Page 11 of His Last Shot

Watch and Learn

Johnny

H er head snaps up, eyes widening in surprise as the question hangs in the air. She gently brushes away the stray tear.

I’ve dated countless women over my forty-five years, yet the profound sense of protectiveness I have towards Rachel is unparalleled. I don’t know what it is, considering that I just met her. But her being upset right now, while she’s at work no less, I need to know what happened.

And how I can make it better.

Was it a customer who got too close and thought he had the right to touch her without permission? Is she sick? Did she get bad news at the doctor’s appointment I heard her brother mention to … I think it was Slick. Or maybe she’s just hormonal and emotional, like we all get sometimes.

I don’t care what the reason is. I just want to help and comfort her. And punch someone if need be.

After her initial shock wears off, her shoulders square, and she stands a little straighter, trying to compose herself and not show any emotion.

The mask she wears is back on. “I’m fine, Johnny.

” Her bartender persona takes over as she flashes me a smile, and a napkin appears in front of me.

The small, strained smile that graces her lips is devoid of its characteristic brightness; it’s forced and stiff. “What can I get you?”

If she assumes I’m letting this go, she’s crazy.

I perch myself on the barstool, the smooth wood cool beneath me, my pool cue resting beside my hand as I keep my attention glued to her.

The rhythmic crack of pool balls mixes with Blake Shelton’s twangy voice bouncing off the walls as I study her.

“Club soda with lime.” I peer around her as I remove my coat.

“Unless you’ve installed an espresso machine back there since last week, then I’ll take a mocha with a double shot of espresso and vanilla sweet cream. ”

This makes her chuckle. Good. Mission accomplished. I’ve lightened her mood.

She fills my glass and plops the lime inside. “You really love coffee, don’t you?”

“The sweeter, the better. Plus, it beats this garbage.” A broad grin stretches across my face as I tilt the glass, the crisp, clean fizz of the club soda exploding on my tongue.

With a slight head shake, an inaudible tone eludes her lips before she resumes meticulously wiping the bar. I love that I have an effect on her. “Back again so soon?” she inquires while trying to hold back a grin.

“I am.” A subtle upturn of her lips tells me she’s glad I came.

“For a few reasons.” Turning, I watch the other players, their movements jerky and awkward, each missed shot accompanied by the pungent smell of desperation.

“I told you I was going to join the pool league,” I explain, itching to hold the smooth pool cue in my hand.

I take another sip as I observe some scrawny kid trying to make the nine ball in the corner pocket miss …

by a mile. His stance is all wrong. His legs are too close together, his bridge isn’t tight enough, and his aim’s bad.

Lord help me if this kid is going to be playing with me. I’m going to be carrying this team on my back. I may need to step in and teach these boys a thing or two.

Her sweet voice pulls me from my thoughts. “You here to audition?”

What? Audition? This redirects my attention to her, away from the unpleasant scene unfolding at the tables.

When I checked out the BPA website, it listed the locations that house tournaments. Dexter’s wasn’t the closest, but I didn’t care. My goal with this whole thing hasn’t changed. Sign up for the league, and I get to see Rachel more.

But there was nowhere on the site to register as a player.

The instructions gave dates and times to show up if you were interested.

It never stated that you had to audition.

Granted, I’m not in the pool league circuit.

But I have buddies who are and never have I heard of people auditioning. It’s strange, to say the least.

But let’s be real. If they need people to audition, I’m a shoo-in.

“Maybe. But first, you need to tell me why you were upset.”

She leans on the work station behind the bar, rows of liquor line the wall behind her.

Thankfully, it’s Tuesday, and this place just opened, so it’s a ghost town right now.

In about an hour, people will fill this joint after a hard day’s work, ready to cut loose with some alcohol.

But right now, I have her undivided attention, which I love.

With a long sigh, she steps closer and rests her elbows on the bar, her tank top leaving nothing to the imagination.

In order to avoid staring like a perv, I avert my gawking and focus on the big brown eyes I could get lost in.

“Why am I telling you this?” she asks herself, then pauses.

Her gaze darts around the bar as if to make sure no one is around to hear this.

