Page 3 of False Start

The sort of places where warm beer was always on tap for weathered fisherman, relic sea riders ranging somewhere between fifty and corpse, all with the same deep carved wrinkles in their sea-worn faces.

Generations of locals who struggled to survive their love affair with a romanticized profession flocked to the forgettable dives, wanting the quiet anonymity of drinking away their mountain of sorrows and all-too-limited successes with little fanfare and the drone of a muffled television keeping them company.

But for the rest of us, the outcasts, the townies, occasional tourists, and definitely derby girls, Banked Track was the sole nightlife of Galloway Bay. Tinged with the scent of salt air that crashed along our rocky coast and wrapped in the charm of rough brick walls, the atmosphere lulled even the most sullen into a good time.

And the saving grace—the sconces glowing with warm light and muted just enough you could get away with not recognizing a one-night stand you snagged from the scarred bar stools there.

Not that there were many one-night stands. Small-town bed-hopping had a way of making the rounds; next thing you knew, you were in the express lane of the local grocery store, minding your own, just a girl trying to snag a bit of salted caramel liquor to keep her company on a cold, lonely night and bam!

Not so subtle whispers of your escapades from the over-forty gossips who only gave a shit because they weren’t getting any at home.

Not that it happened to me often, but when it did, I shrugged it off. Sleeping with your high school sweetheart for the past two decades, realizing that you may actually die with having only fucked one guy throughout your ho-hum life had to sting.

I couldn’t imagine any sex being good enough that I’d want to be married to it for the rest of my life.

And I’d had some damn good sex.

A blast of heat washed over my frozen cheeks the minute I yanked open the door, driving away the vibration of my chattering teeth reverberating through my battered body from the minute I got out of my car.

Okay, in my car. Because the heater sucked. But the car ran and that was good enough. I was never behind the wheel for more than a few minutes anyway. Anything longer than around town, like our bouts in Augusta, Portland, and Rockland, I hitched a ride with a teammate. They appreciated the gas money and I appreciated not sitting broken down on the turnpike.

If I even made it to the turnpike.

“Toast, toast, toast,” my team chanted, raising their shot glasses as I uncoiled my scarf and limped over to join them.

Eve handed me a shot glass and narrowed her eyes. “You’re limping.”

“So what else is new.”

“Maybe you should get that hip checked.”

“I’m walking, right?”

“Yeah, and snarling which means you’re hurting.”

“Alcohol and ice. That’s all I need.” I raised my glass and took in the skeptical glances from my core team. The originals: Eve, Marty, Rory, Sean, and Zara. “To stiff dicks, perky tits, bitches getting every last bit of karma they deserve…oh, and that straight piece in Tetris.” I knocked back the shot, slapped the glass on the table, lifted the pile of hair off my neck, and fanned my face for the flush I knew would rush my Irish skin in a matter of seconds.

“Girl, you are fired up tonight,” Marty said on a laugh.

“Enjoy it.” My voice hissed on the burn in my throat. “I won’t be this full of fuckery until I have to face off with Tilly the wench again.”

“Don’t you mean Hun? Tilly the Hun?” Zara said, ever the serious one of the group.

“No.”

“Oooooookay then,” Zara said, glancing away.

I almost felt bad. Almost.

While I seriously wanted to stab Tilly in the fucking eye, I was madder at myself and the fact that I continued to play right into her juvenile games. Every time I did, I only emboldened her to continue with her shit, committing myself to the miserable cycle of giving Tilly endless satisfaction.

Frankly, I just wanted to stop talking about it.

And that ice. I needed that fucking ice.

Flipping my head down, I wrapped the bandana around my hair and tied it in a knot to hold my sweaty and now-cold hair off my face.

“Did you guys order the next round yet?” This bitch was getting her drink on tonight.

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