The Wrong Bridesmaid

“Are you sure about this?” I ask uncertainly as I pull into the lot Winston directs me to. “There’s a sign right there that says ‘Fuck Jed Ford,’ and this is Uncle Jed’s ex’s place. Pretty sure we’re not welcome here.”

“Here” is the Puss N Boots bar and grill. It’s a long, skinny building, cinder block and clapboard with a tin roof just outside downtown, with the aforementioned sign and a ten-foot-tall neon cartoon Puss in Boots, complete with hat, boots, and swishing sword.

“Yeah, I come here all the time,” Winston says dismissively, as if that’s supposed to be reassuring. “It’s kind of an escape, because Jed and Dad wouldn’t dream of setting foot inside these four walls. Mostly because Etta would personally chop them to bits and Tay Tay would fry them up and serve them with a side of his homemade fancy ketchup. He does a killer one, by the way.”

“What?” I ask, not clear on half of what Winston said. But escape I understand, so I park and follow Winston’s lead inside. It’s not that pleasant of a walk: my guts are still roiling from what happened at the house, and a potential ambush doesn’t help things, to be honest. I haven’t been in town in years, and I’m not expecting a warm welcome or any of those supposedly friendly faces at my return. My hackles are up, my skin uncomfortably tight, and I’m ready to throw down at a moment’s notice.

When the door closes, I look around, alert for any incoming friends or foes. Honestly, I don’t want either one right now. But I can see why this is a popular spot. Regardless of the exterior architecture, the bar feels spacious but warm at the same time, with enough room for a bunch of tables, a bar, and an area with pool tables and a few arcade games. The wood paneling and hardwood floors are well worn but look cared for, and despite the midafternoon hour, there’s quite a crowd in here.

There’s absolutely no pretentiousness to it. It’s a bar with a “take it or leave it” vibe. And right now, I think I want to take it. Especially if it offers that escape Winston promised.

Three hours in town and already looking for an out doesn’t bode well for this visit, man.

“Order up,” a voice calls as a bell dings. “Come get your shit or I’mma eat this good-looking, finger-licking basket of fries myself, Charlene.”

“That’s chicken, not fries, Tay Tay. Chicken is good-looking and finger-licking,” another voice answers.

From the kitchen, there’s a bark of laughter. “Girl, everything I make is good-looking and finger-licking. And by everything, I mean everything.”

I see a blonde woman approach a large cutout in the paneling that shows the kitchen beyond. A guy in a black, silky do-rag peeks out with a smirk of satisfaction. I’m going to assume that’s the cook, and the blonde snaps some gum as she gives him a look. “I know what you’re implying, Tay Tay, and ain’t nobody sucking on your”—she cleared her throat—“straw to give a Yelp review.”

I snort in surprise, nearly choking on my own spit. Holy shit, there are levels, and then there’s this place.

“Have to take my word for it, baby. Five stars, every time,” the guy—Tay Tay, I guess—quips, flashing five fingers through the air repeatedly.

“If you say so,” she tells him, grabbing the basket of fries and speed-walking across the room. As she passes by the door, she sees Winston and me and I hold my breath, ready for another bomb. “Seat yourself anywhere. I’ll be with ya in a jiffy.”

Without a second glance she’s off, doing business. Huh, no evil looks, accusations, or punches thrown my way. I’m more surprised than I’d like to admit.

“See?” Winston says, reading my thoughts. “We’re fine here. And we can talk without Dad interrupting. Or trying to drunk dial council members.” He rolls his eyes.

“No way. He did that?” I ask, somewhere between horrified and delighted. There’re a few members of the city council who need an unfiltered verbal smackdown, in my opinion, though it surprises me that it came from Dad.

“More than once,” Winston informs me, pulling out a stool and perching at a table I suspect might be his usual. There are pictures of Etta all over the place, mixed in with newspaper articles about Cold Springs, but the photo by this table is of Hyde Hill, one of Winston’s favorite places to go when we were teens.

