The Biggest Risk (The Whisper Lake Series Book 3)

by Anna Argent

  When he went back to pick up Hanna, she was waiting for him on the front porch of the Yellow Rose.

  He almost didn't recognize her with her hair down like it was now, long and flowing in soft waves that fell all the way to her slim waist. The light brown locks caressed her breasts and face as they swayed on a gentle breeze.

  She wore a pale green sundress that fell just above her knees, showing off the rounded curve of her calves. The strappy sandals on her feet were worn, but showed off pretty peach polish on her toenails.

  She'd put on makeup, which lent a dramatic quality to her already beautiful eyes and a soft sheen to her kissable mouth.

  He was so used to seeing her with no makeup and her hair in a knotted bun, this new sight shocked him.

  She'd been pretty before, but all dressed up like this, she was utterly stunning and completely edible.

  He parked the truck and made slow work of getting out. The thin shorts were definitely a bad idea, considering there was no way he was going to keep his cock in check when in such close proximity to a woman as alluring as Hanna.

  Her smile of greeting was shy, almost girlish, and it was that expression—so out of line with the vixen she appeared to be—that got this body to cooperate. By the time he'd crossed the yard and made it to the bottom of the steps where she met him, he was once again the master of his own cock.

  "You look amazing," he told her.

  She smelled even better. Whatever perfume she wore went straight to his head and made it spin a little.

  "I wasn't sure what one wore to bingo, so I had to improvise." She lifted a hand self-consciously to her throat. "The dress needs a necklace, but I sold all mine."

  "Sold?"

  She shrugged. "Had to unload a bunch of stuff before the big move, so I had a garage sale."

  He could tell by the tightness in her features that there was more to it than that, but decided not to press the issue.

  "I hope the dress is okay. It's the only one I own," she said. "The rest had to go the way of the jewelry."

  He steeled his expression to keep any sign of pity from showing. "It's perfect."

  And it was. So was she, all perfumed and made up like this, and a small part of him wondered if she'd primped for him. Just a little.

  The dimple in her left cheek—the one with no match on the right side—deepened with his praise. "Good. I was worried. I've never been bingoing before." She paused, considering. "Is that even a word?"

  "It is now."

  He led her to the car, his hand on the small of her back. The silky strands of her hair tickled his skin and made his fingers tingle with the urge to slide deep and get a nice, firm hold.

  Hair as long as hers would wrap around his palm at least twice. Once he wound all that wild bounty around his fist, she'd be trapped, unable to get away from him and all the lovely things he wanted to do to her.

  He tucked her into the truck and resisted the urge to reach in and buckle her seatbelt. The need to strap her in was strong, but he didn't want to do anything to upset the careful balance they'd struck. She was no longer afraid of him, no longer pushing him away, and he was keeping his mouth off of hers and all her tempting curves.

  At least for now.

  By the time they reached the Whisper Lake Recreation Center, every handicapped spot was full, and there was a parade of gray heads filing into the building like ants.

  "Wow," Hanna said. "This really is a big deal."

  "The local pastors only wish they could get this kind of attendance."

  He parked at the back of the lot to leave the closer spots for the older people who had trouble getting around. That, and it gave him an excuse to touch Hanna just a little longer as he led her inside.

  He wanted to take her hand in his, but that seemed too date-like, and this was definitely not a date—he'd never take her to bingo on a first date. He'd have to settle for his hand on her back, hovering at that sweet spot where her tapered waist met the curve of her ass.

  The rec center doors opened into a giant gymnasium-like room, with twenty-foot ceilings and floors marked for basketball and volleyball courts. The bright industrial lighting overhead was caged with protective wires to keep damage from flying balls to a minimum, and made the space daylight bright.

  There was a low stage at one end, set up with a table and a white board. In the main area, there were rows of tables and chairs in front of the stage, and a buffet set up along one wall. The regulars had already claimed their lucky spots and set up for warfare. There were stuffed animals, plastic toys, shot glasses, and even one taxidermy cat all standing ready to do their duty and bring their owners good luck. Fat dobbers lay in neat rows, each color holding some meaning to the user that Nate had never quite figured out.

