by Ginger Scott
Tongue in my cheek, a little amused by my own gall, I let a short, airy laugh slip through my nostrils and dig in.
“What do you want if you win?” I need him invested for this to work. He props his stick up against the side of the table, folding his arm and leaning into the edge right next to his cue.
“Hmm, I mean . . . there are so many options.” His voice is definitely indicative of a guy taking the bait, despite my super grungy look.
I’m really about to ruin this. Damn me and my morals.
“What if . . .” I let my words linger in the air and haze my eyes just enough to tempt him, draw him in. When his lip ticks up, I go for the kill.
“If you can beat me, I’ll let you name your terms at any time you wish.” It dawns on me as I say this to him that I must feel a decent level of trust when it comes to Cannon Jennings. An open-ended bet like this, especially given my past, is normally way outside my comfort zone. Yet, there’s a little fire in my belly at the thought of losing and Cannon coming to collect. And the way he’s looking at me, chewing at the inside of his cheek while he considers my offer, that fire is getting . . . hotter.
“Any terms,” he reiterates.
I nod but hold up a palm in pause, hedging my offer just a little.
“Within reason,” I add, one eyebrow raised.
Cannon’s chest lifts with an amused laugh. I lock in on his blue eyes and will myself not to blink, even while he does, once . . . twice. His lashes are so long for a guy, like tools used to put whomever is looking at them under a spell. It’s close to working on me. I’m a little jealous because mine are so blonde that sometimes they’re hard to see except in the sun. Not his—his are all I see right now.
“I accept,” he says, stepping back and spinning his cue over his wrist a few times.
I point my finger in a circle to mock his circus trick.
“I’m a little worried if that’s how you think this game is done,” I say.
He shoots me a tight-lipped glare before dropping the base of his stick to the floor with a heavy thunk.
“And what is your ask?” He leans over the table and swivels his stick into position, gliding it across his knuckles. I’ll admit, he looks comfortable at the head of the table. This might not go the way I want. It’s that emphasis on might, though, that prompts me to speak up.
“If I win, you have to let Zack know you went easy on him.”
And there it is. I did it; said it. Put the challenge on the table. I thought I’d feel better about backing him into this corner, but now that I see the blood leave his cheeks and the corners of his mouth turn down as he slowly stands upright, this doesn’t feel like winning at all.
I manage to hold my position despite his look of betrayal. What do I owe his cousin? Nothing! That fucker disparaged me in front of my peers. No, he sexually harassed me. He crossed a line, physically, to purposely demean me because he felt small. I owe Zack absolutely nothing, and he deserves to know that his big achievement at practice today wasn’t very big at all. All it was is one big, fat gift he doesn’t deserve.
My mouth curves the opposite way, a forced smirk inching up into my cheeks and working against the sourness I’m feeling from my neck down to the bottom of my guts. Crossing my arms over my chest, I hug my stick and jut one hip out in a challenge.
“Well?” I lift a brow.
His stare is decisive. No more blinking lashes to lull me into submission. I’m being dissected solely by the dominant glow of his swimming-pool blue eyes. His nose is pink from being out in today’s sun and reflective clouds. His wet hair is drying right before my eyes into touchable waves that I imagine in my fingers. I’m thankful my arms are crossed to hide them because I can feel them twitch.
“Fine.”
I flinch at his sudden acquiescence, most of me prepared for him to bail on this little wager. By the way he rounds the table and motions for me to step back, I tremble at the knees. Cue ball palmed in his left hand, stick grasped in his right, he steps into the space between me and the table and comes close enough that I can feel the warmth of the breath he exhales from his nose.
“Pardon,” he says, and I step back several feet to lean against a pub table.
Cannon positions the ball a little off-center then dabs one more dusting of chalk on the end of his cue, blowing the excess away while he looks at me, his eyes focused away from the tip of the stick and onto my gaze. His mouth quirks on one side, and it’s in that small look that I know I’m done. I’m so fucking screwed.
