Page 14 of His Last Shot

See Any Shots Worth Taking?

Johnny

I grab the brush off the top shelf and sweep the first table. I needed to get away from Dexter as quickly as possible. Every flashing alarm bell goes off in my head when he’s around. I don’t trust him.

And to make matters worse, Drew and Rachel are going to her brother’s wedding as a couple, obviously. My heart dropped.

Rachel has mentioned her uncle wants her to get back together with her ex. And that she has a hard time saying no to him, so maybe he wore her down. Or, it could be that Rachel has forgiven Drew, and she wants to give the relationship a go.

Which, if that’s the case, why spend evenings with me stargazing, talking, getting to know each other? Did none of that time we spent together mean anything to her?

I take a lot of pride in my self-confidence, but right now, I am feeling anything but.

Whatever. It’s none of my business. Even though I desperately want it to be my business.

All I want to do is leave this place, but I won’t do that before I help her first. As I brush the table, footsteps approach from behind me .

“I’m not dating Drew,” she blurts out. Before I know it, she’s standing on the opposite end of the table, waiting for me to respond, her eyes pinching with concern.

Why does she care? Why is she standing here telling me this, as if it matters?

For the last two months, I have tried to get this incredible woman to notice me.

Yet, trying not to pressure her. We have spent so much time together here at Dexter’s while closing the bar.

And nothing beats the time spent in my truck over the past few weeks, talking and stargazing.

I see the heated stares, the way her cheeks blush when I wink at her from across the bar, how her breathing increases when I help her out of the truck.

Every time I touch her, there’s a current of desire that fills my bones. It’s maddening. Granted, I have felt attracted to women before. But this … this urge I get when I’m with her, it’s unlike anything I have ever experienced.

I know this isn’t one-sided. Yet, she is keeping me at arm’s length.

So, it must be this Drew guy. They may not be dating, but something is going on.

And she never mentions him when we are in the truck.

I’ve brought his name up a time or two, hoping it will prompt her to talk about him, but she always redirects the conversation.

The rhythmic scrape of the brush against the table is all I attempt to concentrate on; I don’t look up. “It’s none of my business who you date, Rachel. Drew or otherwise,” I state without emotion. Because it’s true. As much as I want to care, and do care, Rachel can date whomever she wants.

She slowly saunters over closer to me, running her fingertips along the side rail until she is right next to me, leaning against the table. “Maybe I want it to be your business,” she purrs.

Well, well, well.

Finally, she is showing some interest!

I chuck the brush onto the table and round the side, standing right in front of her. She steps back, resting her backside and hands on the table, taking me in. I lean forward; my hands land on either side of her, caging her in. “Is that so?”

She nods. Our eyes lock. The air crackles with anticipation as we stare, the electric current in the room so strong, my skin comes alive.

With our faces millimeters apart and her warm breath skating over my skin, I zero in on her lips.

The desire I have to pull them to mine washes over me like a waterfall.

“Why did you feel the need to tell me that?”

She lifts her chin in defiance. “Tell you what?”

“That you and Drew aren’t a thing.”

She shrugs, unblinking.

The weight of her stare, how close we are standing and yet not touching, and just … her . All of it is causing me to lose my freaking mind.

I’m about to snap. In a good way. The best way.

Even though my heart is ready to explode out of my chest, something is gnawing at me, and it’s this … I can’t rush anything with her.

For one thing, she’s special. For another, I am putting the ball squarely in her court. I mean, great, we’ve established that it isn’t Drew holding her back.

Thank the good Lord.

Then that leaves her RA. I am about ninety-nine percent sure her reluctance is due to that and what it does to her self-confidence. And for that reason alone, I will wait for her to make the first move.

Which means, right now, I need to create some distance, because … GOD. This is intense. A swift subject change is in order. And there’s no better subject than my favorite. Pool.

But I don’t back away. Not yet. “Do you play?” She answers with a slight shake of her head, our noses grazing slightly. “Wanna learn?”

“Will you teach me?” she whispers and arches her back slightly.

I grin. “Gladly.” Pushing off the table, I grab the brush and place it back on the shelf.

Rachel takes a few deep breaths to compose herself before heading to the door.

She flips the lock, and it clicks into place, echoing throughout the empty bar.

