by Shandi Boyes
I thrust my hand toward him. He leaves me hanging by spinning on his heels and stalking across the room. After retaking his seat, he raises his eyes to me standing dumfounded. “No deals are made in this house without a wager being placed, right, Dalton?”
“Uh. . .” Dalton grapples for a response, seemingly lost. “That’s right?” His unease makes his confirmation sound more like a question.
My chest rises and falls in rhythm with the vein in Elvis’s neck when he negotiates, “If you win, I’ll agree with your deal. If you lose. . .”
I peer over my shoulder when his words trail off. There’s no one behind me, so there’s no reason for his sentence to fall short as it did. It seems like he doesn’t know what he wants if he wins.
My theory is proven accurate when he says, “We’ll discuss the fine print later.” With a smirk that reveals there’s a lot more to him than the brooding, muscle-loaded shell he’s been displaying all evening, he asks, “Peanuts or plain?”
I’m confused. . . until I peer down at the poker table. They’re not betting with money. The tabletop is covered with M&Ms.
I pace closer to them. “Are peanut M&Ms worth more than their skinny counterparts?”
When Dalton shakes his head, I say, “Then I’ll have plain. Everyone knows you get more candy per packet since they’re smaller.”
“But they don’t taste as good,” Elvis interjects.
Smiling, I nod. “True. But I’m not here for the candy.” I take the empty seat next to him before leaning into his side. “I’m here to keep your mitts out of my hair.”
It could be the alcohol heating my veins, but I swear displeasure in the first thing to cross Elvis’s face during my confession. My breath can’t be blamed for his ghastly response, either. I steered clear of any dishes that included ginger or garlic. Don’t ask me why. I’ve already lied once today, so I’d hate to break your trust for the second time.
CHAPTER FOUR
Presley
“Y ou’re lying! That can’t be right. I have a straight. How can a bunch of random cards beat a straight?”
Willow stares at me with wide, glassy eyes. She’s confident I’m lying but aware I have no reason to. The final eight M&Ms she went all in with won’t be missed in the massive stockpile in front of me, but she’s not giving in.
Becca and Dalton bowed out nearly an hour ago, but Willow played a good, logical game. . . until she thought she had a winning hand.
“I have a flush—”
“Your cards aren’t in any order.” She waves her hand over my cards. “They just have hearts on them. I have a straight. Three, four, five, six, seven.” She counts out her usually impressive hand onto the felt with force. “I win.”
She stops dragging a massive pile of rainbow candy to her side of the table when Becca grimaces. “Elvis is right, Willow. A flush ranks higher than a straight.”
Willow slumps into her chair, the candy only halfway across the table. “Really?”
I scoff, peeved she believes Becca in an instant. I shouldn’t be shocked. I could tell her I’m allergic to peanuts, and she’d stuff peanut M&Ms into my mouth to test the theory. I guess I somewhat deserve her distrust. I did make out I was planning to arrest her when we met. I also did a stellar job of acting annoyed at her description of ballers.
I’m a little annoyed, but not enough to display it to a stranger. To be honest, it’s nice hearing someone’s open rawness for a change. Dalton and I are surrounded by people paid to kiss our asses. Dalton escapes the madness by returning home to his wife who keeps him grounded. I don’t have access to the same crutch.
Even when I was engaged, Lillian didn’t bring me back to earth. She stroked my ego so much, I thought I was invincible. When the doctors told me I had broken my back, I didn’t believe them. I was Presley Carlton: number one draft pick, star quarterback, and captain of the world-renowned 69ers. I was not a cripple.
I lived in that bubble for the eight weeks following my accident. It only burst when I attended my first physical therapy session after surgery. Even with a brace designed to hold my back in exact alignment, I could barely take a step. I was out of shape, pissed at the world, and blaming everyone but the man responsible: me.
I drank a fifth of bourbon before getting behind the wheel of my flashy sportscar.
I raced through the streets of New York at an excessive speed.
I plowed into a multi-passenger van without my foot touching the brake.
