by HELEN HARDT
Chapter Twenty
Dale
Maryanne is tending bar tonight. She’s a local girl, barely twenty-one, and Brock is in womanizing mode. I’m used to his behavior—hell, my little brother does the same thing—but I’m a little pissed, since merely a week or so ago, Brock was pulling his games on Ashley.
Better Maryanne than Ashley, though. Why the hell am I pissed on Ashley’s behalf? I don’t want her with Brock any more than I want her with Brendan Murphy or anyone else.
I want her with me.
Except I don’t.
I don’t want to want her.
I have no business dragging her into my chaos.
Maryanne slides my glass of wine in front of me, laughing. “Ruby for you. You and your uncle crack me up, coming in here and ordering your own wine.”
“Why not drink the best?” I say.
She giggles at me. “You’re so funny, Dale.”
I wasn’t being funny, but whatever.
Brock chimes in then. “Dale and Uncle Ry are like two peas in a pod, except for their personalities.”
This gets a laugh from everyone at the bar, which is mostly my family. Dad and me—he said an accident in the orchard caused his black eye—Uncle Joe and Brock, and Uncle Bryce, Henry, and Dave. No women chose to join us. Usually Mom or Aunt Ruby will bite, but apparently not tonight.
My body tingles in a strange way that I’ve come to know.
Ashley is near.
At least I hope she is. Brendan Murphy lives above the bar in the studio apartment. I’ve been there a few times.
There’s a bed.
A bed right out in the open.
Where he may be, right at this moment, with Ashley.
The thought consumes me, and I absently curl my fingers into fists.
The rest of my family converses and laughs, but it’s all white noise to me. I’m clutching my glass of wine with a white-knuckled grip.
Ashley.
Ashley is here.
Ashley is upstairs in bed with Brendan.
Ashley.
My Ashley.
“Dale.” My father grasps my arm. “You okay here?”
“Fine,” I say gruffly.
“Good.” He moves his eyes toward the stairway leading to Brendan’s place.
Ashley is descending, looking as beautiful as ever in a light-blue camisole and skinny jeans, her hair piled on her head in a messy bun. A silver chain hangs around her neck, luminous against her tanned skin.
Our gazes meet, but she doesn’t react.
Brendan walks behind her.
At least she’s not in his bed.
But was she? I grip the stem of my goblet this time. I could break it so easily, watch the shards of glass hit the wooden bar.
“Ashley!” Brock calls. “Come join us at the bar!”
“Thanks,” she says, “but Brendan was just going to walk me to my car.”
My car. It’s not her car. It belongs to my mom and dad. She’s borrowing it.
Why do her words irk me so?
Why does everything irk me?
Brendan Murphy irks me more than anything else. Is that a smug grin on his face? Did he bed the woman I’m in love with?
Brendan’s no womanizer, but who can resist Ashley White?
“Just one drink,” Brock urges.
Ashley laughs.
What a joyful sound!
Makes me want to retch. Not the laugh, itself. No. The fact that I find it joyful. That it makes me want to smile. To take her in my arms and declare my love for her.
That’s what makes me want to retch.
“Brendan and I just shared a bottle of Château Latour,” she says. “No more drinking for me this evening.”
Château Latour. She names the wine for my benefit. No one else here knows a Latour from a Gallo. Okay, my family knows a little more than that, but Ashley doesn’t know that.
Yeah, she mentioned the Bordeaux name for my benefit.
“There’s such a thing as a nonalcoholic drink, babe,” Brock chides.
She smiles at him. Smiles at him! And then walks toward the bar. “Why not? The night is young.”
But you have work tomorrow.
Of course, so do the rest of us.
It’s not even that late. Only nine thirty.
She looks toward me. What does she want? My approval? I look away…and meet Dad’s gaze.
Dad’s disapproving gaze.
An empty barstool sits at my right. Am I supposed to offer it to Ashley? The problem is…Brock sits on the other side of that stool.
Instead, Ashley chooses a seat at the end of the bar and Brendan sits beside her. Hmm… I don’t recall anyone inviting him to join us.
Of course, it’s his bar. His father’s anyway.
“Go talk to her,” Dad says under his breath.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“She’s with Brendan.”
“So?”
I polish off what’s left in my wineglass and shove it across the bar to Maryanne.
“Want another, Dale?” she asks.
“No. No thanks.” I rise and grab Brock’s arm. “Let’s play some pool.”
“Not in the mood,” he says.
“I’ll play you.” My cousin Henry, sitting on Brock’s other side, blond and blue-eyed like his father, stands.
“Great. Let’s go.” I head to the pool table and pick a cue stick from those mounted on the wall.
Of all my cousins, I’m probably closest to Henry. Though he’s eight years my junior, he’s nearest in age to Donny and me. Plus, we have something in common. Neither of us carries any actual Steel blood. He’s Uncle Bryce’s kid from his first and very short marriage to a Las Vegas show girl. Aunt Marjorie adopted him after she married Uncle Bryce, but he still sees his birth mother every now and then. Donny used to have a major crush on her, fake tits and all.
“Go ahead and rack,” I tell him.