She glances at me as I take her in. No one, and I mean no one, makes jeans and a tank top look as good as she does.

Mesmerized, I watch as she effortlessly piles her hair atop her head before making her way to the jukebox; the rhythmic clinking of her bracelets shoots straight through me.

I’m staring.

And ogling .

I have no shame at this point.

I’m like an out-of-control teenager when I’m with her.

“Do you want a drink?” she asks as she studies the jukebox, then punches in some numbers. Teddy Swims serenades us.

This is what Dexter’s does best. It mixes the old with the new. Vintage mirroring modern. An old-fashioned jukebox playing recent hits. New pool tables alongside old coin-operated ones. Weathered booths line the walls, mixed with new shiny fancy bar stools.

And maybe that’s why Rachel and I work. Me, old and vintage. Her, new, younger, and shiny. We mesh well.

“I’m good,” I say as I reach for the box of pool balls and the rack. She comes back to the table, me on one end, her on the other. Separated by felt and slate.

A divide. A barrier.

Literally and figuratively.

The weight of her stare burns into me, a heavy, silent pressure as I meticulously arrange the smooth, polished balls in the varnished triangle of wood. I shake them back and forth along the green felt.

Clack, clack, clack.

“You’ve done that before,” she says with a smirk.

I peer at her from the corner of my eye, noticing a subtle smile playing on her lips. “Once or twice.” Flinging the rack in the air, I step forward, catching it behind my back. She giggles. Freaking giggles. It’s so dang cute.

Having put my cue away for the night, I grab two sticks from the cue rack. I walk over and hand one to her, our fingers brushing slightly as I do. “I’ll break, and then I can show you a couple of things.”

“Okay.” Her hand settles on the sturdy rail.

As I slide the wood stick through my fingers, a confession blurts out of my mouth. “I’ve always wanted to teach pool.” I have never admitted this to anyone, not even Scott. For some reason, this woman brings out everything in me. Even my secrets.

Intrigued, her head tilts to the side, curious. “Why haven’t you? ”

I shrug. “I don’t know. No time, I guess. It’s always been something I have thought about but never followed through on. The game is life-changing, and I would love to show others how amazing it is.”

She pushes off the table and smirks while adding chalk to her own cue. “Well, let’s see how this lesson goes first.”

Oh, I’m sure it’s going to be just fine.

I bend at the hip, lining up my shot, but not before giving her one last glance.

Breaking the pool balls when I play is by far my favorite part.

The virtual unknowns, mentally preparing for whatever lies ahead, thinking on my feet as I watch the balls scatter across the table.

The whole thing lasts only seconds, and it’s one of the biggest adrenaline rushes.

Well, that and the beautiful woman standing only inches from me. Her scent engulfing me, her presence igniting a fire in my belly.

With force, I slam my stick into the cue ball, sending it careening down the table.

Rachel jumps and lets out a yelp, followed by a laugh.

With rapt attention, I watch as the cue ball strikes the triangle of multi-colored balls, creating a resounding clack and sending them scattering across the table.

Three of the pool balls find their homes in the pockets.

Once the balls settle, I look at her. “See any shots worth taking?” She glances at the table and begins to circle it, trying to decide. Me, I already know how this whole table is going to play out.

She uses her cue to point. “Two ball, corner pocket,” she announces proudly. I knew she would pick that one. It’s the obvious choice, but not the best one.

I wiggle my finger at her. “You would think. But if you take that shot, the cue ball will rest here”—I point to the spot with my cue—“behind the twelve and three, with no shot available. Try again.”

She frowns and examines the table again, and I watch her every move.

Her shoulders, tan and smooth, reflect off of the light overhead, the Dexter’s tank top clinging to her body in all the right places.

Her eyes, big, brown, and bright, study the table.

All she’s doing is focusing on pool balls, and I am completely taken by how magnificent she is.

She points to the seven ball. “Seven, corner pocket. ”

I grin because it’s the perfect shot for her to learn with. “Alright, line it up and shoot.”

She bends at the waist and stretches over the table, but it’s all wrong. Her legs are way too far apart, her hips aren’t square, and she’s too high.

Darn. I guess that means I am going to have to touch her.

Before she pulls back her arm, I grab her forearm to stop the momentum. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say as I slide my hand over to her delicate wrist.

She spins around. “What?”