Before I can ask anything else, the blonde reappears at the side of the table. “Hey, honey-babies, what can I getcha?”

“Draft beer and a burger, please, Charlene,” Winston says automatically.

There are no menus to speak of, so I go for the sure bet and echo Winston’s order. “Same for me, please.”

The woman’s eyes narrow as she looks up from her notepad. “Who’s your tall-drink-o’-water friend, Winston? Gonna introduce me?”

Winston chuckles and slaps me on the back. “Charlene, this is my brother, Wyatt. Wyatt, this is Charlene, who is way, way, way out of your league.”

Charlene tuts. “Now don’t you go telling tales. You don’t know, maybe I’m looking for something a bit different this go-round.” She’s talking to Winston, but her eyes are drinking me in like I’m fresh spring water on a hot day in the desert. “Hi there, Wyatt. Pleased to meetcha.”

She slides her pen behind her ear and offers her hand, which I take, shaking politely. “Nice to meet you too, Charlene. I’m afraid my brother’s right, though. I’m not looking for a . . . go-round, sorry to say.” Her pink-glossed lips pout, and I rush to correct the harsh brush-off. I lean to the side, scanning her head to toe to take in her blue cutoff denim shorts, white shirt knotted above her slim waistline, glittery nails, and eyes surrounded by liner and long, fake lashes. “As beautiful as she might be.”

“Hmmph,” she answers.

“Woman, your Fat Pussy is ready. You planning on handling it yourself, or you want me to take it to table nine?” the disembodied voice calls out from the kitchen before I can reply to Charlene’s self-confident taunt.

Charlene rolls her eyes and huffs, leaning in. “He means my burger, not my fat pussy. I don’t have one of those. Mine’s pretty as a porno.”

“Um . . . okay?” I stutter. I thought I could handle a conversation. Apparently not.

She whirls in place, leaning back against the table like she hasn’t got anywhere better to be or anything else to do. I can see a small tattoo on the back of each arm with a name and date.

“Tay Tay, can you give a girl a minute to see if she can get laid, please? Marcus, go get your burger real quick. Mama’s busy making friends.” A guy across the room nods agreeably and gets up to grab his own burger. “Thank you, honey-baby.” Whirling back, she smiles in my direction. “Now, where were we?”

I blink. Winston grins, and I’m beginning to think he chose this place specifically to set me up for whatever this is.

“Oh, that’s right,” she says, snapping her fingers. “Pretty pussy. Now, my hair extensions cost me a penny, my nails cost me a dollar, and my makeup was free. Got these lashes done over at the beauty college by a student,” she confides to Winston. Laser locking me in her gaze once more, Charlene adds, “But I’m not one of those high-maintenance types. You ain’t never seen something look this good that costs so little, I guar-on-tee you that, Mr. Wyatt. And don’t get me wrong, I ain’t looking for no baby daddy—got two of those already—or a ring on my finger. It’s just that sometimes a girl likes a dick with a heartbeat instead of a pulse mode, know what I mean?”

Somewhere along her crazy line of propositioning, I find surer footing. She’s half playing. Her signals are clear: If I want a ride, she’ll let me play cowboy. But it’s no skin off her ass if I don’t. “That’s definitely understandable. But I’m afraid my heart quit beating a long time ago, if you catch my drift. You’d be better off with machine-gun mode on your nightstand friend.”

Telling a woman that I’ve got a case of the no-rise dick disease is definitely not a move I’d usually pull from my playbook, but in this case, fighting fire with fire seems like a safe choice.

And it works, as Charlene cackles loudly and then slaps Winston’s bicep. “Honey-baby, you did not tell me your kinfolk was funnier than a hyena on laughing gas. Big-ass liar too. I’mma bet you’ve got an engine like a Harley. Steel hard and thrums all night. I like this one. Keep him around.” Then to us both, she says, “I’ll be back with those beers and Fat Pussies.”