“I want to apply to nursing school,” she declares in a low voice.

A wave of pride, warm and undeniable, swells in my chest. During our night under the stars last week, she shared her dream of becoming a nurse. Despite my attempts to encourage her, her voice still carried a tone of doubt and uncertainty. Who knows, I could have planted a seed.

Her telling me this feels like a secret shared between just the two of us. “Your face lit up when you said that.” Grinning at the memory, she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

Gosh, she’s adorable.

A sudden, intense need to touch her, a primal urge, overwhelms me.

Gingerly, I reach out and place my palm on her forearm.

Her skin is just as soft and warm as I remember.

Internally, I sigh in relief because she doesn’t resist or pull away.

Instead, a tense breath leaves her lips, the air charged with unspoken energy between us.

This slight connection is like color filling my black-and-white world.

Heat fills the tips of my fingers, sparking as the electricity sizzles between us.

I inhale deeply and refocus on the conversation. “Rachel, that’s incredible. So what’s the problem? ”

With an even shake of her head, her concentration is glued to my hand on her arm.

A worried frown creases her brow as she nibbles on her bottom lip.

I can practically hear the gears turning in her head as she tries to decide whether to trust me with this personal side of her life.

The confident woman that Rachel puts out there with her customers is not the same woman that stands here behind this bar, full of fear.

And I want to strangle the person who makes her feel this way; my hand is clenching into a fist just thinking about it.

She remains quiet, so I push … a little more. “Why would pursuing your dream make you cry? A dream should make your heart soar. You deserve to soar. And shine.” On instinct, my thumb glides over her soft skin to add comfort.

“It’s a long story,” she starts, so low that I can hardly hear her. “But it’s my unc—”

“Rachel?” A voice comes from behind me and interrupts our moment. A short, pudgy man glares at me; his eyes are burning coals.

It’s dear ole Dexter.

Instantly, his presence causes the surrounding air to crackle with unspoken hostility. His focus zeroes in on my hand resting on Rachel’s forearm.

Rachel’s back goes ramrod straight as if she was just caught making out with me in the alley behind the bar.

If only.

She yanks her arm away, breaking our connection. A heavy loss washes over me at the release of her touch. She grabs the rag she abandoned, folding it into a perfectly neat square. “Hey, Uncle Dexter.”

Between our initial meeting, what Rachel told me, and Scott’s revelations, this man is no good.

Standing at my full height, a good foot taller than him, I maintain eye contact as I loom over him.

“Sorry to interrupt time with your friend here,” Dexter says, trying his hardest to appear intimidating and scary.

He’s failing.

“He’s not my friend,” Rachel quips back .

My head whips around, the sharp movement causing my neck to pinch as her eyes flick to meet me for only a millisecond.

Is she … scared of him?

I thought our connection was real. I would definitely say we are ‘friendly’ if nothing else. A strange stillness settles between us at her hesitation to introduce me or even acknowledge me to her uncle. Each passing second amplifies my discomfort.

Something is itching at me. And it’s telling me that this man is controlling and a bully.

I’m going to make it my aim to find out.

With my usual charming smile fixed in place, I extend my hand to the puny man. “Nice to see you again, Dexter. It’s been a while.”

He sneers at my outstretched hand with disgust for a beat or two before reluctantly offering me his.

“You as well.” He squints as recognition fills his expression, then points at me. “Didn’t I see you in here playing about a week ago with your cousin Scott? He was great to work with. Nice guy.”

“I tend to agree,” I answer, completely ignoring the question about him seeing me here last week. I’d rather not bring up the unsettling scene I witnessed; it’s best he’s not reminded.

“How come I never had time to talk to you during the reno?”

Because you’re an obvious narcissist, so I avoided you like the plague . But I don’t say that.

“Scott handles the contracts and blueprints. I just enjoy getting my hands dirty. Give me some two-by-fours with a tape measure, and I’m a happy guy. I guess I was just busy.”

“So, a simple man, then?” If he feels this insult is going to hit, he’s mistaken. I’ve heard it all before.

“Or just someone who knows his worth and what he’s capable of.”

