Levi’s brow creased. “Or maybe you’re just thirty years old and you’re tired of the parade of interchangeable arm candy you’ve been sampling from since…well, since your balls dropped. And as far as your career, it makes sense. All I ever heard you talk about was fighting The Hammer. You’ve done that. Maybe it’s time to consider retirement. Have you given any thought to what your life is going to look like after MMA?”
With every word Levi spoke, Lucky was getting more and more worked up. “I can’t believe you’re being so calm about this.”
“I can’t believe you’re so upset about this,” Levi shot back. “Did you really think you’d be able to keep up with your lifestyle forever?”
Maybe. Okay, yes.
“Honestly, I’m relieved. I thought for sure that you were about to tell me that one of your arm candy girls was going to be making me an uncle.” Levi chuckled.
Lucky grinned. His brother always did have a way of putting things in perspective. His life might not make much sense to him now, but at least it was just his life. He didn’t have anyone else depending on him. And that’s exactly how he liked it.
“You’re right. I just need to figure out what my next move is.” Lucky sighed in resignation.
“Look, why don’t you just take the pressure off for a minute? Stop comparing how you used to feel to how you feel now. Take that out of the equation. Just figure out what makes you happy or what you think will make you happy, and move your life in that direction.”
That actually made a lot of sense, and he told his brother that—in his own way. “When did you become Oprah?”
Levi smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. Your midlife crisis made me leave my wife in a bar full of drunk men.”
“I think Shelby can handle herself.” Lucky had seen that woman in action. She was badass.
Speaking of badasses… Deanna popped back into his mind. From the second she’d told him that he had two seconds to let her go, he’d known she meant business. Then seeing her on that training course had solidified his first impression.
“It’s not my wife I’m worried about.” Levi grinned as he shook his head.
His brother headed back behind the bar and worked his way down, making sure each customer was taken care of. When he got to the end, where Shelby was shaking a mixed drink, he briefly kissed her on the head as he patted her rear. She looked up at him and winked, and the look of love in his brother’s eyes was so strong, so real, that it hit Lucky like a punch right in the middle of his chest.
Usually, that look would’ve made him feel sorry for the poor bastard. Instead, he felt a twinge of…was it envy? No. That was impossible.
The American Dream had never been Lucky’s dream. His had been much simpler and much more selfish. He wanted enough money to be comfortable and didn’t want anyone depending on him.
If he felt like moving his camp across the country to train, that’s what he did. If he wanted to stay up all night watching old Ren and Stimpy reruns, that’s what he did. If he wanted to stay at the gym until four a.m. and then go for a run as the sun came up, that’s what he did.
His personal life was simple. He answered to no one. Had no responsibilities. No obligations.
No real connections.
What the… Where had that thought come from?
Lucky took a gulp of his beer as he returned to his perch at the far corner of the bar. Honesty was never something Lucky had a hard time with. Whatever the truth of a situation was, no matter how bad, he always preferred to deal with things head on—face the facts.
In that vein, he asked himself: did he really want what his brother had? Did he want a wife? Just the thought of being tied down made Lucky break out in a cold sweat as heat rose under his collar, and he pulled his T-shirt away from his skin.
That was his answer right there. If he couldn’t even entertain the possibility of happily ever after without breaking out in hives, then he obviously didn’t want it. And just as he was about to write the entire subject off, a certain green-eyed, brown-haired beauty popped into his mind. But not the same visions he’d been having about her all day; she wasn’t washing a fire engine or jogging in those sweats that molded to her curves in mouthwatering perfection. And she wasn’t kicking ass at a training exercise.
Those scenarios would’ve been perfectly reasonable, considering she was hot as hell. Instead, she was wearing a white dress and walking down an aisle towards him.
His heart pounded in his chest, but it wasn’t from the cold-sweat-and-heat-rash-induced fear. The coronary palpitations had been borne of anticipation. Of desire.
Did he actually want to marry this chick?
Before he let himself answer the question from his heart or his gut, his go-to decision-making organs, his brain overrode his normal system.
Marry her? No! That was ridiculous.
He didn’t even know her last name and he was having visions of giving her his? This “midlife” crisis—as his brother had put it—was solely about his career. His unhappiness stemmed from there. That was the root and the trunk of the dissatisfaction tree that had been growing inside him and was now as large as any Redwood in this state.
This thing with Deanna that, in a matter of a few short days had ramped up from feeling like a harmless high school crush to borderline stalker obsession, must’ve been his mind’s way of distracting him from what was really bothering him—his career.
“Excuse me? Are you Lucky Dorsey?” an unfamiliar voice sounded behind him as someone tapped his shoulder.
Swiveling his head, he glanced over his shoulder and saw a blonde girl that had to be in her early to mid-twenties. She had huge, blue eyes and full, soft-looking lips.
“That’s me,” Lucky grinned.
“Oh my gosh! I thought so! Will you sign my stomach?” she asked. Then she lifted her shirt, exposing a flat, taut area of flesh, and handed him a pen.
“On one condition,” he said, his tone purposely serious.
