Page 3 of Love on the Line

Chapter 2

Devon Blackwood droveinto the Corner Bar parking lot and hit the brakes. Neon beer signs blinked like beacons in the windows of the cedar building. He double checked the GPS to make sure he’d gone to the right place. Whenever he and Paul met for drinks to discuss their next bet, they picked a different bar. They’d started the whole thing back in college to make life more interesting. Paul must have misplaced his glasses or something when he’d chose this dive.

After zigzagging through a pot-holed maze, Devon parked his BMW in a spot far away from the jacked pickup trucks. A cold January wind blasted his face, and annoyance grew with every step he took. His shoes would need polishing after the trek through the dirty gravel, and his car would need washing.

He opened the heavy, paint-chipped wooden door and stepped inside. His nose wrinkled in disgust at the stench of stale beer and fried food. The scent took him right back to his father, passed out drunk on the couch, reeking of alcohol.

No need to relive those days. Now Devon was in control, always in control. He slid out of his coat. First thing tomorrow, he’d call the dry-cleaning service to pick up his suit and jacket.

His gaze swept the room. Mostly a blue-collar crowd wearing T-shirts, flannel, and jeans. Servers grabbed plastic pitchers of beer from the bar, while a band blasted music as if volume could make up for their lack of talent. A peanut shell crunched under his designer shoe, and a vein pulsated in his forehead.

Everything about the place made his skin crawl, including the women who elbowed each other as he passed, like he’d give any of them a second look. Tall, with dark hair and a martial-arts-trained body, he commanded attention. Females were putty in his hands.

He spotted Paul at a table away from the band. Even the finest clothes couldn’t make up for his small stature and the receding hairline that highlighted his pastiness. Both of them were thirty-five, but Paul could pass for mid-forties.

“Haven’t seen you in person for a while.” Paul took off his glasses, wiped them with a lens cloth, and put them back on.

Devon sat across from him. “No need any more with a virtual world.”

“Probably for the best, considering the sensitive nature of our business.”

“You have a problem?” Devon arched an eyebrow. “Because I can easily find someone else to keep the books for what I’m paying you.”

“Nope.” Paul shook his head. “I’m good. Don’t need to know the details. See no evil, hear no evil—”

“Exactly, Paulie. Remember that.” Devon wasn’t worried. Paul liked the finer things in life and wouldn’t do anything to risk losing his lucrative income.

Paul’s lips drew into a thin line. “You know I hate it when you call me Paulie. I wish you would drop that old college nickname.”

A brunette server, who he’d guess was in her late twenties, stopped by the table. “I’m Trish. What can I get you to drink?”

Devon frowned and eyed the bar. “Scotch on the rocks, the highest quality of whatever you carry in this place.”

Trish stiffened, and the smile fell from her face. She took Paul’s order for a merlot and walked away.

Devon’s head ached from the noisy band. “Why on earth did you pick this slum to meet?”

“The online pictures made it look much nicer.” Paul shrugged. “We’re just here for a drink and to set up the next bet.”

“I hope it’s something good. My boredom has reached an absolute high.” And so had Devon’s tolerance for the bar.

“A man of your means and money really shouldn’t be bored,” Paul said.

“That’s why we started this game, isn’t it?” Devon sat back in his chair. “What’s the challenge when I have the money and influence to get whatever I want?”

Paul nodded. “True. It’s made life more exciting.”

“What I wonder is why you even bother anymore. You never win.” Devon snorted.

“Oh, I won once. Remember back in college when Lynn picked me over you?” Paul smoothed down the edges of his cocktail napkin and blew out a breath.

Devon’s ears burned. That bitch. He’d been shocked when she’d turned him down, choosing instead to go out with Paulie. The first woman to ever reject Devon. He fisted his hands under the table.

Trish returned with their drinks. She plopped Devon’s down, smiled at Paul, and placed a bowl of nuts next to his merlot. “Would you like a menu?”

“No, thank you.” Paul said. As she returned to the bar, he waved a hand at her back. “You really charmed her, didn’t you?”

Devon glared at Trish, his face heating. She had ignored him, fawning over Paul, who had a lot of nerve bringing up that ancient-history bet that he’d won. Like Devon could ever lose another bet over a woman. “I wouldn’t spend a second trying to impress some low-class waitress. I can have any woman in this bar that I want.”

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