And it was me who nearly ended an entire family’s existence faster than I could snap my fingers.
But do you know what? They weren’t mentioned in any of the reports that circulated after my accident. They weren’t brought up when Lillian sought advice on my case from spinal specialists from around the world. No one spoke a word about them until I woke up screaming because the weight on my chest finally grew too much for me to bear.
It wasn’t the brace pinning me to my sweat-drenched sheets.
It was guilt.
I was told over and over again that I didn’t do anything wrong. That the accident wasn’t my fault even with my vehicle being cleared of any malfunctions. They said what they thought I wanted to hear instead of the truth.
So, having someone like Willow call it as it is isn’t just amusing to watch, it’s refreshing.
I’m snapped from dark and dreary thoughts when candy crunching sounds through my ears.
“Are you eating my candy?”
Willow’s light blue eyes lock with mine. “No.” The smears of chocolate on her teeth reveal her lie, much less the brown dribble pooling in the corner of her plump lips. “I’m eating my candy. I don’t care what any of you say, a straight always beats a flush.”
Stealing my chance to reply, she stands from her seat and makes her way across the room. I had wondered earlier if the wine she had with dinner added to her sultry walk. It didn’t. She hasn’t had a drop of alcohol in over three hours, yet her walk is still as sexy as fuck.
I stop staring at the generous sway of her ass when she renegotiates our deal, “Best out of three. Winner takes all.” She nudges her head to a large billiard table.
I’m fucking wrecked. I was up at six this morning for a PT session to loosen my muscles before I was assessed by the team doctors at eight AM to ensure I was fit to play, but not even drooping eyelids will make me decline Willow’s challenge. I don’t back down when challenged. Not even when the odds are stacked against me.
My imminent return to my glory days will be undeniable proof of that.
“I THOUGHT you said you’ve played before?”
Willow attempts to roll her eyes. They only get halfway around before they do a weird twitchy I look like I’m having a fit spasm. After returning them front and center with a shake of her head, she narrows them at me. “I have played before. . . just not on a table this big.”
“Not accustomed to handling big things?”
Cocking her hip, she spreads her hand across its generous swell. She looks like she wants to say something, but she can’t. She walked straight into that one, and she knows it.
After a few seconds of deliberation, she finally unearths a comeback. “I’ve handled my fair share.”
Even though she’s a terrible liar, anger is the first thing to pummel me. Or is it jealousy? Whatever the fuck it is, I shouldn’t be feeling it. Willow’s not here for a long time. She’s the post-game entertainment Dalton and I skipped tonight to check on Becca. She’s full of fun, but only recommended in minimal doses.
Pissed—more at myself than Willow’s inability to hit a cue ball—I head to her side of the table. “You need to hit the white ball.”
She glares at me. “I know that, you nincompoop. It’s working out how to reach it when it’s in the middle of the friggin’ table. Unlike you, I don’t have octopus tentacles for arms.” She snaps her eyes to Becca and sighs. “Why did you partner me with him again? I thought we had sisterhood vibes going on.”
Becca smiles befor
e cuddling into Dalton’s side. She’s not cozying up; she’s holding him down so he can’t retaliate to her reply. “Dalton doesn’t like watching me play with other men’s cue sticks.”
“Damn straight,” Dalton agrees without pause.
I wish they were joking, but not even the giant baby bump separating them can come between Dalton’s possessiveness of Becca. How do I know this? I may have used his neurosis against him a handful of times the past nine years. The first time was during a competition similar to this. It was the night Dalton was smacked on his ass by a brunette way out of his league. He and Becca have been inseparable ever since.
With that night on my mind, I put my cue stick in its rack before moving closer to Willow. She watches me with the same doe-eyed look she’s been giving me all night. It’s not a shy look. It’s more uneasy than anything. She can’t read me, and it’s frustrating her as much as my cock’s numerous meetings with my zipper anytime she purses her lips has frustrated me. She has a mouth men can’t help but pay attention to, because there’s no way lips as fleshy as hers wouldn’t give good head. They’re too meaty and erotic to belong to a good girl who’d never get on her knees. That’d be a grave injustice to mankind. God would never be so cruel.
