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One
December (The night before my sister’s wedding)
The cheers around me threatened my steady hand. That and maybe the hundred proof whiskey I’d been drinking all night like it was Diet Coke. I was here for a good time and that was what I was having.
Mostly.
Mopping up the floor with the third team of dart players didn’t hurt. Or the extra seventy bucks in my ass pocket from the idiots betting against me.
When you lived in a small town like Turnbull, there wasn’t much else to do but play darts and pool with the guys. Especially since I wasn’t the type of girl to join a flock of women and preen at the bar. I liked to be in the middle of the action and knew I pissed off more women than I became friends with. I was the girl who excelled at darts, but could run a table when needed.
“Come on, sweetheart, we don’t have all night.”
I ignored the guy with the two-pack-a-day voice. Justin? Jerry? I couldn’t remember and didn’t particularly care. He was just pissed because I’d trounced him first tonight. I’d taken twenty off of him before he even realized I’d won the round.
Judd, right. That was his name. Like the hot dude from The Breakfast Club. He even looked like him a little. Only it was the version of him on the wrong side of forty and didn’t turn my crank. Not that I had a problem with guys heading for forty and beyond. I’d played trophy girlfriend a few times when I was in my early twenties.
The bling was alluring. Guys in their twenties couldn’t afford sparklers like men with careers. The only problem there was I actually liked having a conversation with a guy. When you were from a different generation, it made things a little difficult. And I didn’t have it in me to be shallow enough to just enjoy the rich guy ride.
“Come on, Ryan, I just want a chance to win back my money.”
“My name is Rylee.” I flicked my dark hair over my shoulder and lifted my lucky purple dart.
No do-overs. One and done only for this girl. Getting fired three weeks before Christmas made a girl grab some perspective.
It was time to finish this damn game. I’d been stringing it out with the guys around me calling out their own numbers in the game of 301. Each time I aced the shot, I picked up another five bucks.
But if I had to listen to Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” come belting out of that jukebox one more time tonight, I would eject the ancient record with my boot.
I blew out a slow breath and hit the center of the triple ring. Six guys groaned. “I believe that’s the final sixty points I needed?” I turned, downed my shot. I made gimme fingers and they each dropped a twenty on the table. I swiped up the pile. “Pleasure playing with you guys.”
“Bet you can’t hit a double bullseye in three rapid shots.”
The voice was deep. It carried from the back of the pack of men. The fact that my nipples instantly hardened and tried to bust through my glittery babydoll shirt made me swallow my acidic reply.
Maybe not so bored anymore.
“Another round for the table, darlin’.” The voice was smooth caramel over chocolate lava cake.
“You got it.”
Our waitress’s voice went breathy. At least that was a good sign that Mr. Caramel’s voice might in fact have a matching face.
Not that I cared. Much. My current jobless status meant I’d take his money regardless.
I twirled my dart through my fingers. “What’s the bet?” I had a cool two hundred in my pocket. Enough to cover groceries for a month. If I could double that, it would be even better.
The guy came out of the shadows and my nipples weren’t the only thing at attention. My clit and heart did a double-tap like I was at the top of a rollercoaster one click past the drop.