She nodded, breathless as she licked her lips. “Anything.”
“Let me buy you a drink.” He made sure to flash his dimple as he bent down to sign her bare skin.
Unlike a certain too-hot-to-handle firefighter who was driving him crazy, this was exactly the kind of distraction he needed.
*
Why did I agree to do this? Deanna asked herself as she pulled into the gravel parking lot of JT’s Roadhouse.
Before she had even finished thinking the question, she was already answering it. Because being a firefighter, a good firefighter, was more than just showing up for a shift a half hour early so she could relieve the previous one. It was more than learning the territory and knowing it like the back of her hand. It was more than knowing, when in doubt, take a Halligan. It was more than never turning her back on a fire.
It was about building a family in her house. That meant never turning down a meal. Diet was nothing compared to camaraderie. That also applied to going out to a bar on her first night off in three days because that’s what the blue and green shifts were doing.
When she checked her reflection in the rearview, it became glaringly obvious that her time this afternoon would’ve been much better served by napping rather than unpacking. The dark circles left no room for interpretation on that point. Of course, she hadn’t known she was going out tonight until twenty minutes ago, when Chris and Casey had shown up at her door.
At least she’d been able to convince them she could drive herself. That was a two-fold precaution. This way she could leave whenever she wanted, and even though she was sure that getting the newbie drunk was one of their many initiations, it wouldn’t be happening tonight. She was driving, which meant she could have one drink and one drink only.
Getting wasted and humiliated would have to wait for another night. Preferably one when she wasn’t already starting off in an exhaustion deficit.
“Go time,” she told her reflection.
As much as she wanted to stay in her car
all night—or, even better, drive it right out of this parking lot and straight back to her cozy house, which had a queen sized Tempur-Pedic with her name on it—she needed to lose the bad attitude, suck it up, and have a drink with the guys.
Deanna pushed her door open and the crisp, cool mountain air washed over her and gave her a boost of energy that several cups of coffee had been unable to achieve. Shivering, she hustled across the crowded parking lot. Having come from the seaside town of Santa Barbara, she was used to the night temperatures dropping, but they were mild compared to mountain-air drops.
As she arrived at the bar’s entrance, the door opened and a couple came through. Well, couple might be overselling their relationship. It was fairly clear that these two were a classic bar-hookup story. She read the way they were looking at each other and their body language like a book.
A thought occurred to her as she stepped inside the warmth of the local watering hole. Maybe the guys would be so busy hitting on women, trying to achieve what Mr. and Mrs. Hookup had, that she could slip out early. That idea gave her much more of a thrill than it should have, considering she was a single, twenty-six-year-old woman in a new town.
Deanna blew on her hands to warm them as she scanned the bar. Instead of feeling out of place, she was immediately put at ease. There wasn’t an empty seat at the bar or the tables. Music from the jukebox in one corner added just the right backdrop to the hum of laughter and conversation.
It was cozy and welcoming, unlike the snooty, upscale bars that had become popular in her hometown. This place looked worn in. A long, oak bar took up one side of the space. In the center, a collection of tables and chairs were filled with people. Several pool tables in an alcove right off the dining area were in use.
That’s where she spotted the guys.
“Rookie! You made it!” Chris yelled, lifting his beer bottle. A pool stick resided in his other hand.
Nodding, she headed in his direction. As she weaved her way through people, tables, and chairs, she made sure she kept a friendly grin—she wasn’t trying to be fake. In fact, she hated fake people. But she’d been accused, more than once, of having RBF—Resting Bitch Face. Sure, most of the time, her mother was the one making that not-so-kind observation. And normally, she took what her mother said with a pound of salt, not just a grain. But, in situations like this, she tried to err on the side of caution.
This bar was filled with drunk women who were most likely on the prowl. That combination could very easily turn into a confrontation if one wasn’t careful. The last thing she needed was to be pulled into a catfight on her first night out with her unit.
Men, by and large, didn’t go out of their way to look for fights. Usually, unless you piss them off directly by hitting on their girlfriends or wives, they pretty much let sleeping dogs lie. Women, on the other hand, were a different story—just like the other day at Brewed Awakenings, when Vivien’s claws had come out over Lucky. The fairer sex could make a mountain out of a speck of sand—forget a molehill. Especially when alcohol was involved.
So, friendly not bitchy, and definitely not flirty, was the vibe she would attempt to pull off for the night.
When she arrived at the pool table, Chris lifted a bottle and shook it. “Next round’s on you, rookie.”
Of course it is.
Nodding, she didn’t show her dismay over having navigated to the pool tables and now having to go back to the bar. She remembered her uncle telling her, “Never worry if they’re making fun of you or pulling a practical joke. Worry if they’re not talking to you.”
The next few months, until she was off probation, were going to be filled with nights like this. At least, she hoped. If they stopped inviting her out, if they stopped telling her that the next round was on her, then she had a problem.
By the time she made it across the room, she’d been hit on several times. She’d politely declined the first, because bachelor number one had shown his interest while still being respectful, having gone with the classic, “Hey, beautiful. Let me buy you a drink.”
