Hazard

by Zahra Girard

  We learn the bartender’s name — Reggie — along with his age, family history, and that he likes to spend his free time restoring an old cropduster his grandfather flew after WWII. It’s a Grumman AG Cat biplane built in the mid-1950’s.

  When he finishes the paint job, it’ll be cherry red.

  The two of us drink, and we don’t even glance at the pool tables until we’re each on our fourth beer.

  When it’s apparent to everyone who doesn’t know us that we are plastered, we head to the tables.

  “You want to play a game, babe?” he says to me in his put-on drunken slur. “I think I’ve had just enough that I can put some of the balls in the holes this time.”

  Did he call me babe?

  That’s new.

  I put on a smile, though I don’t have to try too hard. Or at all, really.

  “All right, honey,” I say, exaggerating the name and fighting back a laugh as he nearly winces. “Let’s rack ‘em up.”

  We play the first game awful. On his third shot, Jarrett sends the ball flying off the table, caroming against the hardwood floor and rolling to a stop at the foot of some piss-drunk twenty-something airman sitting at a table with a few other young men who have the obvious military look around them.

  “Oops, sorry,” I say as I scamper over to pick up the ball from the airman’s feet. “Sometimes my boyfriend gets carried away. Especially when he’s had a few.”

  The airman squints over in the direction of the pool table. “You two play pool?”

  No shit, dingus. Really doing the Air Force proud with your observation there, huh?

  “I mean, kind of,” I say. Then I giggle — fucking giggle — just to play it up for the flyboy. “It takes a while. And sometimes he forgets whether he’s on the stripes or solids. But it’s all about the fun, right?”

  “You two ever play for cash?” he says, squinting again.

  Maybe his eyes are defective.

  “Like, gambling?” I say. Then I do my best to affect being sober, in the way only a drunk person can. “Are you trying to hustle us?”

  “Oh, no ma’am,” he says, holding up his hands.

  “It’s just for fun. The cash makes it more exciting,” says another man to his right.

  “Ok. You and your friend can play me and my boyfriend next game. We want to finish this game and have a few more drinks first, ok?”

  The two men share a look and one of them has a sharklike look in his eyes. Jarrett and I have to seem like the easiest, dumbest targets in the world. We’re chum to these wannabe predators.

  “Sure,” says the man who first picked up the ball. He can’t hide the eagerness in his voice. “Take your time, have a few drinks. It’s all good.”

  I give them both a drunk-white-girl hug and then turn around and head back to the table, ball in hand and wide grin on my face.

  “Those nice boys over there want to play the next game with us,” I say to Jarrett while gesturing over to the table. “And they want to put a wager on it.”

  He misses a shot, wide, and curses loudly. “I’m going to need a few more fucking beers before I’m ready for that.”

  The two of us finish our game, play up being the stupid drunk couple out slumming it, and we have a couple more beers. Soon enough, Jarrett and I are racking up across from the two airmen and slapping fifty bucks each down on the table.

  It’s a small bet. But it’s all part of the plan.

  “Ready, babe?” Jarrett says.

  “Yeah, hun, let’s do this,” I say, bouncing with enthusiasm.

  We lose.

  Hard.

  It isn’t even close. We sink two striped balls by the time the airmen sink the eight ball.

  “Another game?” one of them says, big shit-eating grin on his face.

  “Well, I can’t let you embarrass me in front of my woman like that. I gotta have a chance to redeem myself,” Jarrett says.

  “Are you sure, man?” the other one says. He’s got a concerned expression as real as crocodile tears on his face.

  “What’s your name, kid?” Jarrett says.

  “Senior Airman Michael Tomlinson,” he says.

  “And your friend?”

  “Staff Sergeant David Klein,” he says.

  “Well, Mike, Dave, I’m damn fucking sure I want another chance,” Jarrett says. “Double or nothing this time.”

  We rack up again.