He glances away, jaw tightening, obviously annoyed with me. “Well, sorry, I didn’t have time to talk to you when you were working here. ”

I take a sip of my drink. “Yep, I never saw you around, come to think of it. You must be quite the busy guy.” Busy doing what? I have no idea. And it’s better that I don’t.

“What brings you by?” He tilts his chin up in order to make eye contact with me.

Rachel gives me a quick side eye before heading to the kitchen. Probably smart.

“I would like to join the BPA. The website said to show up, so here I am. Rachel mentioned auditioning?”

“You play?” he probes, ignoring my question as he pulls over a barstool, and with a grunt, he hoists himself onto the seat, huffing and puffing.

“Since I was a kid,” I answer as I sit with ease across from him.

“So you’re not just looking to get into my niece’s pants?” He raises an eyebrow.

Come again?

I grit my teeth, a vein throbbing in my temple, trying to stay calm.

It’s taking every ounce of willpower I have in me to keep my cool.

This guy is unbelievable, and I’ve only talked to him for five minutes.

Which is five minutes too long. I wonder if he would have asked this crass question if she was here.

Doubtful. This man has coward written all over him.

“You wouldn’t be the first man to show his face here, hoping to hook up with her. ”

Does he hear himself right now?

Would I love to see Rachel again outside of this place? Absolutely.

Am I hoping to get to know her better and use the pool league as an excuse to spend time with her? You bet.

Is this about sex? No.

I want to get to know Rachel as a person. Dig deep into who she is and what she can offer the world. Her uncle’s belief that men are only interested in her body is sickening.

And I get it; maybe he is just being protective. He raised her. It’s only natural to worry. But he could be more respectful about asking and not degrading his niece .

“I’m just here to play. And show you what you would gain by having me on your team.”

He clicks his tongue. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

I find myself unable to contain a snort of amusement. He has no idea the spectacle that is superior pool playing he is about to witness.

With a confident grip, I grab the handle of my case and face him. “What’s the next step?” This guy is testing my patience, and I’m one wrong word away from a regrettable outburst; I need to leave now.

“Head on over to that small desk in the corner. Irene will set you up.” I glance across the room, noting the newly installed pool tables gleaming under the lights, their felt surfaces smooth and inviting.

A woman, who I assume is Irene, sits there.

I noticed her earlier. An older lady with gray hair and reading glasses perched on top of her head, looking like she just stepped out of an episode of The Golden Girls .

“There’s a fifty-dollar audition fee. Cash only. ”

I sharply redirect my gaze towards Dexter. His eyes narrow, a sinister smirk playing on his lips as he taps his finger on the bar top. I know there isn’t an audition fee. Funny how the website neglected to mention the audition or the surprisingly hefty fee. And no one has paid Miss Irene a dime.

His behavior is quite telling, so I know what he’s doing. He is just trying to get a rise out of me. Or trying to steer me away from Rachel and from joining the team. Scare me off, perhaps.

Won’t work.

Sitting my pool cue on the bar, I fish out my wallet and dig out four fifties. “I’ll do you one better.” I slap them on the bar. “Here’s two hundred.”

“You’re that cocky, huh?” He jams his finger into the bills and swipes them off the slick surface, not even offering to mention that I have given him too much. Or to pay Irene and not him.

I grab my cue, walking backward toward my happy place, smiling like a fool. “Like I said, I know my worth. Watch and learn … Dex. ”

“It’s Dexter.”

I salute him. “I know.” Before I head towards the tables, Rachel emerges from the kitchen, and her eyes immediately meet mine.

Her gaze darts to her uncle, then back to me, as a flicker of uncertainty spreads across her face.

With each backward step, we hold our stare, a silent magnetic current flowing between us.

The weight of Dexter’s disapproval, heavy in his scrowl, swings back and forth between his niece and me.

He sees it. He knows.

But just to drive home the point, I give her a playful wink, which causes her eye to crinkle when she grins at my flirtation.

As the tables get closer with each step, a sudden clarity washes over me. I should expect a long, hard road ahead; nothing about being here at Dexter’s will be simple or straightforward.

But I am up for the challenge.

For the pool.

To keep an eye on sleezy Dexter.

And for her.