The Redemption of Memphis Drake: A Second Chance Romance

by Shay Stone

  I think I detect the faintest hint of sarcasm in her voice. Somehow, I get the feeling she’s as feisty as her friend. “Absolutely. Come on.”

  I lace our hands together, liking how natural hers feels in mine and lead her to a table in the back away from the rowdy stockbrokers. Nyla perches herself on a stool, sipping her cocktail while I gather the balls in the rack. I explain everything I’m doing, taking a few extra moments to answer why getting the eight ball in is a bad thing.

  “Breaking can be a little tough until you get the hang of it. I’ll do it this time so you can see how it’s done, and then we’ll do it together next time.” There’s a loud crack when the cue ball strikes the others sending at least three balls into the pockets. “If you come here, I can show you how to set up a shot.”

  “Didn’t you say we alternate turns?”

  “Well, yeah, but …”

  “That’s okay. I want to learn to play right. You go and then you can show me how to hold the stick thingy when it’s my turn,” she says, waving her hand at the pool cue. I shrug thinking it will be easier if I clear most of the balls off the table anyway. I make some trick shots sinking several in a row.

  Alright, so maybe I’m showing off a little.

  “You’re very good with your stick. You get it in the hole every time.” Her comment catches me off guard, making me shank the next shot. The cue ball goes skidding across the table knocking into another ball, almost sending the eight ball into the side pocket. Nyla covers her mouth with her hands. “Were you supposed to do that?”

  I hold my position with my head down, chuckling. “No.”

  “Oh, sorry. I guess I shouldn’t talk when you’re trying to shoot. You can go again.”

  “No, really, it’s fine. Come on, it’s your turn. Bend over and I’ll show you the proper way to use a stick.”

  That came out way more sexual than I’d intended. Her eyebrow quirks up, but she does as I ask. I rest one hand on her hip folding her over to show her the proper stance, hyper aware of how good she feels beneath me. My chest is against her back and my dick is pressed against the seam of her ass.

  Damn she smells incredible. Like honey infused with orchids. I wonder if she tastes as good as she smells. Her silky strands tickle my hand and I imagine wrapping them around my fist and tugging them while driving deep inside her. I have to pause and take a step back, commanding the erection I’m fighting off to stand down.

  Maybe pool wasn’t such a good idea.

  “You okay?” she inquires over her shoulder, oblivious to the effect she’s having on me.

  “Yeah, sorry. I thought my phone was vibrating,” I reply, pulling my cell from my pants. I slip it back into my pocket and signal the waiter to bring another round before maneuvering her into position again.

  Yep, pool was definitely a mistake. I’m supposed to be setting up a shot, but Nyla’s ear is within an inch of my mouth and all I can think about is nibbling on that cute little lobe while whispering a stream of dirty things I want to do to her. It’s taking a colossal amount of restraint not to grip the bottom of her skirt, drag it up her thighs and take her right here on this pool table.

  “So, I just let the stick glide through my fingers like this?” she asks, rocking her hips in sync with the pool cue.

  Christ! And we have lift off. I drop my head against her shoulder pulling my pelvis away, hoping she won’t feel the massive woody I’m now sporting. We drive the cue ball into hell, I don’t even know what ball we were aiming at. Solids? Stripes? I have no idea. The steel trap mind I’m so famous for has gone to complete mush in this woman’s presence.

  She claps excitedly. “Yay! We got it in the hole!”

  “Pocket. It’s called a pocket,” I correct her, praying to everything holy she’ll stop talking about sticks and getting things into holes. “It’s your turn. You get to go again because you made it in the hole. Pocket! You made it in the pocket.” I move behind her to guide her again, but she stops me.

  “Would you mind if I try it myself?”

  “Are you sure? This one’s a bit tricky. That ball is in your way so you’re gonna wanna bank it off …” before I can finish, she is executing a shot that has the cue ball jumping over another ball and gently tapping her ball into the pocket.