He leans over the table in a smooth pivot, drawing the stick back and getting the feel of the slide before letting it rip, knocking the balls in all directions and immediately sinking one of each—a solid and a stripe. His eyes centered on the table, he rounds it, his tongue sticking out the way Michael Jordan’s always did when he was deciding whether to put the game away with a dunk or a little fadeaway from the top of the key.
“You got a preference?” he asks.
“I . . . well . . .” I stumble on my words, his sudden confidence nailing me to the floor.
He chuckles then bends down, lining up a shot at a solid.
“It’s all right,” he says, leaning his head to one side to glance up at me and wink. “It won’t matter.”
And it doesn’t. He proceeds to sink his initial target, and then every other solid ball on the table, sometimes two at a time. I half expect him to drain the eight-ball without even looking. He has to work at it a little, though, what with so many of my balls still on the table and in his way. He calls the side pocket and when the ball falls in easily, I breathe out heavily enough to flap my lips, then I drop my stick.
“Two out of three?” I scrunch my lips up with my pathetic attempt to regain my edge.
“You think it will matter?” He lays his stick on the table and saunters toward me.
My nervous knee twitches, and I find myself rocking where I stand to keep my legs busy and my blood flowing. Cannon stops about a foot away from me, and looks down at the floor as he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I draw in his scent, letting it numb my nerves like the venom of a scorpion. I got sloppy, arrogant even. And that trust I felt so sure of wanes a little now that he’s calling in his bet. I gave him a free pass to surprise me, to ask something of me or dare me or— That’s the thing. It’s the unknown; I did that. I did that!
My hands balled into fists at my sides, I roll my shoulders back and lift my chin, determined not to let my worry shine through.
“Bet’s a bet,” I say, shaking my head with tight lips. I had no idea I was going up against a pool shark.
“That it is,” he says, glancing up while keeping his head low. The way he peers at me through the strands of his hair that now shadow his eyes is both ominous and so freaking enticing.
“Five a.m., Saint Peter’s Gulch. Tomorrow.” He leans in and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he pauses while forward on his toes. “I’ll let you know what you owe there and then.”
I swallow and he sees it, his eyes darting to that place on my throat that betrays my bravado.
“Fine,” I gurgle out.
He laughs lightly and falls back to give me space.
“Relax, Hollis. I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it.” With one last wink, he brings his hands from his pockets and claps them a few times to remove any leftover chalk. I force myself not to look over my shoulder as he leaves, and I keep that promise to myself, spending the next twenty minutes playing out the rest of the balls on our table and realizing I never had a chance.
11
Cannon
I used to have a huge grudge against my parents for forcing me to spend my summer days at the elementary school’s recreation program. There were exactly three things I enjoyed about those summers up until seventh grade—all-you-can-drink chocolate milk from the cafeteria lady, time with Sydney Chistensen in the “kissing tunnel” where we kissed like sock puppets, and the pool table.
To sa
y I got good at playing pool is an understatement. I won goddamn ribbons for it. For Christmas one year, I asked Santa for a Predator pool cue instead of the latest Louisville model. My dad was stunned, but good ole Santa came through. I still have that thing, gold case and all, assuming it survives the move here in the storage pod.
Uncle Joel said my dad will be able to head here a couple of days earlier than planned, possibly by Friday. The minute my dad gets here and we unload my truck, I take him to the airport so he can head back to New Mexico and make that drive all over again with my mom and more of our stuff. I’m so close to having a little bit of normal around me. Granted, we’ll have to cram our “normal” into a shared set of bedrooms adjoined by a bathroom, but I’ll be able to survive my living quarters if it means I have my own truck again. Sharing Zack’s very unsexy sedan is seriously grating on my nerves. I’m used to being able to get in and just drive for however long or far I want, but with Zack, I have to constantly worry about how much gas is left in the tank, or if he needs to get somewhere or wants to be with me. I’m never alone!