Pretending my dick isn’t once again consulting with my zipper, I say, “You need to brace your arm better so your stick doesn’t bow no matter how loose your hold is.”
I adjust one of her hands until it’s halfway down her cue before moving her other one to the very bottom. “Gentle, Buttercup. Do you strangle a cock when you caress it? Or do you apply just enough pressure it feels both nice and firm?”
My zipper bites my cock when she replies, “Depends. Some guys like it rough.”
With a wink revealing she didn’t just return my serve, she ended our game altogether, she arches over the billiard table. Her shirt clings to her skin when I place my hand on the small of her back.
“You’re not waiting for him to climb aboard and take himself for a ride, Willow. You’re meant to ride him as much as he rides you.” Ignoring the fact her ass is in prime position for me to whip out my cock and drive home, I growl, “Lower.”
Willow drops her ass an inch.
“Lower.”
She bobs down another half-inch.
“Even lower.”
Becca giggles when Willow roars, “Jesus Christ, Elvis! Am I fucking the table or is the table fucking me?”
Not thinking, I lean over her shoulder to fire off a retort. Since she’s so tiny—I’d guess a maximum of five feet, four inches—every inch of her is swamped by my body. Not even Dalton and Becca’s prying eyes can see her. My nostrils flare as I suck in her scent. She smells pretty, like candy and sugar and a wicked naughtiness that derails my train of thought in an instant.
“The only thing about to get fucked on this table is you if you don’t make this shot.”
Either turned on by my threat or scared, Willow’s spine snaps straight. Since she is holding her cue stick away from her body, it sails into the air. When it collides with the light suspended over the billiard table, she yanks it back with force. Every bad deed I’ve ever done is answered for when the butt of her stick, along with her fist, slams into my crotch—my extended crotch because of the syrupy scent of her hair.
With watering eyes and the groan of a man crawling to his death, I stumble backward. I’ve been tackled more times than you can count, had three ribs broken by a bull when I visited Dalton’s ranch for his bachelor party, and survived a head-on collision with another vehicle, yet this is by far the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced.
I fall to the ground with a thud, my hands unsure whether they should protect my face or my crotch. They go for the latter, confident it can’t endure anymore pain. I don’t feel any wetness on my cheeks, but that doesn’t mean I’m not crying. This fucking hurts. It hurts sooo bad.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”
Incapable of speaking through the pain shredding me to pieces, Willow takes my silence as a call for help. After dumping a half-consumed bottle of wine from an ice bucket on the bar, she upends the soggy slop into a napkin that is powerless to hold its wetness, drops to her knees, then presses her makeshift ice-pack to my crotch.
Now matters are ten times worse.
The napkin crumbles within a nanosecond of absorbing the soggy remains of the ice bucket, so nothing but a few shards of ice separate Willow’s hands and my crotch. The only good that comes from this highly embarrassing situation is confirmation she hasn’t permanently injured me. My cock is inflating so quickly, I can feel its pulse over the pain strumming through my veins, and I’m not the only one noticing it.
“Oh no, you’re swelling up. Maybe we should call an ambulance?”
I stop Willow from grabbing her backpack at the same time Becca and Dalton lose their shit. They howl in hysterics, not the least bit concerned their best man is down for the count in their den.
“I don’t need an ambulance.”
“Are you sure?” Willow’s wide eyes bounce between mine before they return to my crotch. “What if you sustain permanent damage. . . down there? I’ll never forgive myself if he stops working.” Her words grow weaker with every one she speaks.
“I’m sure he’ll be okay. . .” My assurance ends with a groan when I attempt to stand. Who could have known a girl as short and as pretty as Willow could take down a man my size? “I’ll be fine. I just need to walk it off.”
“That’s right, Elvis. Walking it off will help.” Dalton’s southern drawl is colored with both laughter and remorse. “If it doesn’t, Willow can always borrow Becca’s naughty nurse outfit to ensure that type of swelling is normal.”