She lifts and lowers her eyebrows quickly, still suggesting more than a mere burger meal. As she sways her hips and struts away, I turn to glare at Winston. “A little warning would’ve been nice.”

He chuckles. “Oh, Charlene and Tayvious—that’s the mouthy cook back there—are fine, and entertaining as fuck. Besides, you should’ve seen yourself . . .” He lets his eyes go wide and his jaw drop open dumbly, his voice picking up a drawl. “Um . . . what? I uh . . . don’t want to sex you up despite your free-and-clear offer, ma’am.”

“Fucker, that’s not what I sounded like,” I growl. He purses his lips thoughtfully, tilting his head. “Shit, was it that bad?”

“You did save it with the limp-dick comment, but yeah. Preeetty bad, Golden Boy. Kinda nice to see you fall off your pedestal a bit, though.”

Why does that sound like he’s talking about a lot more than my crash-and-burn attempt at not hurting Charlene’s feelings? Still, I scoff. “Pedestal? I smashed that thing to fucking ruins a long time ago. You know that.”

Winston sighs. “Yeah, guess you did.”

Charlene runs by, dropping off our beers and blowing me a kiss as she scoots on her way, catching up on serving her other tables after hanging out at ours for so long.

I take a big swig, not even tasting it as I swallow but needing the liquid courage. “Alright, back to business. What the hell is going on around here?”

Winston takes a healthy drink of his own before asking, “You want the good, the bad, or the ugly first?”

I shrug. Doesn’t matter, I need all of it. Let Winston tell it however the hell he wants.

He hums, and takes another sip. “Let’s go chronological, I guess, starting when you left. After that, I went to school, got my architecture degree. Did my internships with Uncle Jed, of course.”

“Of course,” I agree, not surprised.

“While I was at school, I met Avery. She’s actually from Cold Springs, but she’s a little younger than me, more Wren’s age, so we’d never met before, though she knew exactly who I was. She was taking nursing classes and wouldn’t give me the time of day, no matter how hard I tried. But eventually, I won her over. Fuck, it was hard, but she’s worth it.”

I’m surprised at the soft tone in my brother’s voice and the sparkle in his eyes. “So she’s the one?”

The very idea is foreign, especially for the Winston I know. That Winston tried to fuck his way through the girls’ soccer team, or at least date his way through them. But maybe I don’t know him so well anymore, I realize.

The idea is uncomfortable. I’ve certainly changed while I’ve been gone, but in my mind, everyone else stayed exactly the same, frozen in time. But maybe we’ve all changed?

“The one and only,” he says emphatically. “We’re getting married, rain or shine, hell or high water.” His eyes go wide, as if he’s being hit by the idea for the first time. “Fuck. I’m getting married, Wyatt.”

I reach over to place a hand on his shoulder, patting him comfortingly. “It sounds like she’s either a psycho or an angel. I’m betting the second. Especially if she’s putting up with you, so don’t fuck it up, bro,” I tease. He answers with a big grin, and I consider whether maybe he’s not surprised so much as he is excited about the idea of marrying Avery.

“I can’t wait to meet the magical woman who’s turned you into a blubbering romantic, waxing poetic about her awesomeness and admitting your unworthiness.”

He ignores the playful jab. “I can’t wait for you to meet her. You’re going to love her. She’s . . . different than us, Wyatt. That’s what I love about her.”

He glances down to his still-empty ring finger as though imagining the wedding band that will soon be there. “Funny thing is, the day I met her, I was talking shit like usual, and then she walked in the room. I was blown away, but knew she’d smell the douchery on me. I had to grow up a fuckton before she’d even give me a chance, but I’m so glad she did. So fucking glad.” His eyes clear as his mind returns to the here and now, and our discussion of me meeting Avery. “We’ll have to see when we can get that to happen because she’s really busy with wedding stuff, plus she takes care of her grandpa.”

“Shit. That’s a lot to handle,” I say, stating the obvious because I don’t know what else to say.