Henry expertly racks the balls. “Eight ball?” he says.
“Sounds good.” I don’t give a fuck what we play, as long as it gives me something to do so I’m not trying so hard not to stare at Ashley and Brendan.
I chalk my stick. “You racked. I’ll break.”
Henry nods, and I take position to break the triangle.
“I’ll play the winner.”
My stick scuffs the felt. Ashley’s voice. Fuck.
“Nice shot,” she says sarcastically.
“Where’s your date?” I ask gruffly.
“At the bar.”
“Shouldn’t you be with him?”
“What do you think he is? My mother? I feel like some pool.”
Henry hands her his stick. “Three’s a crowd, obviously.”
Ashley shakes her head. “No, go ahead.”
“You remember my cousin Henry,” I say. “Henry, Ashley White.”
“From the pool party,” Henry says. “Nice to see you again.”
“You too.” Ashley beams a smile at him.
And I want to punch my favorite cousin’s face in.
“Tell me something. Who’s the better pool player? You or Dale?”
“We both suck,” Henry says with a wink.
Oh, yeah. I really want to punch him now. Since when is Henry such a flirt? He has a girlfriend, for God’s sake.
Henry and I don’t suck, of course. I wouldn’t try to play pool in front of Ashley if I weren’t good at it. Which pisses me off all the more. I’m gripping my stick hard enough to break it in half.
Easy, son.
Words from my father. Words he’s said to me so many times over the years.
Words I need now more than ever.
Focus, Dale. For God’s sake, focus.
I breathe in and exhale slowly. Then I push my stick against the ball at the apex of the triangle and break them expertly.
Nicely done. Thank God. Fucking up in front of Ashley isn’t a top priority at the moment.
The two bal
l slides into the far right corner pocket.
“Nice,” Henry says. “Looks like you’re solids.”
I nod and regard the layout of the balls on the table. I have a couple of options, one of which is a sure thing. The other isn’t, but it would be an amazing feat if I could pull it off.
Damn.
Normally I’d go for the more difficult shot. But with Ashley watching…
Fuck it.
I change for no one. Not even Ashley White. I move around the perimeter of the table, getting into position.
“So seriously, who’s the better pool player?” Ashley asks Henry again. “You or Dale?”
“We’re pretty evenly matched,” he says. “Brock’s better than both of us.”
Great. Henry had to mention Brock. Nice move to throw off my concentration.
I position my stick between my fingers, eyeballing the shot. I nudge the stick backward slightly. Then again. And I shoot—
“Brock!” Ashley calls. “I hear you’re the one to beat at pool.”
My stick grabs at the felt, and I barely touch the cue ball.
Fuck it.
Brock ambles over to the table. “Dale, man. What the fuck?”
“Can’t get them all the time,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
“You could make that shot in your sleep,” Henry says. “What gives?”
“Some of you were talking,” I say. “It messed with my concentration.”
“We talk all the time when we play,” Brock says. “Nothing shakes you up.”
He’s right.
Except apparently now he’s wrong.
Ashley White shakes me up.
I set my stick against the wall. “Your shot,” I say to Henry.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ashley
Dale doesn’t meet my gaze, but still, I feel the daggers he’s shooting at me. They’re bright red and full of rage, and they emit the spiky melody of a ghostly violin.
What did I do?
I called to Brock while Dale was making his shot, but Henry himself said they always talk while playing.
Or maybe it was the fact that I called to Brock, Dale’s cousin who’s shown a marked interest in me.
Or maybe it was because I’m here at all.
I’m the one who barged into Dale and Henry’s game. Perhaps I shouldn’t have.
But in all honesty? I wanted to be near Dale.
I still want to be near Dale.
In his presence, his good-looking cousins, Brendan, and all the other men in the bar become invisible to me. Only Dale exists—Dale with his leonine mane of blond hair, his eyes like emeralds that sparkle and sing joyous holiday music.
And Dale with his husky deep voice that coats me in the red-black warmth of a fully ripened Syrah.
But I’ve succeeded only in pissing Dale off.
I don’t seem to have any middle ground with him.
Either he’s angry and wants nothing to do with me, or he’s all over me, telling me he wants me more than anything.
And the reality is that it doesn’t matter to me.
Whether he’s angry or horny, I want to be near him. My heart cries out for him. I’m so hopelessly in love that I can’t bear it.
I can still leave the internship. The thought hasn’t left my mind. But I’m not a quitter. I’ve never been a quitter. My mother taught me that much. She never quit, and eventually she got us off the streets.
I never quit either, and I graduated high school with honors and gained a college education for my efforts.
This internship is an opportunity, and never once have I turned down an opportunity.
Besides, leaving the man I love isn’t truly an option for me.
My feelings for him are so strong, so intense, that I’m not sure I can even exist outside his presence anymore.
I chuckle to myself. I sound ridiculous. I don’t need a man to make my life complete. I need no one but myself. I proved that a long time ago.
But need… This elemental need I feel for Dale… It’s something so foreign to me.
Can I live without him?
Yes, I believe I can.
But it will be an empty life. As if the other half of my heart is missing.
