Page 4 of One Bet

One Decade Ago

The bar wasn’t crowded, but it smelled like old beer, a mixture of perfume and body odor, blended in with the stench of smoke. I sat at the scarred wood counter and sipped a beer. Not because I liked it, but because to sit at the bar, I’d had to order something, and draft beer was about all I could afford.

Keaton was late, but of course he was. Sundays were for watching football with the guys. At least they were at Alpha house where every TV was tuned to the big game and testosterone demanded no one missed a single first down.

So, I waited.

I looked around the bar, this was definitely a college bar. Small dance floor, a lot of TVs, the smell of fried buffalo wings and cheesy nachos. Plus, drink specials for off days, dollar beers on Monday, two-dollar rails on Tuesdays with dollar tacos, wet T-shirt Wednesdays, Trivia Thursdays, and Touchdown Shots, or whatever they were on Sundays. Although the clientele today was more of the old folk variety.

The game was on above the bar, and I watched out of nothing more than curiosity, certainly not because I understood the allure of the game or the rules that went with it. It looked like a bunch of guys chasing each other around trying to capture a half-deflated ball, although, I did like the pants. A lot.

The few patrons at the bar erupted into cheers and the bartender, who was about my age and a tall lanky specimen of a man, filled eleven shot glasses with tequila then distributed them to each of us at the bar. He handed me a slice of lime and a saltshaker.

“I didn’t order this.” Nor could I pay for it, all my savings were going toward the My Fair Lady project that would turn me into Ryder’s woman. Clothes. Shoes. New hair. And some makeup.

He chuckled. “Oh, darlin’. Touchdown shots are a Sunday bonus.” He grinned. “Enjoy.”

He held up his own glass and waited for me to clink mine against the rim.

I chuckled. “Well, in that case…”

Who was I to disappoint?

I was three touchdowns in when Keaton finally slid onto the stool next to mine. “Hey. Sorry, I’m late.”

I swayed in my seat and nudged his shoulder with mine. “No problem. Alex, the bartender, and now my new best friend was just explaining the rules of football to me.” Alex turned a charming shade of red and nodded at me, then glared at Keaton. I widened my eyes. “Very complicated game and not the kind of thing I usually enjoy. The tequila probably helps.” I motioned to my tower of upside-down shot glasses.

Keaton chuckled, the sound rich and lush and full. “Hey, Alex the bartender. Could I get a Jack and Coke?”

Without the smile he’d been blessing me with through the last three quarters, Alex poured Keaton’s drink and set it on the bar. “Six-fifty.”

Keaton handed him an American Express. “Run a tab.”

Then he dismissed Alex as though he was nothing more than the help and turned to me.

By the mid-fourth quarter, I was all over Keaton. Licking salt from his neck, letting my hands roam freely over his chest and back when I forced him onto the dance floor because some guy had played the jukebox. Then I let him pour me into a cab to see me home only moments after I threw up on his shoes.

And that was the reason I didn’t drink anymore, not even Touchdown Shots at Alex’s parents’ bar.

4

Keaton

I woke in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, but the smell of flowers and sunshine coated the pillow and I knew exactly where I was. Usually, when this happened, there was a woman at my side, and I wore substantially less clothing, but now, I was dressed in yesterday’s t-shirt and jeans with my shoes lined up at the edge of the bed.

My head ached, could’ve been a hangover, or could’ve been my usual issue, but I sat up anyway. The alarm clock on the table read four, which could have only been a.m. considering the lack of light from outside, and I had a powerful need to bury my head in her pillow and inhale. Instead, I stood and slipped my feet into my shoes.

While I had no memory of how I ended up here or in her bed, I remembered her towel, bright orange and pulled tight around her. Most guys were into boobs and ass, but I had a thing for shoulders, the curve where they met the throat, the sleek lines leading down to the arms that had reached out to steady me, the very 3-D tattoo of a butterfly just below her collarbone. Maybe I only like Avery’s shoulders, but it had been so long since another woman made me feel the way she did, I couldn’t say for sure.

I also had a vague memory of standing in inches of water in her living room. Laughing together as we sopped and mopped the floor. Oh, dear. I remembered her laugh, the melody of it. Something about Avery Stroh made me think of her with a rose-colored romantic tint. Even back when she’d been looking at me with anything but romantic intentions.

I walked out into the living room, content to sneak past her quietly and slip out before she had the chance to wake up and I might have made it had she not looked so adorable curled around a pillow on the sofa, a slight smile on her face and eyelids that fluttered as if she was dreaming. I stared for a second, decided I was being creepy, then turned back to the door. My hand touched the metal knob but didn’t twist before she spoke. “Leaving so soon?”

Oh, God. I’d never done the walk of shame, particularly after nothing shameful happened. I cleared my throat. “Yeah. I figured you might want your bed back.”

She sat up, adjusting a blue t-shirt that fell off one shoulder as she used her free hand to throw a blanket to the end of the couch. “Coffee for the road?”

There was no need to prolong the agony.