  “You were saying?” she says, sauntering around the table. She makes shot after shot, wielding the stick like she’s Minnesota Fats. And here I thought I was the con artist. “Another game? I'll go first. I’m sure it will be much easier for you to make a shot like the one you just missed without all my pesky balls in the way.”

  I bite back a smile. She breaks like a pro and circles back in my direction. I block her path. “You’re quite the little hustler, aren’t you?”

  Fighting her own cocky smile, she tilts her head to the side gazing up at me. “Maybe.”

  “Why did you let me go on like that?”

  She presses her hand to my chest playing with a button on my shirt. “Oh, because you were just so cute trying to show me how to hold the stick and shoot.” She taps me on the cheek and surveys the pool table for her next shot.

  I laugh inwardly. This woman, I swear.

  “So, where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  She lets out a little huff and I’m not sure if it’s because of the question or the difficult shot she’s about to attempt. “My dad went through a rough patch after we lost my mom. I guess losing the love of your life will do that to you.”

  A small sigh escapes her, and I feel like a jerk for bringing up the memory. She misses the shot, shrugging it off as she takes a seat.

  “Yeah, after my mom died, I remember there were days my dad couldn’t get out of bed,” I reply, sizing up the table. I don’t tell her about his two-year battle with alcohol addiction that cost him the car dealership or the time DFCS almost took Mason away, forcing Dad to get sober.

  “Mine was the opposite. He couldn’t sleep. I’d find him downstairs in the middle of the night playing pool. He hustled in college to pay for his tuition. I started setting my alarm and going down on purpose just to spend time with him. Neither of us said much, but he’d show me how to make trick shots. We’d play for hours. Eventually we started talking. It became our thing. We’ve had some of our best conversations over a pool table.”

  “Not your typical choice for daddy-daughter bonding.”

  She giggles. “No. I guess it’s not. I never really thought about it, but it is a little unorthodox for a father to teach his daughter to be a pool shark.”

  “My stepmom taught me how to pickpocket,” I respond, driving a ball into the corner pocket.

  “Are you serious?”

  I sit beside her, taking a swallow of my Negroni. “Yep. I could lift your wallet or take your watch and you’d never know it.”

  “The wallet maybe … if I wasn’t watching my purse. But I doubt you could take my watch without me feeling it,” she says, instinctively massaging her wrist. A look of shock washes over her face when she discovers it’s missing. Her mouth drops when I dangle the Rolex I just removed in front of her. “How’d you do that?”

  I take her dainty wrist and refasten the band around it. “I’m that good.”

  “I’m impressed. Could you teach me?”

  “To commit a felony?” I ask, propping against the pool table.

  “Yes.”

  “You weren’t kidding when you said you wanted to do something bad. Do you really wanna learn?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t laugh, but when we were younger, Alex—she’s my cousin you met earlier—was obsessed with those James Bond and Jackson Slate spy films. I think we watched every one of them a hundred times. We would pretend to be femme fatales stealing vital documents from a villain to help Jackson complete his mission.” She laughs despite telling me not to. “The villain was usually a chair with a jacket hanging on it. It’s crazy to think she’s going to be the lead in one of those films now.”

  “Really? Wow.”

  “Yep.
And she’s a stickler for realism. Maybe if you teach me, I could show her. I also think it’d be a cool thing to know. Like how to pick a lock or tie a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue.”

  “You know how to pick a lock?” I ask, even though my cock is begging me to prod more about the cherry stem, wondering what else she can do with her tongue.

  “No, I wish I did. Alex and I locked ourselves in a closet one time when we were kids and I’ve wanted to learn ever since. They say you can use a bobby pin, but that doesn’t work. Trust me. We tried.”

  “It does. You just have to know what you’re doing.”

  Her jaw goes slack. “You know how to pick a lock?”

  I throw up my hand and smirk. I probably shouldn’t be telling her all this, but why should I care? I’m never going to see her again after tonight.

  “I’m guessing that was something else you and your stepmom bonded over?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it bonding, but yeah. Needless to say, she wasn’t your typical mom.”

  “No, I guess not. So, will you teach me?”

