Page 12 of His Last Shot

Are You a Serial Killer?

Rachel

“ T here’s one!” Johnny’s arm shoots up to the twinkling sky, his finger pointing to the shooting star that just streaked across the black void. He turns his head to me, his eyes bright and full of excitement. “Did you see it?”

A wide smile stretches across my face as I nod, the sound of my happy sigh filling the air. “I did! That was beautiful!”

We both settle back under the thick wool blanket covering our bodies as we lie on an air mattress in the bed of his truck and stargaze.

It’s a chilly April night, but the bed of the Silverado is full of nothing but warmth.

It’s like I’m being swallowed by blankets and pillows, and the low hum of the small space heater is doing little to drown out the beating of my heart.

He does everything to make this time together comfortable.

These little truck outings (they are not dates; I refuse to call them dates) have been a frequent part of my life since I met Johnny one month ago.

The last four weeks have been a whirlwind of joy and pain, the best and worst of my entire life. And that’s because of the gigantic tree of a man lying next to me, who shows up to win pool tournaments for my uncle.

Watching him play is quickly becoming my favorite pastime. And my number one distraction as I try to do my job. I’ve broken almost two glasses a shift as I drool over Johnny like a lovesick schoolgirl.

He is impossible not to notice, and that’s part of the problem .

And it’s not just the man’s looks. Which, I mean, come on.

He’s Glen Powell and Justin Hartley rolled into one.

He’s not playing fair. No other men stand a chance when he’s in the room.

Every woman who enters fixates on him. And every time one of their claws tries to touch him, a wave of nausea and bitter jealousy washes over me.

And it shouldn’t. Johnny can date whomever he wants. I have no claim to him whatsoever. We aren’t dating. We aren’t a couple. And that is by choice.

My choice.

I’ve kept him at arm’s length, and he’s respected my decision, even if he doesn’t understand it. Which makes him even more desirable.

Every time, though, a woman tries to flirt with him, Johnny’s eyes always find mine, lingering for a moment before he glances away with a slight smile. He refuses them with a polite but definite no. It’s like he’s waiting.

For me.

And that’s an insane thought. No one wants to be with me. Even a man who had me willingly found someone better. Prettier. Less arthritisy.

And to make matters worse, his gentlemanly actions are becoming increasingly obvious, making it even harder to cope with my feelings. Johnny has taken the time to get to know the OBGs and has even managed to get grumpy Tiny to like him.

Recently, Slick needed a ride since his car died while he was at the bar. Johnny arranged the tow truck and made sure Slick got home safely. Rumor has it he paid for the tow and Slick’s repairs, but neither of them is talking. Micah spilled the beans when I threatened him.

Then it’s what he does for me. He stays every night I’m working, after hours, to help me. He takes the time to clean and close the tables—my least favorite chore because of my joints.

And even though we have spent all this time together, he hasn’t made one move on me.

There have been accidental touches and soft hand grazes, all of which send my nerve endings on fire.

But nothing other than that. Which, if I’m being honest, leaves me somewhat disappointed.

But at the same time, it’s refreshing. It’s almost as if he cares more about my mind than my looks.

The men who come through the doors of the bar can be forward and downright disgusting with their comments and innuendos.

But not Johnny.

Maybe it’s his age. And with age comes experience. Or his parents raised him that way. Whatever the reason, the man is kindness personified.

And the age gap, a worry that initially had me spiraling, surprisingly feels nonexistent now.

Yes, he was a freshman in high school when I was born.

Yes, when he was starting his business with his cousin, I was still in elementary school.

But when we are together, under these stars, the years melt away and don’t feel like years.

It shouldn’t be this good. Should it?

Which is the part that makes me sad. Johnny is the perfect man, the kind of man who makes you believe in fairy tales, and I’m like a broken toy next to him.

And besides, he’ll find out, eventually, about my RA; the moment he does, his interest will get tossed right out the window. So why get my hopes up?

Taking his eyes off of the stars, he scans the surroundings of our little comfy bubble, then glances at me. His eyes narrow slightly as a flicker of concern flashes across his features. “Are you warm enough?”

My body is chilled and aching as it usually is, but it’s his question, laced with nothing but concern, that warms me.

But it’s also the five hundredth time he’s asked.

“Johnny, I’m fine. I told you.”

He sighs, directing his attention back to the heavens above us. “Sorry, I just want you to be comfortable.”

“I am. I’ll tell you if I’m not, okay?” I promise him as I nudge my knee to his under the blanket.

With a grin, he playfully nudges me back, his touch feather-light, but also not pulling away.

Oh, God. Now we are touching . And why does that excite me like I’m still a teenager?

He seriously wants to know if I’m cold. No, Johnny, I’m not cold since now I’m burning up because our knees are touching. And barely .

This is insane.

We lie in comfortable silence when a wave of bravery washes over me.

Throughout our evenings together, the conversation always flows.

It’s as if we have known each other for decades and not just one month.

It’s so easy and stimulating. We talk about our lives, funny stories from the bar, our likes and dislikes.

