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)
Shit, why did I say that? Now I’m going to have to actually spend more time with the devil, and dancing is not what’s on my mind, unless you count the horizontal mambo. Trying to save a little face, I quickly sputter, “Your funeral. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Pretty sure you warned me, Roddy warned me, and Charlene over there is currently warning me too.” He hooks a thumb through the air, and I follow it to see Charlene still busting ass with the rush but keeping one eye on Wyatt and me. It’s the stink eye she reserves for the worst of customers.
I hold off from going straight into my “I was right” victory dance, taking the time to ask, “You know Charlene?”
There’s the tiniest bit of disappointment in my gut, and it’s threaded through my voice. She’s like an irresistible force of nature. She wants a man, she gets a man. That’s it. Like gravity, or taxes, or death, she just is.
“Nope. In fact, I just met her when she took my order. Though she did offer a go-round.” He laughs lightly, and I can imagine what Charlene offered.
“And you said?”
“Thank you, but no thank you?” he says, though there’s a hint of confusion in his answer. I guess he’s not used to being questioned boldly about another woman. But I don’t want to step on Charlene’s toes. Sisters before misters and all. Not that she’s my literal sister, but she’s like one.
“Alright then.” I shouldn’t agree to play with him. I know it from my fingertips to my toes, but I’ve never claimed to make the right decisions 100 percent of the time. I don’t claim it for even 50 percent of the time! I aim for a solid 33 percent responsible, another 33 dumb, and one more 33 percent fun. The last 1 percent? That’s for absolute, purely ridiculous outrageousness. It’s what I call balance.
We wait for the next available table, then get set up. I’ll give Wyatt credit, he racks like a newbie should, but at the same time nice and tight. He knows what he’s doing as he selects a cue, and I pat Joannie. “I’m good. You need a breakdown of the rules or anything? I don’t want you bitchin’ and moanin’ about me cheating when I win,” I tell him, referring to Roddy’s hissy fit.
Wyatt shakes his head, taking chalk and rubbing it on the tip of his cue. The movement is practiced and experienced. Curiously, I ask, “Are you sharkin’ me?”
“Nope,” he says, “but do you mind if I break?”
I swear to God if he pockets the eight ball and I lose outright, I will slam his face to the felt. But I gesture with one hand, giving him not the floor but the table.
He positions himself where he wants and takes a strong stance behind the cue ball, and my eyes go to his butt as he leans down. Total dump truck of an ass, I think. In fact, I’m so focused on it, I almost miss him pumping his cue forward to strike the ball.
Crack!
The cue ball slams into the ball set with incredible force, sending balls all over the table. Two of them find their way into pockets. Luckily, one is a stripe while the other is solid. It’s still anyone’s table to run.
Wyatt takes another shot successfully, sinking the one and claiming solids, and then one more before missing.
Good game so far, Wyatt. But it’s all over now. You won’t get another shot. With the balls or me.
I try to quell my giddiness as I size up my shot and quickly weigh my options.
I’m lined up on the nine ball, aiming straight for the left corner pocket. It’s an easy shot, one that I could make with my eyes closed. I’ll have to make sure I use the right English to set my next shot up, though.
I get into position, angling myself, but I pause, my skin prickling. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wyatt looming off to the side, like a giant sentinel watching me. I don’t know why, but it’s so very distracting the way he’s staring at me, which is particularly frustrating because I’m usually good at canceling out any distractions when playing, no matter who I’m playing.
But there’s something about Wyatt that is throwing me off my game.
“Good form,” I vaguely hear him say.
Focus, Hazel, focus! He’s trying to distract you to get in your head.
Putting my eyes straight on my target and leveling my gaze, I hit the cue ball, and it flies forward, hitting the yellow-and-white ball toward the pocket . . . but double-bangs off the corners before rolling away, missing.
I stare in disbelief, hot embarrassment burning my cheeks. How could I miss that? I could’ve made that shot when I was ten years old! The fact that I obviously screwed up only because of Wyatt eye fucking me has me shook.