  I glance around surveying the bar. “It might be kinda hard to find a lock to pick in here without someone calling the cops.”

  “You’re probably right. How about the pickpocketing thing instead? We could do that with just the two of us, couldn’t we?”

  This woman is dangerous. Here I am telling her about my demons and instead of running in the opposite direction, she wants to play with them. I motion to the side pocket with my cue calling my final shot and sink the eight ball. Nyla scowls. She’s competitive. Yet another thing I like about her. I take the stick from her hands and lean it against the table.

  “Sure. Wait. This isn’t like pool, is it? I’m not going to show you and then find out you’re some notorious pickpocket?” I ask, raising a skeptical brow.

  She cackles. “No. I guarantee you nobody’s ever taught me that.”

  “Okay.” I flag the waiter and order us another round before beginning her lesson. “Pickpocketing is all about distraction. If I want to take something from here,” I say, putting my hand on her wrist and then pace my other hand on her shoulder. “I use my other hand to direct your attention over here.”

  Next, I show her how to make a two-finger grab. I can’t believe I’m teaching her this, but she’s an eager student and seems anxious to learn. Besides, it gives me an excuse to touch her. And it’s pretty damn fun watching her reactions when I lift something without her knowing and then she fails trying to do the same. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so terrible at it. I task her with something easy—swiping my phone from my pocket.

  “I can’t believe your stepmom taught you this for fun,” she says, digging into my front pocket like someone trying to scratch a bad rash. I pull her hand up gripping her middle and forefinger.

  “Just these two, remember?”

  “Right.” She nods and tries again.

  “It wasn’t just for fun. I had to produce. If I didn’t, there were consequences.”

  She stops what she’s doing and takes a step back. “What kind of consequences?” There’s a tinge of dread clouding her voice. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s fine. She didn’t beat us or anything like that.”

  For some reason, I don’t mind sharing this stuff with her. It’s the first time I’ve ever told anyone anything about my life and it’s cathartic. Maybe because she’s a stranger. I mean, isn’t that part of the reason people go to confession? It’s much easier to confess your sins to someone you don’t know than it is to confess them to the loved ones you’ve wronged and wait for them to pass judgment. Plus, talking about it is distracting me from the fact that her hand has brushed against my dick at least five times while she’s riffling through my pants.

  “Us?”

  “Me and my stepbrother, Mike.” I twirl my finger, signaling for her to resume her attempted lift. “Anyway, she’d make one of us go without dinner or do some shitty chores. It wasn’t too bad at first, but eventually she figured out how to really push our buttons.”

  “And what were your buttons?” she asks with cautious curiosity.

  “It was different for both of us. For Mike, it was being compared to me. She made him feel like he could never measure up. For me, it was hurting the people I love. She’d hide my little brother’s favorite video game or throw out something of my mom’s that was sentimental to my dad. The only thing she ever did to me personally that really broke my heart was give away my dog.”

  “She gave away your dog? Was she allergic to him or something?”

  “No.” I frown recalling the painful memory. “When I was about fifteen, we were at the mall casing potential marks when a woman sat on the bench next to us, crying. I asked if she was okay. She apologized and told us she’d just sold the engagement ring her grandmother left her to be able to afford to buy Christmas presents for her kids.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “Yeah, I felt terrible for her. Anyway, Sheila wanted me to lift the woman’s wallet, but I refused. I told her the woman needed the money more than we did. Before that day, stealing had always been sort of a game to me. I never really thought about who I was stealing from until I met that mother. The next day, I came home and Chewie, my Golden Retriever, was gone. Sheila told me she gave him to a family that lost their dog and needed him more than us. I was heartbroken. I loved that dog. My mom and I picked him out together when I was little. I felt like I lost her all over again that day.”

  “Your mom died when you were young?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, leaning against the pool table. “Thirteen. Cancer.”

  “Twelve. Brain tumor,” she says, pointing to her chest. She slips her hands in mine which I find oddly comforting. “I can’t believe your stepmom could do something like that. What did your dad say?”