Gradually, through his words and stories, he is becoming one of my closest friends.

Some topics are off-limits for me, though.

My RA being one of them and then my ex, Drew.

The way things ended with Drew made me feel like a fool.

I don’t want him to know about any of it.

On our first night together, in this very spot, I briefly mentioned my biggest heartbreak.

But I’m not quite ready to tell him the full story.

Not yet anyway.

But his dating history … well, I want every detail. I know it might not be fair, but for whatever reason, I have to find out why this man is still single.

I bite my lower lip as my stomach somersaults with nerves. Interlacing my fingers and laying them over my stomach, I turn to take in his beautiful face. “Johnny, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He stares at the stars above.

“Are you a serial killer?”

His head whips to mine as a huge grin graces his perfect lips, and a chuckle vibrates through him. “What?”

“I mean, come on. That has to be the reason a woman hasn’t snatched you up yet. Have you seen you?”

He shrugs. “I thought the man staring back at me in the mirror tonight before I left the house looked pretty good.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “You know what I mean. I’ve seen how women flock to you at the bar.

” He arches one eyebrow. “Do you have a secret wife and kids, a third nipple like Chandler on Friends , or do you catfish people on the internet?” I gasp mockingly.

“Are you a closeted cat lady?” His billowing laugh fills the night air. “I’m serious.”

“I promise you, I am none of those things.”

“Then how come you’re still single? Have you even tried looking, or are you happy being alone? You are quite the catch, in case you didn’t know.”

His brow relaxes as his eyes soften. “And somehow, I can’t catch you.”

Whoa.

My eyes burn, and something thick lodges in my throat at his honest retort. I push it down, redirecting my attention back to the sky.

Why did I start this conversation?

After a few tense passing minutes, he shifts to his side on the mattress, facing me.

“I never found the right woman.” It’s my turn to shift and face him as I tuck my arm under my head, settling in to receive the answers I asked for.

“I guess you could say I have a reputation for being a serial dater, not a killer. A reputation I’ve leaned into.

And I’ve played the part well, even though it’s not really who I am. ”

The night air picks up, and a piece of his dark blonde hair falls on his forehead. My hand has a mind of its own. It reaches out and swipes it away. “Why would you play into that?”

His eyes search my face. “It’s a defense mechanism, I think. But the constant chasing and dating, at my age, is getting old. I’ve always wanted to settle down, have a wife and a family. That’s why I tried so hard with Julie.”

Julie? I already hate her. “Who’s Julie?” I ask with a thinning breath.

He turns onto his back, tucking his arm behind his head while running his tongue over his top teeth.

“I met her through mutual friends, and we hit it off right away. She was gorgeous. Huge green eyes with fiery red hair. She had a nose dotted with freckles and beautifully pale skin. It would always turn pink when she was in the sun for longer than five minutes. She was gorg—”

“You already said that. I get it. She’s pretty. Move on, please.”

The scowl on my face must be pretty big, because he flicks his eyes at me briefly and smirks. “The lady doth protest too much.”

“Funny.” I tuck my arm closer to my chest for warmth. Or maybe a shield.

He shifts slightly as his socked foot drifts toward my feet in a slow slide against the mattress. It brushes against mine. My breath hitches. A single touch from him pulls me from the cold water my thoughts were in, and it’s as if I’m encased in his arms. And only our toes are touching.

He continues. “At first, the relationship was going well. We were having fun. My family loved her. My mom loved her. She was great. We were great together.”

“So, what was the problem?”

“After a few months, I slowly realized that she just wasn’t the woman for me. And that made me sad, you know?”

“Because you would have to break her heart.”

He lets out a long, weary sigh. “Yeah.”

“How did she take it?” My head is buzzing with anticipation, wanting to know how this ends.

His focus never leaves the full moon. “I didn’t break it off right away.”

“You led her on!?” I smack him in the chest, but before I can pull my hand away, he snatches it and covers it with his own, resting them on his chest. His thumb begins to rub small circles on my flesh. Goosebumps erupt up my arm.

“I know it sounds that way. But I wanted to try. She checked off every single box. It should have been working. Eventually though”—he squeezes my hand—“after being together for six months, I broke it off. She was devastated and told me that I was the love of her life. She begged me to not give up on us. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that all I was doing was trying. ” He sighs. “That was a hard day.”

“I’m sorry.”

He finally turns to face me, still grasping my hand as he grins. “Don’t be. I’m not.”

“Do you still talk to her?” Please say no. Please say no.

“No. Not for a long time. I ran into her a couple of years after we broke up at the movies, of all places. She was with a date. A date who is now her husband. They have two kids. So it all worked out in the end.”

“It worked out for her. But you’re still single.”

Not removing his eyes from mine, slowly, he drags our hands up to his mouth and tenderly kisses my knuckles. Once, twice, three times.

I’m melting .

“Thank God for that.”

After a few more, far less serious conversations, we part ways.

And on the ride home, I secretly thank Julie for not being the one.