  Crockpots and bakeware lined the buffet tables, their contents scenting the air with homemade goodness. At the end of the buffet, set aside a few feet from the rest, was the dessert table. As usual, it was filled to bursting without a single space on the paper tablecloth left to be had.

  Beyond that was a giant vat of coffee that would be refilled at least twice tonight, and a five-gallon jug of sweet tea. Nate's mom had insisted that they offer unsweetened tea as an option, but the solitary gallon pitcher that held it would sit untouched all night, as it had for the past year.

  Nate had learned at a young age that the older one got, the sweeter their sweet tooth became. Whenever he visited the nursing home, he always did so bearing chocolate.

  People were already lined up for food, serving themselves potluck style.

  Hanna's gait faltered as she saw the spread. "Were we supposed to bring something?"

  "Not us. We're calling the numbers, so we're like minor celebrities-slash-referees. Besides, there's always tons more food than the people here can eat. Come on."

  "It's only four-thirty. It's a little early for dinner, isn't it?"

  "Not in this crowd. You won't get another chance to eat until all the bloodshed and crying is over, so get it while you can."

  "Bloodshed and crying?"

  "I told you they take their bingo seriously here."

  She smiled like she thought he was joking and followed him to the end of the line.

  Mrs. Olive Peony stood in front of them, her leopard print tights clinging to her bony legs. She was somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy, but Nate had never asked what her exact address was. Her hair was dyed a garish shade of purple, and she wore a feathered, rhinestone-encrusted pin tucked jauntily above one ear. Her hot purple T-shirt was tied at the waist, and pictured a little girl in a plaid skirt and knee socks digging in the mud with a small shovel. In bright gold glitter, the caption read, I'M A DIRTY GIRL WANNA PLAY IN MY HOLE?

  As soon as Nate got close, she turned to greet them with a warm smile.

  Hanna saw the shirt and let out a noise somewhere between a stifled laugh and a shocked gurgle.

  Score one for Olive Peony.

  "Nate, so good to see you. You're my favorite caller, you know." She pressed her bony hand against his chest, showing off more diamonds than Zales. He imagined that some of them were even real—gifts from her last five husbands. Or was it six?

  "Glad you could make it," Nate said. "Bingo is never the same without your sexy voice giving us a thrill."

  Her finger trailed down his torso, heading straight south for his belt. He clamped his hand over the wayward digit before she could make it past the border.

  "Have you met Hanna?" Nate asked.

  Mrs. Peony gave a faint pout. Her long, fake eyelashes tangled together, forcing her to blink several times to disengage the spidery lengths. "A new girlfriend?" She leaned close to Hanna. "I don't mind a little company, dear. Convince Nate here to have a threesome and I'll teach you a thing or two."

  Hanna's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

  Not a single word came out.

  "She's joking," Nate said. "Mrs. Peony likes to shock people with her bawdy sense of humor."

  "I'd rather sho
ck you with what I can do with my tongue, but one can't be too picky at my age." Mrs. Peony gave Hanna a long, thorough look up and down her body. "Now, a young thing like you could have any man she wanted. Assuming you know how to use what you've got. If you can't keep Nate sexually satisfied, come see me. I know a few things you could try. First, you'll need a wire whisk, and plenty of lube."

  "Okay," said Nate briskly, cutting off all further uncomfortable talk. "It's your turn to fill your plate, Mrs. Peony."

  "I keep telling you that you can call me Olive. Or Mommy. Whichever you like best."

  Hanna grabbed his hand then and squeezed. But when he looked at her, rather than finding horror on her face, he saw she was trying not to laugh.

  "Should I call you Mommy?" Hanna asked, bobbing her eyebrows with overblown, cartoony innuendo.

  Mrs. Peony's painted mouth stretched in a wide smile. To Nate she said, "I like this one. You should keep her."