  “He didn’t know. She told him Chewie got out the gate and ran away. I knew better than to rat her out. What’s worse was my dad knew how much that dog meant to me. He bought a bunch of poster board and helped Mason, my little brother, and I make ‘Lost Dog’ signs, and then he drove us around the neighborhood every day for two weeks looking for him.”

  “That may be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m so sorry.” She releases my hands and slides her arms around my waist, nestling her head against my chest.

  The intimate gesture takes me by surprise. I hold up my hands but eventually succumb, returning her embrace. She feels good in my arms. Really fucking good. Like she belongs there. I press my cheek against her head and … good Lord! Did I just smell her hair?

  A little freaked out by my own behavior, I pull away clearing my throat. “So, you may be a whiz at pool, but you suck at pickpocketing.”

  She laughs. “I know. I don’t know why I’m so bad at it.”

  “Maybe because you’ve been digging around in the wrong pocket,” I mutter, retrieving my phone from my back pocket. She slaps my shoulder and snatches my cell staring at it for a moment. A mischievous little smirk crosses her lips.

  “Wanna know a secret?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She flattens her hand on my chest and pushes to her tiptoes until her mouth is against my ear. “I knew your phone was in your back pocket the whole time.”

  Fuck me, I think I’m in love. She hits me with those bedroom eyes and I’m a goner. I tuck her hair behind her ear like I’ve been wanting to do all night. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

  “Well, it’s about damn time.”

  So cheeky. My palms slide up her neck letting my fingers disappear into her hair. I smile, tracing my nose around hers and brush my lips gently over her mouth. The anticipation of the kiss has her breath hitching. Our eyes connect and her tongue peeks out wetting her lower lip. She’s eager. Hungry. And beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

  She lifts her chin, offering her mouth and I take it, coaxing my way inside. Our tongues glide against each other with slow licks, sending
fire through my body. With one hand still tangled in her hair, I let my other hand drift down her spine drawing her to me. She fists the back of my shirt in her hand, determined to pull me closer. Our kiss takes on a life of its own as want turns into need. I have to have her. Now.

  I back her against the wall, losing all sense of where we are and push my hips into her. She moans her approval, devouring my mouth. This woman could ruin me if I let her. One kiss and I’m coming undone.

  “Get a room!” someone shouts, reminding us of our surroundings. We break our kiss, still panting with desire.

  Get a room. My thoughts exactly. I tilt my head to the side, pinning her with my eyes. “Exactly how bad do you want to be tonight?”

  She chews her lip, draping her arms around my neck. “Well, one-night stands aren’t really my thing, but I’m thinking about making an exception.”

  One night? I can already tell there is no way one night with this woman will be enough. I open my mouth to say exactly that when my phone rings in her hand. She glances at it then holds it up for me to see.

  Her eyebrow arches. “Cora? You’re not married, are you?”

  I take the phone from her. “No, she’s my little brother’s nurse. He’s got a bad heart. I’m sorry, I have to take this. Please don’t leave.”

  She nods with sympathy. I step away, petrified it will be the call I’ve been dreading for years. It’s after eleven. Cora never calls me this late unless something’s wrong.

  “Cora, is everything alright? Is Mason okay?”

  “I’m fine, Memphis,” Mason’s voice comes through the line. I press my hand against my chest whooshing out a sigh of relief. “My phone’s dead. I borrowed Cora’s because I couldn’t wait to call you. I did what you said and asked Hannah out today. She said yes. We’re going to dinner and a movie next Friday.”

  I lift my head and see Nyla watching me with concern. I give her a thumbs up. She smiles, giving me two enthusiastic thumbs up in return. Now that my panic is subsiding, I can hear the excitement in his voice and I’m ecstatic for him. “That’s awesome, Mase!”

  He’s talking a mile a minute, telling me every detail of the conversation and drilling me with questions about where they should go. Right as we’re about to get off the phone, he starts on a bad coughing jag. “Mase! Are you alright?” There’s a clanging in my ear like the phone dropped. “Mase! Mason!”