Thankfully, Charlene drops off our burgers, saving me. “I put a little extra sweetness in yours, honey-baby.” That sounds sketchy, so I hesitate to taste my food, but Winston does so easily. Slowly, I pick up the delicious-looking burger and take a tentative bite.

“Damn, this is good,” I tell Winston. “Whatever ‘extra sweetness’ Charlene added to mine, do not tell me, please, because I really want to keep eating this.”

My brother laughs, choking on his mouthful of burger, which serves him right. Looking to turn the conversation back toward more productive avenues, I ask, “So Avery takes care of her family?”

“Yeah, and she does it with a smile. Her grandpa lives with her, but he has an aide come in to help with some of his personal care. He says he doesn’t want Avery seeing his frank ’n’ beans—that’s what he calls them.” Winston laughs and I chuckle along. “And she works shifts at the nursing home when they need her. PRN, they call it, but basically it means that when someone calls in sick or needs a vacation day, they call her. So she might work days on end or not at all for weeks. Could be day shift or night shift, or even a long weekend double.”

“That’s tough,” I comment. “You know, the unpredictability of hours or money.”

“Yeah . . . but that’s Avery. She’s amazing.”

“You ever think that’s why she hasn’t realized yet that you’re . . . you?” I tease.

“It’s definitely crossed my mind,” Winston admits. “But I’m different than before too. Or as much as I can be.” A shadow crosses over his face, and his bright smile fades into a frown in a matter of seconds. Back to the hard shit, it seems.

“Sounds like we’re moving into the bad? Or the ugly?” I prompt, not tiptoeing into it. I’d rather rip the Band-Aid off and take the scab with it.

Winston scoffs. “Yeah. So after school, I came home and started working for Uncle Jed full-time. Avery was still in school, so I went balls to the wall for the company, getting in on every project they’d let me in on and learning everything I could. It was good at first. The other people accepted me, saw that I was trying to work hard and listening more than talking. I felt like I was growing, putting my degree to use, and I advanced up the chain quickly. Not because of my name, though it didn’t hurt,” he says sardonically, “but because I’m damn good. I am, Wyatt.”

It sounds like he’s trying to convince me. What he doesn’t realize is that in the past few years, I’ve learned a few things myself. “I don’t doubt that, Winston. You were always smart, you just fucked off. And yet somehow managed to still get As and Bs.”

He nods appreciatively at the compliment.

“This latest project is a bitch, though.” He shakes his head. “It’s years in the making. Research, politics, plans, contracts. It’s big, bigger than anything Jed’s done. He says it’s going to be his crown jewel.”

“Are you talking about the subdivision thing? I saw a big billboard on my way into town and then a bunch of signs saying to vote no to rezoning. Along with the Fuck Jed sign, though I guess I’m not sure if that’s about the subdivision thing or in general from Etta.”

Winston nods, his face serious. “I don’t think any of us expected there to be so much pushback. Fuck, I think Jed thought everyone would see him as the savior messiah, bringing us out of the dark ages into the bright light of the future. But there’s a lot of outrage, from more than half the town. And Dad’s taking the brunt of it, having to walk the line carefully between his roles for the city and his relationship with Jed. He started drinking a while ago, stressed out and exhausted. It’s not constant, or at least I don’t think it is, and we all watch closely, but it’s too often. He’s falling apart in front of my eyes, and I don’t know how to help him or what to do. I thought the wedding might help, give him a happier focus, you know, but even that went wonky.”

“How so?” I ask.

The sigh that passes Winston’s lips is one of full surrender. “Jed. As soon as Avery and I announced the wedding and started making plans, Jed pulled me into his office. He offered to pay for the wedding.”

“Please, for the love of all fucks past, present, and future, tell me that you told him no,” I beg. I know my Uncle Jed and how he works, and what Winston just said has danger written all over it.