I don’t want him knowing about my morning plans, especially since I still can’t believe I made them. I’ve spent the last five minutes silently working the car keys out of the pocket of his jeans that are on the floor. First, I had to find the right pair of jeans. I should have planned ahead last night, but Zack and I didn’t hang. I got a lift to Eight Lanes from Tory and after my pool game against Hollis and my dramatic exit, I couldn’t have her find me waiting around out front for someone to come back and pick me up, so I walked home. Three miles is a lot farther than you think when it’s thirty-one degrees outside.
Of course, I walked in and Zack asked where the heck I’d been. I just held up my cell phone and told him I was talking to my dad. Thank God for video games because he half-heard me and nodded before going right back to shooting some alien thing.
Finally, with the keys loose and clutched in my palm, I creep out my cousin’s door, thankful he’s still snoring. I’ll be bunking with him when my parents get here, and it’s going to suck boatloads. I’m a light sleeper, and Zack basically holds a party in his nose every night.
I manage to slip out the front door without making a single sound and roll Zack’s car back in neutral with the lights off so I don’t disturb anyone. I told Hollis I’d be there at five, and it’s a thirty-minute drive. I’m not sure she knows where she’s going or what this place is, but if she shows up it means she really wants to be there. I don’t know why that matters to me but it does. It’s the entire reason I put this out there.
After a quick stop at the service station to drop the last twenty bucks from my dad’s deposit into the tank, I race down the highway to make up time, almost missing the turnoff. The sign for the gulch state park is broken in half. When Zack dragged me up here for sledding before Christmas, he mentioned they don’t fund this place anymore. I’m tempted to park under the sign and look out for Hollis to make sure she doesn’t miss it, but I’m also worried she found her way and is already there, waiting for me.
Zack’s car doesn’t take the side road as well as my truck will, so I’m slow along the winding road that weaves through the stick-like trees, old snow frozen into solid ice blocks on the ground. It’s still pretty out here, the frozen water like jewels that shine under the full moon along the landscape. Everything in town and on the highway has turned to icy mud. The sun won’t be up for two hours, but we had to make this trip early to get home before school. Before Zack knows I’m gone.
The moon is bright enough to light my way and I travel mostly by memory, though I pull over a few times to check my location on my phone to make sure I haven’t gone too far. The piled-rock walls come into view after about ten minutes of driving through the thickest section of trees. Steam puffs out from the exhaust of a familiar minivan parked close to the small ramada.
She came.
I pull into the graveled spot next to her, suddenly feeling my nerves. I blow out one hard breath and kill my engine, stepping out at the same time she does. We meet at the back of my car, our air mixing in a swirl of steam. She’s shoved her gloved hands under her arms, and her body is wrapped in this obnoxiously yellow puffy coat. No knot in the hair this morning; instead, she wears a black sock hat pulled down just above her brow and over her ears, the length of her hair wrapped around her neck like a warmer.
“You know it’s not snowing, right?” I tease her, but really, she’s adorable like this, bouncing on her toes for warmth, tight jeans down her legs, feet stuffed in rubber-toed boots. She looks like winter—my kind of winter.
“It’s somehow colder out here, ya know? Like, I mean, I’ve been cold in the city, and wind off the Atlantic is ooof!” She widens her eyes in expression. “But whatever this Midwestern stuff is, it’s a whole different kinda cold. My breath is a solid. Skipped right over the gaseous state.”
She puckers her lips and puffs out a few times, a tiny train engine coughing out steam. I see the fog clearly, but mostly I’m looking at her lips.
“I see you’re tougher than I am?” She pulls one gloved hand loose from under her arm and gestures at my body, not quite as fully wrapped as hers.
I could play it tough, but that’s not what this morning is supposed to be about at all. Unzipping my jacket, I twist the front inside-out and step closer for her to feel inside. She looks at me like I’m a total creep, which, considering how Zack has been toward her, I get.
“Feel my shoulder. I promise, just trust me,” I say.
With twisted lips, she studies me for a beat, and her hesitant expression makes my chest ache just a little. I don’t want to be the kind of guy that anyone makes that kind of face at, especially not her.