  We lose. Even worse this time. Jarrett plays the drunk and embarrassed boyfriend perfectly. When Mike and Dave sink the eight ball this time, Jarrett goes beet-red in the face and looks like he’s about to snap the pool cue over his knee.

  “One more game,” he says.

  “Are you sure? Seriously, man, I don’t want to keep taking yours and your girlfriend’s money,” Dave says.

  “One more. Five hundred each,” Jarrett says, slamming a wad of cash down on the table. I dig the same amount out of my wallet — while keeping a look of fearful disappointment on my face — and put it down alongside his.

  Dave and Mike trade a look. But they both reach for their cash.

  “Are you sure?” Mike says.

  Jarrett dips his head and leans in “Come on, man, I can’t back down now in front of my lady. Help me, out please?”

  “Sure, buddy,” Dave says. He and Mike both have an eager light in their eyes.

  We rack.

  I break.

  I sink one ball.

  “Look, honey, I got one. First try! We’re stripes,” I say excitedly.

  “Good job, babe. Stripes are lucky,” he says, putting his hand on the small of my back and helping me line up my next shot. I take my time — his soft touch on the small of my back sends tingles down my spine. I smile at him over my shoulder and he winks at me. “You always were a better shot than me.”

  The smile on my face isn’t an act. And I can’t tell if he’s putting up an act, either. All I know is this feels good in the kind of way that makes my heart full and makes all my cares and concerns seem just a little bit less worrisome.

  It’s the kind of thing I want to last.

  I can hear Dave and Mike chuckle to themselves. Especially after I miss my next one.

  They sink three before it’s our turn again.

  Now Jarrett’s up.

  And he takes his time. Going from corner to corner, cajoling and coaxing the cue ball to be good to him. It’s almost a minute before he’s got himself lined up and committed to a shot.

  It’s perfect. A heavy shot that sends a striped ball rocketing into the pocket.

  Jarrett stares at his cue stick in disbelief. “Holy shit, boys,” he says to Dave and Mike. “Maybe I’m just drunk enough to play.”

  He sinks another and then another.

  Dave and Mike share a concerned look that doesn’t disappear until Jarrett misses his next shot wide right and the two of them breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Looks like your luck’s run out,” Dave says.

  They sink two more.

  Now it’s my turn.

  “You can do it, babe,” Jarrett says to me. His hand is on my back again and I have to take a moment to steady myself because there’s enough heat in his voice it’s distracting.

  He means it.

  And I like that he means it.

  “Thanks, honey,” I say to him with a little more enthusiasm than I should.

  Ok. Focus. You’ve got this.

  I nail the last few shots and sink the eight ball.

  Easy.

  Before I can blink, Jarrett wraps me up in his arms and presses his lips to mine.

  This isn’t part of the con.

  This is the last thing I should be doing.

  It’ll fuck up everything for me.

  That isn’t part of the plan.

  But, fuck it, this feels good.

  I shut my eyes.

  Whats the harm in one real kiss?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jarrett

  It hurts to take my lips away from h
ers, to let this woman out of my arms, but it’s not smart to hang around in a bar like this after the hustle we just pulled. Sooner or later, those airmen will realize they’ve been taken and, though I’d love a good fight, it’d be me and Selena against twenty some Air Force guys and those odds even at best.

  Tonight’s meant to be a good night. Something to take her mind off whatever’s bothering her. It’s my way to say thanks.

  “Come on, babe,” I say — that word flows so easy from my lips — and I take her hand and lead her outside.

  The outside air is a heady cocktail of salty sea breezes and the scent of booze and tobacco wafting from behind us. Gravel crunches beneath our feet as we cross the lot to my bike.

  “So, are we going to talk about how you called me ‘babe’ back there?” she says.

  I look over at her. The moon shines in her eyes and the whites of her smile.

  “What about it? We had to keep up appearances, right?” I grin.