“I tried, but you know how he is,” Winston says forlornly. “Avery and I wanted something small. She’d have been content with the two of us at City Hall. She didn’t grow up this way, Wyatt. When I asked her for her wildest wedding fantasy, she talked about a cake from the local bakery, flowers from a farm out in the country, and a dress that made her feel beautiful. She wants everyone to smile and dance, eat, and have a good time. That’s it.”

“And now that Jed’s involved?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“It’s become this cable-channel fucking monstrosity of a wedding, with everyone from work, and I don’t mean the people I actually see. I’m talking vendors and business associates. He acts like my wedding is a networking event, for fuck’s sake,” he huffs. “It’s still at the house, I made sure of that because I want to get married in the garden out back, but that’s about the only thing the same. There’s going to be big white tents, a live band, and ten thousand dollars’ worth of champagne. Avery doesn’t even like champagne! She’ll probably have a white wine and call it good.”

“What else?” I prompt him, leading him to a big reveal I can feel beneath his fretting about drinks and tents.

“It’s a lot, Wyatt. We’re over a hundred grand at least. And rising . . . daily.”

My jaw drops. “Holy shit, man! For a wedding? You should’ve just run off to Vegas or Hawaii or something.”

“I wish we had,” he agrees gloomily. “This is going to haunt me, but it got so out of control so fast. I didn’t know what Mom and the wedding planner were doing, or what Jed was adding to the list because it . . . it . . .”

“It was easier to not know,” I finish for him. “Been there, done that. I understand how that goes better than anyone.” He looks at me sadly. “You’re going to be beholden to him now. He won’t give you a contract, but . . . it’ll be there. A big fuckin’ debt sheet, your balls listed as the collateral. That’s his game, and he led you right into the trap like leading a pig to slaughter.”

“A really fancy slaughter,” he corrects. “With a band.”

“Just like the Titanic. They’ll play while you sink into Jed’s control.” Winston presses his lips together in agreement. “Does Dad know? About Jed paying?” I’m honestly scared of the answer. Has Dad learned nothing from what happened with us?

Winston shrugs. “I don’t think so. He probably figures Mom has it under control because he’s been too worried about the optics of the wedding to worry about who’s paying for it. I mean, with the whole town split down the middle about this subdivision and bringing in fresh blood—and money—it’s a really shitty time to have a big blowout bash of epic proportions. People are already gossiping about the cost, the guest list, the whole thing.”

“And you just want to marry the woman who straightened out your shit, and live your happily ever after?” I summarize.

“Yeah,” Winston sighs. “So . . . welcome home, big brother.”

I scoff, and take a bite of my burger. “I wish I could say it’s good to be back, but that’d be a lie. The only reason I’m here is because you said please, you damn fucker.”

Winston laughs darkly. “Thanks, Wyatt.”

“Anytime.”

We fall into silence, digging into our meals. My mind turns all the information over and over, looking for angles and strategies, for Winston, Dad, and even Jed. Not because I’d ever help Jed, but because by thinking the way he does, maybe I can figure out what the hell he’s up to. Because he’s always up to something. He only does things that benefit him. That’s a sure thing.

“How’ve you been?” Winston asks after a bit, probably looking for some good news in the day.

I shrug, trying to encourage my brother without making my plain, normal life seem like a victory to lord over him. “Good. I work, I go home, I work, I go home. It’s . . . peaceful, I guess is the right word? I like earning a dollar with the sweat of my own brow and the work of my own hands.”

I look down at my once soft and smooth hands, noting that they’re covered in scars and rough calluses now. I consider each mark a badge of honor. My honor. Here’s my education, my lessons taught and left on my flesh forever.

“Never would’ve guessed you’d end up the hard-labor type,” Winston says around a mouthful. “Mom and Dad would shit themselves if they knew.”

He’s probably right. I do custom woodworking, using centuries-old methods of joinery and responsibly sourced heritage woods. It was slow going at first, but I’ve made a name for myself in certain circles, ones that have nothing to do with my family.

