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What home? I countered. The one where my wife fucked her lover—the man who was supposed to be a parishioner and friend—the moment I was gone? The one built on lies and broken promises? Not a chance.
I reached for my pocket to text Tristan to tell him to grab moving boxes when he visited the shelter that night, only to find out I’d left it in my truck on the side of the road. It was probably better if I didn’t talk to him. He’d want to know where I was, and I didn't want to rehash the finer points of my day—or the buzz I was working on.
The bartender slid two more shots and a Miller Lite in front of me. I downed the whiskey, one after the other, and savored the burn.
Take me home, Jack. Make me forget.
Tomorrow I could pick up the pieces of my heart. Tomorrow I could bare my soul and confess my sins.
Maybe.
All I knew was that tonight, I wanted to live in the ignorant bliss only alcohol provided.
“Hey,” the bartender tossed his head in the direction of the redhead. “You know her?”
My eyes raked over her, lingering on her ass as she bent over the pool table and lined up her shot.
The things I’d like to do to her while she was bent over that table…
I shook my head. Why was I so damn enthralled with this woman? She was a distraction, one I didn’t need. One that could wreck everything I’d worked so hard for. She was the path back to the life I left behind, and not the heavenly one that promised redemption.
“Nope.” My drawl was thick, one of the first signs the alcohol was doing its job.
“She’s been here a few nights this week hustling on the table. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”
“Did she seem to not be?”
Damn my bleeding deacon heart. I shouldn’t care, I told myself for the hundredth time.
It didn’t matter that she captured my attention, or that my cock thickened against the zipper of my slacks when I heard her smooth-as-velvet voice. She was just another woman spinning lies. I saw the way she pulled her shots; how she played with uncanny accuracy despite playing dumb for whatever poor sap agreed to be her opponent. That wasn’t the only reason I hated her. The truth was she intrigued the hell out of me, and what was worse was that the more I drank, the more I wanted to know about her. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t in any position to consider her as more than a lost sheep in need of guidance. Too bad guiding her was the last thing on my mind—unless it was guiding her onto my dick.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I just lost my wife, for fuck’s sake. I hadn’t had a true erection in more than a year—until I walked into that damn bar. There wasn’t any planet on which I should be considering her wrapped around my cock, but there I was—a creepy old man wanting a taste of the forbidden fruit.
Your wife also cheated on you for the better part of your marriage, and likely coerced you into becoming a deacon so you’d never know any love other than hers and God’s.
My flip-flopping conscience could go to hell.
The bartender shook his head. “No, she's fine, she just seems young and out of place.”
“You ID her?”
“Of course. You a cop?”
I chuckled. No, just a deacon hell-bent on drinking enough alcohol to make his terrible thoughts make sense. “No, just another man in need of a cold one,” is what I said instead.
He nodded, satisfied with my answer, and clearly not looking to play the part of therapist.
My gaze drifted over to the pool table where Red situated herself behind the cue ball. Her sparkling green eyes darted across the table evaluating her options, as she pressed her cleavage against the table. She sang along with the jukebox, softly, but still loud enough I could make out every word. Her voice would leave angels green with envy.
I watched as she let the stick glide between her fingers, opting for the harder shot and missing rather than taking the easy pocket. She was oblivious to the world around her, focused solely on her hustle.
It had been years since I’d played. At first it was a hobby, a way to pass the time between bumps of cocaine and keeping my father uninterested in me until the day he realized I was made for the family business, when my skill, or rather my looks, became another weapon he could wield. I hadn’t picked up a stick since Maggie showed me I could be more than my father’s whore.
Fuck. I ran a hand through my hair for the fiftieth time as if it would somehow calm me. I needed another shot if I was going to allow myself to fall further into thoughts of my father.
“Any day now, sweetheart,” Red’s opponent taunted. He was older, but still probably just shy of my thirty-nine, and by the number of martinis on their table and the way he gripped the pool table, was well past tipsy.
