Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [58]
Kevin’s gaze didn’t waver; he knew my hedging techniques better than anyone. “Only if we’re playing for money.”
“I’m screwed.”
He flashed his Tom Cruise pool shark smile. “And I didn’t even bring my cue.”
“Correction. I’m seriously screwed.”
I racked. Kevin broke. He scratched on his fourth ball. I managed to knock in three balls before he ran the table. I also managed to knock back both shots of my tequila, one of his, and two of the Coors before league play started.
I slapped a twenty in his hand and dropped ten 201
bucks in the jukebox.
Carla lined up two more shots on my side of the booth. I licked the area between my thumb and first knuckle and poured salt on it. “Down the hatch.” The liquid slid down my throat like candy.
Kevin lifted his brows.
I removed the lime wedge from my teeth.
“What?”
“Been a while?”
“Yep. Carla was kind enough to bring them. Be a pity to let them go to waste.”
“Altruistic of you.”
“I thought so.” Sara Evans sang Suds in the Bucket and my foot tapped. Catchy tune.
Kevin finished his second Coors and moved the empty can to the edge of the table. “Gotta see a man about a horse.”
Sipping beer in my favorite bar with my best friend, good tunes on the jukebox, family shit forgotten. For the briefest moment, all was right with the world. Naturally, my cell phone rang and destroyed my synchronicity with the universe.
I checked the caller ID. Martinez. I answered,
“What?”
“Hello to you, too, blondie.”
“Something you need?”
“Just a sec.” He held his hand over the mouthpiece while he spoke to someone.
I hated not having his undivided attention even 202
on the phone.
He came back on the line. “Where are you?”
“Out.”
Stunned silence.
Guess I had his full attention now.
I smoked, amused by the cowgirl in sparkly Western regalia cozying up to a cowboy with a monstrous belt buckle. Had he won it eating dirt? Or was the buckle a prop to pick up hotsy-totsy bunnies?
The pause continued.
My palms got itchy. “You need something?” I asked with forced sweetness.
A crash echoed in my ear. “Hang on.”
I didn’t. I hung up. Drank my last shot and signaled Carla for another round.
The booze hit me like a Wyoming coal train.
Woo-woo. All aboard the 7:15 Julie express to Shitfaced-ville. My phone rang. Martinez again. Big fucking surprise.
“What?”
“You gonna tell me where you are or not?”
Not. Surly girl pushed past the cobwebs in my head and demanded, “Why? Did we have plans or something?” I exhaled. “Oh, that’s right, no, we don’t, because you’re in Colorado. Again.”
Dead air. “You done?”
“Not even close, bud.”
“You’re drunk.”
203
“Not yet.”
Victorious shouts sounded from by the dartboards.
“What the fuck happened today?”
“Nothing tequila can’t fix. You’d know all about my shit day if you were here, but you’re not. So I guess you’ll have to read about it in the fucking newspaper like everybody else.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t see why it matters where I am, Martinez.”
His was an angry pause this time. I knew the difference even three sheets to the wind. Screw it. “Later.” I hung up and shut the damn thing off.
Kevin whistled and slipped back into the booth.
“That was harsh. Even for you.”
“Yeah, well, it’s time he knew I can’t always be—
how did you phrase it? Mary-fucking-sunshine. And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”
He snagged a fresh beer and settled in.
I braced myself with a straight shot without the frills.
“Whoa, slow down there, partner,” Kevin said.
“How many of these did you have while I was gone?”
“Less than ten.”
His gaze landed on the empty shot glasses.
“You okay?”
“Fine as frog’s hair.”
Kevin seemed to be watching me closely. Very closely. I tried to act normal. Sober. Serious. 204
Except things were getting fuzzy. And blurry.
“Ain’t you Martinez’s old lady?”
My head swiveled. Ooh, skank alert. Nyla, the meth-head crack whore from the Hombres clubhouse leered at me. Even my beer-goggles