My brow furrows at Winston’s last comment. “They don’t know? I figured Jed told them years ago.”

“He knows? I had to hire a damn investigator to track you down!”

Of fucking course. When I left, determined to strike out on my own, Jed hunted me down, trying to guilt-trip me into coming home, but I refused. He even tried to throw me some pity contracts, saying he wanted to support my “little business,” but I turned them down.

“He tried to play his games with me too,” I explain simply. “I thought I’d gotten away scot-free, but I guess he’s holding that card for another day.”

“Sounds about right,” Winston says with an eye roll. I’m sorry that he’s getting to know firsthand how convoluted this family can be. I really hoped that wouldn’t be the case.

You knew. You just had to save yourself.

It’s an ugly truth to admit, even silently. But it’s a little like putting on your own oxygen mask before helping anyone else in an airplane. I had to escape for my own well-being. I meant to come back and save Winston and Wren someday, but it never seemed like the right time, and I told myself that they could’ve walked away on their own too.

They didn’t have to wait for me.

But maybe that’s all bullshit to excuse my guilt, because they got trapped. And my leaving made the trap that much stickier for them to get out of.

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.

But that doesn’t seem to concern Hazel as she positions herself again, her hair falling over her shoulders and down her side like a dark, silky veil as she stretches her body out over the pool table, angling her cue to line up her shot.

Despite his frustration, Hazel’s opponent runs his eyes over her body appreciatively before returning his attention to the balls on the table, and I have to remind myself that it’s just a game.

Pop!

Hazel hits the bottom of the cue ball, and it jumps over her opponent’s balls, tapping the eight ball into the pocket before safely caroming off and coming to a rest.

“Whooo!” Hazel cheers loudly, waving her pink pool cue above her head. “That’a girl, Joannie!”

Who’s Joannie?

Strutting, Hazel walks over to the blond guy and sticks out her palm expectantly. “Alright, Roddy. Pay up.”

Roddy looks like he’s on the verge of explosion, his face red and his lip curled in a snarl. I’m paying close attention, but even if I weren’t, I’d be able to hear his rebuttal. “I’m not paying you shit. You’re a fucking cheater, Hazel Sullivan.”

Hazel’s grin melts into a sneer of her own. “One, you owe me for that eye fuck you just gave my ass. And two, I am not a cheater. You’re just salty that I beat you fair and square.”

Roddy laughs bitterly. “Fair? Your aunt owns this place, so who knows what kind of booby traps you got under these damn tables to help you win. There’s probably magnets and shit.”

“Booby traps and magnets? Really?” Hazel rolls her eyes. “Do you know how incredibly stupid you sound right now?”

“I dunno, I sound pretty smart to me, because I’m keeping my two hundred in my pocket.” He pats his chest pocket as he looks over his shoulder at two guys perched on nearby stools. They grin at Roddy like that comeback was actually a solid burn.

Hazel licks her lips slowly, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her mind. After what she said to Charlene, I almost can’t wait. Part of me wants to get involved . . . but not quite yet. We’re still at the talking stage, and Hazel doesn’t seem to need or want any help in that department.

Loud and clear, she says, “I get it, Roddy. You’ve been talking shit for weeks about how you were gonna wipe the floor with me, only to find out that not only is my dick—oh, I mean, stick—bigger than yours, but I’ve got better skills with it too. So your choices are to hold up your end of the bet, pay up, and live to play another day, or . . .”

Hazel doesn’t threaten him out loud, but she does hold her pink pool cue in front of her, tapping the thicker end against her palm. The intention is pretty fucking clear.

“Fuck off. You’re not gonna hit me with that stick of yours. We all know what it means to you.” Roddy eyes the pool cue in question as he takes a small step toward Hazel, who holds her ground.

The move alone is aggressive, but partnered with the threat, it’s crossing a line. I’ve seen and heard enough. I’m out of my seat before Winston can stop me, heading straight for Roddy. And Hazel.