know what I could tie a knot in? This long fucking neck. And then no one would have to tolerate your presence here.” I don’t bother keeping my voice quiet. This guy’s small-dick shit talk has me riled. “Anyone have any objections?”
Tabitha’s eyes flash to mine, wide and alarmed. Then they turn upward as though she’s found something especially interesting about the shape of the stain on the ceiling tiles.
The guy ducks and runs, slinking away like the coward he is. Chatter breaks out around us. I register voices saying something about hating that guy and something about girls’ night. I don’t know, and I don’t care. It all falls away, and I only hear generalities, because Tabitha’s dark eyes are back on mine. They hold as she wraps her lips around the edge of the cheap rocks glass and takes a swig of pale gold liquor.
She’s taunting me. And it works.
So before I do something crazy like drag her out of here and beg her to let me fuck her, I spin on my heel and walk back to our bowling lane.
Bash calls the other guys over, and the game begins, but I’m too agitated to finesse a single thing. Instead of pins, I see Stretch’s stupid face, and I throw the ball like I’m taking his head clean off.
“Goddamn, you’ve got a hell of an arm on ya,” West comments, fully amused, right as Bash grumbles, “Calm the fuck down. This isn’t a World’s Strongest Man contest.”
Ford chuckles and shakes his head as he regards me. I think he might be more observant than the others, which means he could be onto me and my wayward crush on Tabitha Garrison.
The one that just fucking blindsided me in the middle of a shitty dive bar. The one I’ve been ignoring for weeks to avoid allthe complications that come with it. The one that’s one hundred percent doomed, because crushing on a girl who hates your guts is a recipe for disaster.
No matter what a bad idea it is, it’s an idea all the same. One I can’t shake. Even bowling can’t clear my mind of her. Especially not when I know she’shere.
It’s my turn again, and we’re already losing. Our team is fun, but we suck. I can hear the girls taunting us from the bar. I’ve been trying not to look their way, but it’s been impossible to keep my eyes from wandering to Tabitha. Sometimes I catch her looking at me. Sometimes it’s the other women. But one thing is clear: they’re talking about me.
Seconds later, my hunch is confirmed.
“Your physique is too much like Jason Momoa, Rhys,” Skylar calls out, barely audible over the din of heavy balls and falling pins.
I ignore her. Based on the news highlights I’ve seen, she’s had a hard enough time lately without me snapping at her.
“The way you fill out those jeans is criminal, Rhys,” Rosie says. I like Ford too much to say anything, so I opt to ignore them even as they continue.
“Your hands don’t need to be that big, Rhys.”
“How dare you defend Tabby’s honor, Rhys? You piece of shit.”
Shaking my head in an attempt to clear it, I approach the lane and throw my ball. But there are too many eyes on me. My feelings are too jumbled. And when I release it, I fire ithard.
Straight into the gutter.
That’s when I hear what I’ve come to recognize as Rosie’s voice calling out the loudest of their jibes so far. “Hey, Rhys,” she shouts across the small space. “You’re supposed to aim for the pins. Get this man some bumpers, Frankie.”
The guys around me fail to hold back their chuckles.
West grins as he takes in the lane with hands propped on his hips. “I thought Tabby was the ball buster. I think Rosie might take the cake tonight though.”
It’s only Bash who gives me a reassuring slap on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’re a natural at something. It’s just not this.”
That only makes the guys laugh harder.
I turn my head to glare at the women, but all they do is dissolve into a fit of giggles. Tabitha’s face is beet red, and she’s practically hiding behind a glass of tequila. My lips wiggle, and I turn away to cover a smile. She’s having fun. It’s good for her. And if mocking me is what brings her joy, then whatever.
I can take it.
I splash water over my face and stare into the cracked mirror of the men’s washroom at Rose Valley Alley. My body is sore, and I look tired, but somehow I also look… relaxed. Maybe doing something other than working, performing, training, and holing up alone is good for me.
The Ball Busters lost. Again.
But I had fun. Again.
Even with the feel of Tabitha’s gaze hot and heavy on my back, I ended up enjoying myself. But when we wrapped, I felt the need to cool off, to take a moment of reprieve. Even if that reprieve comes by retreating to the run-down men’s room at the back of the building. On the mirror, someone has written “For a good time call…” followed by the number in Wite-Out, and there are random stickers plastered around the edges.