I may need to adapt, though, because Dale may want me, even need me…
But he’ll never, ever love me.
My heart wants to shatter at the thought.
I wipe my mind as best I can and return my attention to the game. Dale is shooting again, and this time he’s much more focused. I stay quiet. I don’t want him blaming me for missing another shot.
I catch Brendan’s grin out of the corner of my eye.
Of all the people in this bar, he’s the only one who knows the truth of my feelings. He’s smiling. An encouraging smile.
I’m happy that I haven’t hurt him. His feelings for me are friendship and nothing more. Or at least they will be now, and he seems okay with it.
But he can’t help but notice Dale’s indifference toward me.
I return his smile, though halfheartedly. He lifts his eyebrows as if he’s asking me a question. Do I want to be saved? Do I want him to intervene?
I shrug.
Within a minute, he’s at my side. “Don’t let it get to you,” he whispers. “If he doesn’t come around, it’s his loss.”
I smile weakly once more. Sure, his loss. I don’t even disagree. The bigger problem, though, is that it’s also my loss. A loss I have no interest in bearing.
Dale stays focused and completes the game, dunking all the solid balls and then the eight ball.
Henry hands me his cue, smiling. “Looks like you’re up.”
Damn. I did say I’d play the winner.
I’m not bad at pool, but Dale’s better. Just by watching one game, I can already tell.
I draw in a breath. Here goes nothing.
Brock smiles. “I’ll take the next winner.”
“Changed your mind about playing, I see,” Dale says to Brock. Then he racks the balls and turns to me. “Ladies first.”
I nod and position myself at the foot of the table, my heart thundering against my rib cage.
Come on, Ash. Concentrate.
I execute a perfect break, after which I shoot two stripes into nearby pockets.
My third shot is… Well, it doesn’t exist. Dale or Brock might be able to make something out of this mess, but I can’t. I finally decide on a bank shot but I miss, sending several balls scattering even farther.
“Nice try,” Brendan says.
Those daggers Dale is shooting with his eyes? Brendan is their target now. Does Brendan know? Does he care? He seems his jovial self.
Dale picks up his stick and makes three shots in a row with perfect form.
As he eyes his fourth shot, I’m tempted to say something. You can do it!
But that would cause him to lose focus, and then he’ll shoot more invisible daggers at me, which I don’t want.
He finally decides on a shot, and though his form looks perfect to me, he misses.
I can’t help smiling, though. His flub has lined up some perfect shots for me. In fact, if I play this right…
I may be able to finish the game if I can get the eight ball where it needs to be.
The first three shots are easy. The thirteen in the left side pocket, the fifteen in the right side, and then a bank off the bumper to send the nine into the far corner.
Two striped balls left. The first is easy. Straight into the side pocket with little effort.
Only two balls lie between me and victory—the twelve and the eight.
Problem is, the eight is in the path of the twelve.
I can make this shot. I’ve done it before. But do I want to beat Dale?
For God’s sake. I’ve never dumbed down in my life, and I’m not about to start now. Besides, I may miss the shot. But I’ll give it my best effort.
I lean my stick against the table for a moment and stretch my arms, intertwining my fi
ngers and cracking my knuckles. Not the most ladylike, but I don’t care. Then I pick up my stick, replenish the chalk, and take aim.
The trick is to hit the cue ball with enough force to jump over the eight ball and propel the twelve into the pocket. If I execute it properly, the eight ball will be lined up for the same corner pocket.
Here goes nothing.
I will myself not to tremble and line up the shot. Just the right amount of pressure, and—
Crap. Too hard.
All three balls, including the cue, land in the pocket.
Scratch.
Normally a scratch gives Dale a shot from anywhere on the table.
But not this time.
Because I drove both the eight ball and the cue ball into the pocket, it’s a forfeit.
Dale wins.
He wins after pocketing only three of his balls, while I pocketed six of mine. Seven, if you count the twelve that went in with the eight and the cue.
“Nice job, cuz.” Henry pats Dale’s shoulder.
Dale doesn’t smile. He doesn’t say thank you to Henry. He only shoots more daggers.
I raise my eyebrows. How can he still be angry with me? He won, for God’s sake. Two games in a row.
“I want a rematch,” he says to me.
My jaw drops. “Why? You won. Why would you want a—”
“A forfeit doesn’t count. It’s not a win.”
“Official rules say otherwise, bro,” Brendan says.
“Fuck the official rules,” Dale says. “We’re playing again.”
“Maybe I won’t play,” I say adamantly. Though I have no reason not to play.
Brock steps up then. “I’m playing. I said I’d take the winner. Remember?”
“You can take the next winner,” Dale says, his voice more even-toned than his demeanor suggests.
“He can take this winner,” I say, handing Brock my stick. “And that’s you.”
I turn, trying my best to remain composed, and head back to a bar stool. I sit next to Talon, who smiles.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“Accident in the orchards today.”
Looks like a punch to the face to me, but I won’t press it. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing that hasn’t happened before,” he says. Then, “Don’t let Dale get to you. He doesn’t like to take the easy way out of anything.”
