Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“I assure you…being stiff is totally worth it when you get the stroke right.”
I blink. Stiff…stroke…oh God.
He continues talking in that very deliberate way of his, seemingly unaware that his words are like sex on a stick. Shit—sex on a stick…pool stick. I’m losing it.
“All right. Next, line up the tip with the cue ball, aim for one of your balls, and shoot.” He takes a step back to give me room, but I pause. “Just hit it, Red. Aim for that blue stripe and get it in the pocket.”
I close my eyes and put everything I have into the shot, shoving the pool stick straight at the cue ball.
In retrospect, I guess I shouldn’t have closed my eyes.
When my eyes open, it’s as if everything slows down—you know, the kind of moment that happens in a flash yet it seems to take tiny steps to get there? I see Connor coming from the arcade part of Cadillac’s with a group of guys, mostly chess club types. He’s laughing at something as he tosses back his beer.
He never sees the ball coming for him.
I want to yell for him to duck, and I guess I could have, but it wouldn’t have mattered because it happened so fast.
Please don’t hit him in the head is my mantra as the scene plays out.
First, it hits a retro Lucille Ball sign functioning as a fancy-looking light above the pool table next to us, and for half a second, I think it’s going to miss Connor—but then it ricochets off the light and slams into his crotch.
He goes down like a sack of bricks, and his beer flies through the air before shattering on the concrete floor. Shards of glass shoot everywhere, and beer splatters on the wall behind Connor.
My stick falls out of my hand. “He’ll never have babies.” Ryker is next to me in an instant, and I look up at him. My mouth opens and closes. “Holy shit. You think he’s okay?”
“I don’t know. Let’s go see,” he says, a grim look on his face.
We walk over to them and dread fills me.
Connor’s friends are bending down, and there’s a flurry of activity from the staff as they walk over to where he’s still on the floor. A girl in a 50s-style pink dress and apron is carrying a broom and a dustpan and focuses on getting the glass swept up while a managerial-looking lady is bent over Connor.
It’s not until we’re right in front of the scene of the crime that I realize I’ve grabbed Ryker’s hand at some point. He glances down and then looks at me, his eyes questioning. He lets my hand go.
Connor is pulled up by one of his buddies and the manager. His hat is cocked sideways and there’s a red spot on his cheek, and I wonder if he landed on it.
He maneuvers to stand, his face pale as he winces.
“You okay, man?” someone calls out from a neighboring table.
“Hit me in the upper leg,” he mutters, looking around at the circle of people who’ve gathered. “Damn. Hurts like hell.” He cranes his neck toward the pool tables. “Who shot it?”
My eyes flare and I barely keep myself from squeaking.
“Not sure,” his buddy says.
The manager pulls up a chair for him and says something about getting some ice and an accident report.
I lean over to Ryker and whisper, “At least his manly bits are okay.”
He nods.
Connor eases down in the chair then looks up and sees us, his eyes bouncing back and forth.
I wave at him.
“You should go check on him,” Ryker says, and I nod and take the few steps to Connor’s side.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Hey…you. Are you okay?” He blinks as if confused, and his eyes go from me to Ryker, who’s behind me in the background. Connor comes back to me and takes in the jersey and high heels I’m wearing. “You’re wearing Ryker’s jersey.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t know you were here.” He pauses. “You told me you were busy all week.”
I nod, choosing to not comment on that. “Are you going to be able to walk?”
“Yeah, yeah, just…it got the drop on me, ya know?” He laughs as one of his friends claps him on the back.
He grimaces and rubs his inner thigh. “I’m fine. Probably just a bruise. Where did that ball come from anyway? Did you see?”
Great. We’re back to that again. I bite my lip.
One of his friends points to the far back table where we were playing. “I think it came from that direction.”
I laugh. “But you’re okay, so that’s good, right?”
He nods. “So, you guys came together?”
“Just as friends,” Ryker says as he takes a step forward to join us. “I found her in the rain with a flat tire.”
“Oh.” Connor’s head turns back. “That sucks.”