  Another woman bustled up, her head down like a battering ram. She wore jeans shorts to her knobby knees, showing off wiry leg hair that probably hadn't been shaved since the sixties. Her bright white socks glared against the black straps of her sandals, but coordinated perfectly with her plain white men's undershirt. She had a helmet of steel gray hair styled in short curls and sprayed in place so that not even a hurricane wind could ruffle it.

  Her face was a perfect match to Olive's, only without makeup or fake lashes.

  She glared at Olive as she approached, her tone one of weary scolding. "Are you trying to get that boy to fuck you again?"

  "Trying?" Mrs. Peony cooed, "Or succeeding?"

  "I told you he's not interested."

  Mrs. Peony glanced at Hanna. "His girlfriend wants me."

  Hanna spoke up. "I'm not his girlfriend."

  "So you're a free agent?" asked Mrs. Peony, interest clear in her tone.

  Nate wasn't sure how this conversation was going to end, but he was sure that he didn't want to be around to see it. "Hanna, this is Fern Simmons, Mrs. Peony's twin sister."

  Hanna held out her hand to the newcomer. "Nice to meet you?" The phrase came out as more of a question than a statement, but Nate couldn't blame her.

  Mrs. Simmons pumped Hanna's hand once, with brisk force, then let her go. As soon as that task was done, she turned to her sister, her face stern. "You need to keep your deviant behavior to yourself. This poor girl doesn't want to get your dirty old pussy juice on her. What were you thinking?"

  With that, Mrs. Simmons grabbed her sister's ear and drug her out of line.

  "Oh my," Hanna said, her eyes still as wide as her smile.

  "Do you want me to take you home?" he asked.

  "No way. If this is how you all do bingo night, I've got to stay and see what happens."

  Chapter Twelve

  When Nate said that Whisper Lake took their bingo seriously, he wasn't kidding.

  Three fights broke out over the evening, and two of them drew blood. And that wasn't even counting the squabbles that arose over the last piece of blackberry pie.

  Every seat at every table was filled. Every inch of the tables was covered in bingo cards, daubers, and good luck trinkets. One woman had a stuffed snake wrapped around her neck and would pet it between every number Nate called. Another wore a tiara, and a tiny, hunched man in a motorized scooter emblazoned with pro-bingo bumper stickers had an intricate series of hand gestures he did whenever luck wasn't coming his way fast enough.

  As the evening wore on, it was clear that prime territories had been staked out through years of border skirmishes. If the corner of even one bingo card slipped past what was considered neutral territory between players, the encroacher would be met with hostile force, shoving the page back hard enough that the advancing enemy regretted their incursion. The looks of derision the infraction earned was second only in causticness to the low boos and hisses that rose up from the nearby players.

  Hanna had never seen anything like it, but by the time Nate took a break from calling numbers—bingo intermission as he called it—she was kind of in love with the gathering of feisty townspeople.

  Nate pulled out his antique pocket watch and checked the time. "You should grab something to drink and use the bathroom while you can. The second act is likely to get ugly."

  "Ugly?" she asked. "We've already had to stop twice to bandage wounds. How much uglier can it get with the average age in attendance pushing seventy?"

  He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Fern Simmons tromped up to where Nate stood on the low stage. Her steel gray head was low, like she was set to charge, and her face was grim. "Someone stole my tank."

  Hanna blinked in confusion, trying to make sense of the woman's words.

  "Are you sure it didn't just fall off the table?" Nate asked.

  "Positive. It was there when I went to the toilet and gone when I came back."

  "Did you ask your sister if she saw it?"

  Mrs. Simmons's chest swelled with outrage. "Are you calling my sister a thief?"

  Nate held up his hands to ward away the crazy, but Hanna guessed it wasn't going to work.

  "Not at all," he said quickly. "I just meant that she's sitting next to you. Maybe she saw what happened to it."

  Mrs. Simmons put her bony hands on her bony hips, thrusting out her bony elbows in accusation. "Someone stole it. That's what happened. It's brought me luck all night, and some fucker here just swiped it."

  "What does it look like?" Hanna asked.

  Mrs. Simmons stared at her like she was brain damaged. "It's a tank. It looks like a tank. The shooty-shooty kind, not the ones that hold shit."