Bachelor number two, however, had been a little bolder, asking if she had washed her pants in Windex because he saw himself in them. Points for creativity aside, she’d given him a look that clearly communicated he would not be seeing himself in her pants.
Then there had been bachelor number three, who had decided to forget class and creativity all together. His big pickup line was, “Show me your tits.”
That line might—and she was using the word might liberally—work at Mardi Gras. But Hope Falls was a far cry from New Orleans, and she certainly didn’t want any beads.
When the two other frat-boy-looking friends bachelor number three was sitting with had given him high fives, she’d thought about letting it go and continuing on. But their self-congratulatory hand slaps had prevented her from doing so.
Instead, she’d said, “Okay.”
The shock in the douchebag’s eyes had been priceless as he’d repeated in a questioning tone, “Okay?”
“Sure. Right after you show me your dick.”
None of the Three Stooges had said anything at first as Deanna aimed her challenging stare at Mo, Larry, and Curly.
“That’s what I thought,” she’d said, before continuing to the bar.
Larry and Curly started giving Mo a bad time, telling him that they would’ve whipped it out and “shown her what was up.”
Right.
Stepping up to the high bar top, she motioned to a gorgeous brunette bartender who was holding court. She had eight glasses lined up while busily shaking two different silver and glass containers, one in each hand. When Deanna caught her attention, she nodded.
“What can I get you, hon?”
“Six Buds. Bottles,” Deanna called out over the noisy crowd.
“Comin’ right up,” the brunette promised.
Leaning her elbows on the edge of the oak wood, she settled in for a lengthy wait, expecting “comin’ right up” to be a few minutes.
“Here you go.” The bartender’s smile was open and friendly as she set the beers down in front of her.
“Oh, wow. That was quick.” Deanna was so surprised that she fumbled to pull twenties out of her purse.
“You must be Deanna, Eli’s cousin. Right?”
“Yeah, I am.” That was the third time someone had asked her that since she’d moved here.
The first was the mayor, whom she ran into at the gas station, and the second was the checkout clerk at the grocery store. Small-town living, she guessed.
“Hi, I’m Shelby. And this round’s on me. Welcome to town.”
“Oh, no. It’s fine—”
“It’s the least I can do for you having to put up with those jokers.” Shelby winked as she motioned her head towards the pool tables.
“Thanks.” This time, Deanna didn’t have to force her smile as she put one twenty in the tip jar.
Grabbing the drinks, she was thankful for her time as a bartender while she had been in college. Holding six beers and playing bumper cars as she made her way back to the fellas would have been a daunting task if she hadn’t had those years of experience in her back pocket.
As she got closer, a swell of laughter came from Chris and Casey’s table, and she started to think that maybe this night wasn’t going to be as long as she’d first thought. Maybe it would even be fun.
When she turned the corner and stepped into the game room, she realized her optimism had been premature. Lucky Dorsey sat like a king on his throne at the far end of the table, a blonde on each arm.
“Nice! Thanks!” Chris enthused, taking not one, but two of the tall necks.
The rest of the guys crowded around her like they were kids and she was a piñata that had just cracked to get their beers. She used the barrier they’d created between her and Mr. Coppertone Eyes to gather herself.
Why hadn’t she thought that he might be there tonight? It was a small town with one bar. Of course he would be there. And of course he woul
d be with women.
Neither of those facts should’ve bothered her. Whether or not they did, she was determined not to let it show.
When the small semi-circle of thirsty firefighters dispersed, a thrill ran down her spine as she felt Lucky’s stare pointed in her direction. Instead of ignoring it like she really wanted to do, she looked right at him and smiled. Not only did she not want to give him the satisfaction, but she didn’t want the fact that she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him to shine through like the sun in a magnifying glass.
She was fairly confident that she’d been able to mask the riot of emotions that just seeing Lucky had incited in her, but she didn’t want to push her luck. So she turned her attention to the table as Chris sank the eight ball in the corner pocket to end the current game.
“Three in a row.” He lifted his stick over his head. Then he pointed it at Deanna and called her out. “You and me, rookie.”
Deanna nodded and grabbed a stick off the wall. The weight felt a little off, so she put it back and selected another while the loser, Casey, racked the balls.
“Break ’em.” Chris cockily indicated the lone, white cue ball at the other end of the table.
After walking around to the opposite side, Deanna bent at the waist and lined her shot up. Then she pulled her right arm back, aimed, and fired. Two stripes and one solid dropped in pockets.
The guys roared—they’d expected her to shoot “like a girl.” What they hadn’t realized was that she’d grown up with four older male cousins, so she had quickly learned to play competitively or sit on the sidelines.
Her gaze caught Lucky’s as she stepped around the table to take her next shot. His eyes narrowed as a small grin tilted his lips. It might’ve been her imagination, but he looked…proud. She didn’t know why he would—and she didn’t know why it gave her such a thrill that he did.
Chapter 6
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Lucky Kiss Page 5