After a heavy sigh, she narrows her eyes and tightens her lips, still not sure whether she can trust me. If we can’t get past this test, we’re in trouble for the rest of the morning. She pulls her hand free from the glove then slips it under my jacket, nervous fingers tracing up over my shoulder as I cautiously fold the jacket back over her hand and my chest.
“It’s made for snowboarders. Lots of warmth without the bulk. I think it’s the same material they make bullet proof vests out of,” I say.
Her lip ticks up and her eyes blink a few times before her gaze hits mine.
“Does that mean I can shoot you?”
“Ha!” I punch out a laugh, but the silence that follows during our brief stare leaves me a little unsteady. She’s kidding, but there’s maybe a one percent slice of honesty in that barb.
An entirely new feeling takes over when she pulls her hand away. Her movement is slower, and I feel the tiny vibration in her thumb along my chest. She’s nervous, too, and not because she thinks I’m going to shoot her.
“We should get to it. I don’t want to make you late,” I say, nodding toward the head of the trail.
“You mean you don’t want Zack to know you’re gone,” she corrects. She’s intuitive—and right.
“That too,” I admit, glancing over my shoulder, my mouth a straight line to mark my guilt. I slow my steps to look at her a little longer and feel the burn left behind from her calling me on my bullshit. Maybe I crave the punishment to absolve me of my sins when it comes to her.
Eyes forward again, I pull a small flashlight from my pocket and click it on, lighting the way to the edge of the canyon. The walk isn’t long, but it feels like a mile with the silence that swallows us. The only noises are the crunch under our feet and the occasional snap of branches.
The makeshift ladder seems scarier now in the faint light of the moon, the pole slick with the deep frost that comes before dawn. I grip the metal pegs that jut out from the pole in my bare hands, the cold stinging my skin. I let go for a minute and rub my hands together, as if that’ll help.
“Wait a minute. We’re climbing up that?” Hollis points up.
“It’s worth it,” I say, starting my climb without giving in to the cautionary tale beating in my chest. The metal stings and I’m gla
d Hollis has gloves because at least she’ll be able to tolerate the cold. The height thing, however, might be a different story.
She beings to climb behind me when I’m a full body-length ahead, and we both keep a steady pace. The wind is colder the higher we go, and by the time I reach the wooden platform at the top, it’s chilling. Maybe this was a bad idea.
“I hope you know my dad will kill both of us if either of us gets hurt,” she says, hoisting herself up to join me in the small standing-room space.
“Good thing we’ll go down together, then—literally,” I respond, tugging at the sturdy straps dangling loose around the tall pole at the edge of the platform. I keep my gaze on Hollis while I untangle the contraption, and it’s hard not to laugh when her eyes widen so big that I see mostly the whites.
“Oh, hell no,” she says through nervous laughter, shaking her head.
I tug on the zipline harness built for two with all my weight to prove that this thing is sturdy. I made Zack prove it to me. And if this can hold both of us, I’m pretty sure Hollis and I will be fine.
“I did this last month with Zack. It’s a serious thrill, and besides”—I stretch the straps out and step through one section before holding out the remaining two loops for her—“A bet’s a bet.”
I hit her with a daring grin. The wind is strong enough that it whips the hair sticking out of my knit hat. Hollis’s hair twists like tentacles, blonde ribbons curving around her neck then stretching out into the air like fingers. Her nose is pink and her cheeks are red. Her eyes, however, are not quite as wide as before. With a slight tilt of her head, she studies me for a moment more, then places her palms on my shoulders for balance, stepping through the straps.
The second she enters my space, my chemistry changes, and I think maybe hers does, too. There’s nowhere for either of us to go, our bodies quite literally tied together on a perch about a hundred feet in the air. Her mouth rests at the base of my neck, and the tiny gasp she lets out tickles against my skin. It’s the one part of me that’s not sheltered from the cold, and she’s managed to scorch it with one breath.