  Nate took pity on Hanna. "It's a small metal replica of a tank from World War II, painted Army green. Maybe three inches long. She's brought it here for years."

  "I'll go see if I can find it," Hanna said, leaving Nate to soothe the angry woman.

  She was halfway to the table where Mrs. Simmons had been sitting next to her colorful sister when a furtive movement caught the corner of her eye. She turned to see what had snared her attention, but all she saw was a strikingly beautiful woman sitting quietly along the wall, crocheting. Her hair was a sleek, platinum blond, held back on one side with a gold comb. Even though she had to be in her sixties, her skin was smooth, with a satiny peaches-and-cream coloring. Her posture was that of a demure southern belle waiting for her beau to come calling.

  She had a large fabric bag on the lap of her flowing floral skirt, and a strand of thin yarn leading from that tote to her flashing crochet hook. Diamond rings twinkled on both her hands, but rather than covering each finger as Mrs. Peony did, this woman had stopped at one ring per hand and one glittering diamond tennis bracelet winking on her wrist.

  As Hanna watched, tiny, intricate stitches formed a lacy doily so delicate, it could have graced the most refined doll house in town.

  The woman's cornflower blue eyes lifted from her work, landing on a man crossing toward her. He was on the pudgy side, but handsome in a rakish kind of way. His hair was the color of oxidized lead, slicked back from his forehead. He had pale, scarred spots along his temples and hair line, reminding Hanna of the spots her landlord in Cincinnati had after suffering a bout of skin cancer.

  As soon as the older woman saw him, her face lit up with welcome, and a soft blush formed on her smooth cheeks.

  She set her needlework on the floor, and as she did, the bag tilted sideways and a small, Army green tank rolled out.

  The man bent and picked up the metal toy. "What's this?" he asked.

  "Mine!" came an enraged shout from across the room. "That's my lucky tank!"

  Hanna saw Mrs. Simmons barreling toward them, head down, teeth bared. Rage flashed in her eyes, as well as the promise for revenge.

  Hanna hurried forward to intervene before that crochet hook ended up in someone's eye.

  "I can't believe you stole it," Mrs. Simmons roared loudly enough the rest of the large room fell silent. Now that she had an audience, she announced
, "Caroline Peach is a thief!"

  Caroline rose to her feet and clutched the arm of the man beside her. "I didn't steal anything. I found it."

  "You found it on my table," said Mrs. Simmons. "That's where you found it."

  "Now, Fern," the older gentleman said, his voice low and soothing. "I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding."

  Mrs. Simmons’ face darkened further with rage. "You stay out of this, Gilbert. You're only good for one thing, and keeping the peace ain't it."

  Caroline gasped. "How dare you talk to him like that? He's a kind, decent man and doesn't deserve your vitriol and spite."

  "You only say that because you want him to waste one of his little blue pills on you."

  An audible inhalation passed through the room, and then fell silent.

  Gilbert stepped in between the feuding women. "Ladies, please. There's no need to fight."

  "It was supposed to be my night," Caroline spat. "You got him last night."

  "Well, maybe I'm just better in bed than you."

  "Whore," Caroline muttered.

  "Whoa," Nate said as he entered the fighting ring. "No need for that." He addressed the growing crowd of gawkers. "You all go on about your business. Get some coffee. Next round starts in ten."

  A few of the onlookers grudgingly left the spectacle, but most of them stayed where they were, watching what would happen next with rapt attention.

  Nate turned to Caroline. "Did you take the tank?"

  "She can have the stupid thing. It isn't lucky, anyway."

  "It sure as hell can't get you laid," Fern said. "Then again, there's not a lucky charm in this place strong enough to make a man stomach what's between your legs."

  "O-kay," said Nate, hands raised, his cheeks a delightful shade of pink. "Can we all just agree to keep our sex lives and personal insults out of this?"

  "She's always stealing my night," Caroline said, her tone one of clear accusation.

  "There's enough of old Gilbert to go around," the older man said. "Why don't both of you come back to my place after bingo and I'll show you."

  "Pervert," shot Fern.