Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I have to own that.
The sound of shattering glass snaps my attention away, and I see Charlene standing in a pile of glass by the bar, a river of orange-red liquid around her heels as the bartender rushes to get a broom. Despite the initial flash of imagery, it’s not blood . . . It’s something else.
“Etta’s gonna be pissed!” Charlene whines, wringing her long-nailed fingers in distress. “We have too much overflow!” Turning toward the pool tables, she raises her voice over the din of the bar: “Would be nice if the other waitress, who’s still in the building, having fun playing pool, would stop for a bit to help out.”
I’m not sure who she’s talking to, but I hear a sexy, sultry voice float right back from over by the pool tables: “One, ask for what you want, not all this ‘would be nice’ suggestion shit. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Two, my shift is over, Charlene. If you wanted me to work overtime to help out, you should’ve asked before I clocked out. Three, this is my me time. Four, your tap’s overflowing your pitcher.”
Charlene grumbles something I can’t hear under her breath in response, but she runs over to shut off the beer tap and set aside the overflowing pitcher. I scan the crowd over at the pool tables, looking for the owner of the voice.
When I see her, my mouth goes completely dry.
Bent over one of the pool tables, holding a pink cue, is one of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen. Dressed in denim cutoff shorts, a red-and-white plaid shirt that’s tied in a knot above her belly button, and caramel cowboy boots that have seen better days, she looks like your classic country girl next door.
Except she’s not some country music video starlet. She’s 100 percent real, a knockout in the flesh.
Without even worrying about Charlene’s situation, she flicks her long, dark waves over a shoulder as she lines up a shot. From here, I can tell she’s got a waist I’d like to grab and a round peach ass I’d like to smack.
For the first time in a while, I feel something stir. And not just my cock, though it’s perking up as she slides the pool cue between her fingers smoothly. There’s something about her confidence in telling Charlene off and the suggestiveness of the way she’s stroking her cue.
“Holy fucking shit.”
I don’t even realize I’ve said that out loud until I hear Winston lean over and say, “That’s Hazel Sullivan.”
He could have said she was the queen of England, or any other name in the world. I barely notice with so much of my attention caught up in her movements. “Who?”
“Avery’s best friend. She was in the same grade as Wren, so you might not know her, but let’s just say she grew up good.” I nod dumbly, agreeing wholeheartedly even though I have no idea what she looked like before. “Before you get too invested in your eye-fuck situation, she’s also Etta’s niece.”
Two words . . . and a tsunami wave of cold water on my burgeoning interest.
“Of course she is. Fucking Uncle Jed.” I pick up my beer, telling myself I’ve struck out even before getting to the plate, but I can’t take my eyes off her.
I realize that the blond man behind her is her opponent in her current pool match, and a quick scan of the table tells me there are eleven balls left—five solid, five striped, and the eight.
I watch as Hazel walks around, positions herself, and steadies her cue. Following her gaze, I see the ball she’s trying to hit. Three ball, center right pocket. It’s an extreme cut shot, one that some semipro players might struggle with.
“No fucking way you’re making that,” I whisper to myself, but sense Winston turning around to see what I’m looking at so intently.
“She will,” he says nonchalantly. “She always does.”
I watch, hypnotized, holding my breath, as Hazel goes still as a statue. All time seems to stop. Then she pulls her arm back and pushes her cue forward with a graceful and precise motion.
My eyes follow the cue ball as it hits the red ball with a clean, muted click, sending it sailing cleanly into the center right pocket. Not too hard, not too soft . . . just right.
Impressed, I let out a low whistle as a triumphant smile spreads across Hazel’s face. In contrast, her opponent’s face turns a dark shade of red. But Hazel doesn’t pay him any mind, strutting around the table to take her next shots. She makes each of them easily, and her opponent only seems to get madder with each successful shot.
On a run, she hits the last solid in and pauses. The eight ball is at the top left pocket, shielded by two of her opponent’s balls. There’s no way to hit the ball without hitting those. Depending on the table rules, she could be out of luck.