  She rolls her hazel eyes. But that smile’s still there. “Should we talk about our white picket fence and two-point-three children, too?”

  “And our dog, Champ, and our kid’s little league teams and who’s going to go to the next Parent-Teacher conference?”

  She gags. Loud. “You might as well just kill me now.”

  I laugh. And an idea seizes me, one that I’d been toying with all night. I take the winnings out of my pocket and hand them over to her. “Here.”

  Eyebrow raised, frown on her face, she looks back at me. “What’s this about?”

  “Listen, I don’t know where eventually you and Jake are going to end up once you figure your shit out. But I know that getting started anywhere new can be a bitch. Call this a rainy day fund for you and your son. Put it towards school supplies, or new clothes, or a trip to the zoo. It’s always good to have breathing room, you know?”

  And if it keeps the kid from turning out like me, even better. Jake is smart as hell and he’s got the kind of bright and friendly light in his eyes that I’d fight like hell to keep from fading.

  He deserves so much more in life.

  She pauses.

  “Come on, Selena. Take it. Please.”

  She blinks.

  There’s a moment still when she’s looking back at me that I feel like she’s going to refuse. My heart starts thudding and my blood gets hot and ready for an argument. She can be stubborn all she wants if it’s just her — but with her kid mixed up in this, I’m going to make sure she takes care of things the right way.

  “Thank you, Jarrett,” she says after a long pause. It’s genuine; there’s not a hint of doubt in her voice. She lowers her eyes and gazes down at the ground as she puts the money away.

  “That kid deserves it. He’s strong, he’s been through a lot already. I know you’re trying to do the best for him — to lift him out of this shit — and whatever I can do to help, just ask. This isn’t the time for pride.”

  She swallows and looks away, shaking her head. “Let’s just go home, ok?”

  “Home it is,” I say, hopping on my bike and patting the seat behind me. “Come on.”

  Quiet, smile gone, she hops up behind me on the bike.

  I know it’s hard for her to take my generosity; she’s headstrong, and she’s always fought fiercely for everything she has. I’m not the giving type, either. But for her kid? Yeah, I can make an exception.

  “Hold on,” I tell her we set off down the road.

  She doesn’t need the encouragement — she wraps tight around me. Then she leans forward and plants a small kiss on my cheek.

  It feels as good as I’ve felt in a long time. There’s a measure of peace inside me and a dumb-ass grin on my face as we set off down the road home.

  * * * * *

  “Don’t think that I’m suddenly going to turn into your fucking girlfriend after tonight,” she says, a laughing light in her eyes as I shut the front door behind us.

  “Come on, Miss Mardi Gras, you know a relationship wouldn’t work out for either of us.”

  “Good. Because I don’t want you getting any ideas. I’m not your old lady, Jarrett.”

  She might be denying me, but there isn’t an inch between us as she looks up at me with eyes so deep I could fall into them.

  “This,” I say, pointing back and forth between the two of us. “This isn’t dating. You helped me out, I help you out, that’s it. That’s it.”

  I’d say more, I’d make it clearer to her, except she silences me with a kiss and gives my tongue something much better to do.

  She tastes sweet, and the vanilla scent of her lotion hits my nose. I breathe in. Fuck, she smells good.

  Cherry red full lips leave mine, kissing their way across my cheek. Hot breath brushes my ear.

  “But since you were so generous, and since I’m crashing here, I might as well show you my gratitude,” she whispers.

  She drops to her knees, hands slithering down my body.

  Every drop of blood in my body follows her downward. My cock pulses with the heated need to feel her lips.

  “I mean, it’s only proper, right?” she says, bright hazel eyes looking up at me and a smile on her face that’s an impossible blend of innocent and indescribably dirty.

  This is my kind of woman.

  She takes her time with my belt, crooking delicate fingers to undo the clasp.

  It’s not fast enough for me.

  The sight of her on her knees sets me off like a fucking mortar shell. Her ass, her waist, her curves straining against her jeans — every luscious part of her is screaming for attention.