Snagging a pool ball off the table, I peg it at his head. He’s standing next to his heavily pregnant wife, but even with crushed nuts, I’m confident in my throwing skills. I didn’t sign a thirty-seven million dollar contract fresh out of college for no reason. I’m the best quarterback in the industry. . . Well, I will be when they clear me to play in that position again.
Not as annoyed by Dalton’s sneer as me, Willow says, “I can take a look, if you want?” She waves her hand to my saggy trousers that are clinging to my frozen crotch.
My teeth grit when I drop my eyes. I look like I pissed my pants.
Once again taking my silence as a cry for help, Willow steps closer to me. Her eyes float up from my crotch when I say, “It’s okay. I’ve got a handle on things.”
I glare at Dalton when he snickers, “You sure do. You’re handling things mighty fine right now.” He swallows several times in a row when he’s subjected to my fury, but his smile doesn’t fade. “What? I’m just looking out for you.”
I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about him. He isn’t the best wingman there is. He’s shit. The worst on the planet. Proof? I asked him to keep my focus off Willow and her fantastic tits, not encourage the stupid thoughts in my head. Willow is too young for me to mess with, so young, I’m beginning to wonder how dated the YouTube video she mentioned earlier is. It could have been recorded last week for all I know.
After taking in the cue ball-sized hole next to Dalton’s head, the dangling light above the billiard table, and the indent in the carpet from where I fell like a bag of shit, I realize it’s time to call it a night.
When I announce my decision, Willow agrees with me. “Good idea.” She gathers her backpack before shifting on her feet to face Becca. “What cab services come out this way?” She has her cellphone at the ready to call a taxi.
I linger at the side, pretending I haven’t spotted Dalton’s numerous head nudges to Willow. I like her; she’s quick-witted, smart, and as sexy as fuck yet completely unaware of her beauty, but a whack to the nuts is the only warning I need that I’ve delved too far into murky waters tonight. Her calling a taxi may be the only life vest thrown my way, and I’m not giving it up for anything.
“Stop it,” I half-whisper/half-mouth to Dalton when he adds a snarl to his h
ead nudge. “She wants to go home in a taxi. Let her go home in a taxi.”
He performs a gesture no thirty-year-old male should, but it relays his thoughts with crystal clear precision. He thinks I’m a wanker.
We can only hope after the jab my balls just endured.
When Willow shadows Becca into the kitchen to see what car services are operating this late at night, Dalton stops using gestures. “You’re a fucking idiot, Elvis. Offer the girl a ride home.”
I continue my stubborn stance by folding my arms over my chest.
It doesn’t faze Dalton, though. “Why the fuck would you turn down an opportunity like this? There is so much heat between you two, I would have made Becca leave the room if she weren’t already pregnant. You two are the very definition of immaculate conception.”
I would laugh if he wasn’t being serious. There’s an abundance of attraction between Willow and me, but it’s not happening. Not tonight. Not next week. Not even next month.
When I tell Dalton that, he yells, “Why. The Fuck. Not?”
I throw my hands into the air. “Because of what you said earlier. You said ‘girl.’ I’ve got enough shit to swim through; I’m not adding fooling around with a minor to the mix.”
Dalton glares at me. “Don’t treat me like an idiot. I saw you watching her when she was pretending not to watch you, and from the number of times you’ve adjusted your crotch, I’m reasonably sure you know she’s a woman.”
He steps closer to me. Guilt is lining his face. “But just to be safe, I took a peek at her license when she went to the bathroom. She’s twenty-two.” He grimaces as if his next set of words are arriving with a bucket load of vomit. “In a few weeks. . . perhaps months.”
“Which is it, Dalton? Weeks or months?” I’m tired, dealing with throbbing nuts, and having inappropriate thoughts about a girl who is either eight or nine years younger than me.
Eight I could be okay with. Nine. . . I’m not so sure about that. That’s bordering on gross old man/daddy issues to me.