Page 53 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
They’re crowded around Franco, who is hunched over a pinball machine; the boys are all shouting at him in what sounds like a mixture of insults and advice. As I close in, I can see why they’re all so excited—Franco is within a thousand points of the high score, set by JB, with the second highest score set by JON, which I assume is James Bod and Jesse O’Neill. As I watch, Franco passes the high score, and then taps out less than a hundred points past the high score.
“Boom, bitch!” Franco says, smacking the side of the machine, and then whirling to face James. “Beat you!” And then he dances over to face Jesse. “And you!”
James swigs from a bottle, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Oh ye of little faith. You know you can’t top the pinball master for long.”
Jesse snorts. “Okay, pinball master. The only reason my score is second highest is because Ryder’s clumsy ass spilled his beer on me. You know I’d have smashed that high score otherwise. I’ve been beating you in pinball since third grade.”
“You mean we’ve been going back and forth since third grade,” James shoots back.
“Sure, go ahead and think that. But let’s review the facts. Who still holds the high score on the Voltron machine at Electric Ed’s back by our old high school? That’d be me. Who holds the high score in the bar we went to in college? Oh, that’s right! That’d be me. I’ve been to both places recently, and I’m still on top, baby!”
I laugh, startling all of them. “Arguing about pinball game scores? At your ages?”
They turn away from the game and Franco chuckles. “You have no clue who you’re talking to, do you? To these two yokels, pinball isn’t just a game, it’s a religion.”
Jesse and James bump fists. “Pinball isn’t just a game,” Jesse reiterates, “it’s the ultimate test of focus, reflexes, and manual dexterity.”
When the laughter dies down, the handsome redhead in the group turns to me.
“Ryder,” he says, in a deep, silky voice. “You must be Imogen.”
“My fame precedes me, I see,” I joke. “Nice to meet you, Ryder. Hi guys, good to see you again.”
James and Franco I’ve both met, but Ryder I haven’t, yet. He’s a redhead, complete with pale skin and freckles. His hair is short on the sides and messy on top, with a full beard trimmed close, somewhere between too long for stubble and too short for a true beard. He’s just as good-looking as his three friends, and just as different in build; Ryder is the shortest of the four, only a few inches taller than me, but he’s impressively and scarily muscular. He has a calm, warm air to him, though, and his smile is bright and eager, and his grip as he shakes my hand is gentle.
“Your fame does indeed precede you,” Ryder says, laughing. “This butthead won’t shut up about you.” He finishes this with a jerk of his thumb at Jesse.
Who, I believe, just might be blushing under that bushy beard.
“I talked about her one time, dude. Once. Hardly counts as won’t shut up about her.” Jesse narrows his eyes at Ryder. “And you’re one to talk. The last girl you dated, you were all ‘Elizabeth this, and Elizabeth that’ for three months straight, until you realized she was batshit crazy and dumped her loony-ass.”
Ryder shrugs. “Loony, yes, but her ass was also tighter than a fuckin’—” he cuts off with an embarrassed grin at me. “Uh, I mean—she was…she had a…umm…”
“Hey, you’re a group of guys at your local place. No need to filter your conversation for my sake,” I say with a laugh. “Besides, it’s not like I’m unaware of how men talk.”
Jesse just guffaws, smacking Ryder on the back. “Tight ass or not, she was a nutjob.”
I drink a couple beers with the guys as we talk, and it’s surprisingly fun and easy to hang out with them. They had lots of funny stories about various construction jobs and I had a few stories of my own about the crazy stuff that can happen in the medical business. After a couple of hours, James and Ryder excuse themselves to go to the bathroom, and Franco heads outside to return a phone call, leaving Jesse and me alone. The music in the bar is loud enough to drown out the conversations around us, but not so loud that we have to shout to be heard.
I trace the rim of my glass with a fingertip. “So, about last night—”
Jesse holds up a hand. “Imogen, I know you’re probably—”
“Wait, wait, please—just hear me out first.” I cover his hand with mine. “I wanted to apologize for how I acted. I was a lot more drunk than I thought I was, and you were just being a gentleman and doing something amazing, and I was an ornery bitch to you. So, I’m sorry. And thank you. Thank you for being you, for taking care of me and being honorable and a gentleman even when I was being…well, the way I was.”