  I won’t be happy until my name is coming from her lips. Again and again.

  I pull my belt off with a snap of leather.

  “Let’s not kid ourselves and pretend we’re the kind of people who are going to fuck slow to candlelight,” I growl at her.

  But she doesn’t stop. Looking back at me with defiance in her eyes, she frees my cock from my jeans and toys with the tip — tongue, lips, everything she can do to set the rest of me on fire.

  “Is that so?” she says.

  I bend down and grab her by the arm and haul her to her feet. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  “You know it,” I say, and I take hold of her Sex Pistols t-shirt and rip it from collar to hem. Her nipples poke hard against the black lace fabric of her bra. “I know it.”

  “You son of a bitch,” she says, looking down at her torn shirt and pointing to a spot just above her tits. “I got this shirt fucking autographed by fucking Johnny Rotten.”

  I squint. “Seriously? Fuck.”

  “Yeah, you’re fucking right ‘fuck’.”

  “I’m sure he’d approve,” I say, then I bend down and heft her over my shoulder. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Just how are you going to do that?”

  I start towards the bedroom. “You’ll see.”

  A yelp bursts from her smiling lips as I toss her backward on the bed.

  “Show me, Jarrett.”

  I snap the belt in my hands and she grins.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Selena

  My torn Sex Pistols shirt flutters around me like a cape for the half-second I’m suspended in the air. I love this shirt and it’s ruined now and I’m furious and about to open my mouth and let him know that there’s nothing he can do to make it right. Except, the second I hit the ground, he rips my pants and panties from me and slides face-first down between my legs.

  I’ve always loved what he does with his tongue.

  Maybe there is something he can do.

  My fingers curl in anticipation of that first brush, the heated moment when shivers and electricity will course through my body.

  Venting at him doesn’t seem so important, then.

  His tongue is quicker than mine; all that comes out of my mouth is a gasp as he runs his tongue along the edges of my pussy, doing just enough to make me dig my nails into the mattress in unsuppressed desire for what’s t
o come.

  My whole body lights to life at his touch.

  I feel myself get wet, coaxed to excitement by his mouth. Sensations surge up and down my body, pleasure swelling in every part of me.

  Ok, maybe this is a good start.

  “Are we on the right track?” he says to me from between my legs.

  “We will be if you shut up and get back to work. That shirt was really fucking important.”

  He laughs.

  Strong hands hold me by the hips, pressing me into the bed, reminding me exactly who’s in control. His teeth nibble my thigh, getting just deep enough, biting me just hard enough, that I bite my lip to hold back from crying out. I tense, but I can’t move.

  Jarrett keeps up the pressure, playing me, controlling me.

  When I’m ready to squirm, to try to break away, he shifts. Kissing up my thighs, he takes one of my labia between his lips. Sucking, caressing it lovingly with his tongue.

  This man is going to break me.

  And when I open my eyes and look down at him between my legs, I see this glint in his eyes that tells me that all he’s focused on right now is on how he’s making me feel.

  He’s never been like this before. Selfless. Focused just on me.

  He winks at me.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I whisper, though I know exactly what he’s doing.

  “Just shut the hell up and enjoy this,” he says. “You know, I never could get enough of how good you taste.”

  I’ve never seen this from him before. It’s always been fierce. Sometimes even violent. Two broken, battered souls fucking the pain out of each other.

  This is different.

  He cares. About me.

  As if I’m something other than a broken, broke, failure of a mom and a partner. As if he might love me.

  And I can’t fall for it. I can’t see this side of him.

  I have a job to do and it definitely does not involve developing feelings for Jarrett Fucking Hayes.

  I’m going to sit up.

  But his tongue has other ideas.

  “Jesus, Jarrett,” I moan as he does this fluttering thing that’s as gentle as a butterfly’s wing but hits me like a tidal wave.