Page 1 of Betting Blind
Chapter 1
Cassidy
Juliana pops a couple of quarters into the jukebox across the room of the dive bar she’s dragged me to. Her dark brown hair hangs off her shoulder, hiding part of her beautiful face, and the warm yellow glow of the inner mechanics shines in her eyes. She peruses the various song selections while I wonder if this is the last working jukebox in the country.
I skim over the scattered worn-down tables and the paint withering lifelessly on the walls from years of smoking drunkards. There’s not much for lighting, only a few hanging lamps illuminating the pool tables in the back of the bar and the areas where patrons sit and chat while gulping down their alcoholic beverages. I squint, trying to make out the food selections on the sticky plastic menu I’m holding when an older waitress meanders over to take my order.
“What can I get for you, hon?” she asks with a southern twang, popping her gum and raising a tattooed eyebrow at me. Her crooked name tag reads “TRACIE” in bold sharpie letters, complete with a tiny heart.
I purse my lips, contemplating my choices. My options are grease, grease, or more grease. “I’ll have the mozzarella sticks, please.” I direct my attention back to my best friend and when she meets my eyes, her mouth drops open as she excitedly points at the jukebox. “Jukebox Hero” drifts from the old machine and from her expression, I can tell she thinks she’s being funny. I laugh lightly and add Texas cheese fries with ranch dressing to our order.
“Would you like anything to drink?” Tracie inquires, motioning toward the bar where I see a couple of guys preparing drink orders.
“Sure, I’ll have two light beers, thank you.”
As she saunters off to input my order, Juliana bee-bops her way back over to me, all smiles. “So, what do you think?” She sweeps out her arm, gesturing to the run-down bar known as The Pound.
Jules is one of the most beautiful women I know. Her perfect tan skin compliments her long, thick brown hair and soft brown eyes, and I love her Spanish accent. It only flares to life when she’s especially pissed off or excited about something, but it’s one more addition to the things that make her so loveable.
“You’re kidding me. This place is a dump!” I half-heartedly joke, sliding my eyes around the room to a group of bikers and then to several menacing-looking guys staring our way. We’re a touch out of place here with our freshly done hair and twin manicures, but she insisted we get out of the house for a bit.
“I know it’s not the most glamorous bar you’ve ever been to,” she begins as Tracie quickly comes back to drop off our food and drinks, “but you need a break from being Cassidy Caretaker every once in a while.” She pops a french fry that she’s drowned in ranch dressing into her mouth and gives me a pointed look.
Flicking a stray crumb off the table, I sigh. I know she’s right. It’s been an entire lifetime since my parents’ wreck, but here I am, not living my life because of some inherent duty I’ve placed upon myself.
“You need to let loose a little,” she says, nodding along with the song she picked. Flashes of pictures I’ve seen of my parents’ T-boned car collide within my memories. The accident killed my dad and left my mom permanently disfigured on her right side from the car hitting a pole after spinning out of control.
An invisible weight falls over me, but I reluctantly agree. Momma is at home resting right now after our intense therapy session. I made dinner so she wouldn’t have to exert unnecessary energy and even set the thermostat how she likes it. Her cell phone is fully charged, should she need to call me.
I groan, listening to myself check off the items on my “caretaker” list. I’m allowed the occasional night out, right? Any self-respecting, twenty-eight-year-old would have to agree, but I don’t have the luxury of only worrying about myself. There’re bills to be paid, and my momma’s disability payments aren’t enough with the debt of therapy and her other medical expenses.
“Come on, Cassidy, let’s have a little fun!” Jules wiggles her brows at me playfully, and I plant my palms on the creaky old table. Tonight, I’m going to be fun Cassidy—not lame, boring Cassidy who wouldn’t know relaxation if it bit her in the face.
For a moment, I imagine myself ambling over to the bar, grabbing some tequila from the bartender, and ripping it back with Jules, guilt free. “Dammit, you’re right. I’m going to go get us some shots.”
The looks and stares I get from the different groups of hardened individuals touch the back of my neck, causing goosebumps to carry across my forearms. I tried to dress down—keeping it simple with jeans and a tank top, knowing that Jules would take me somewhere a little off the grid—but my long blonde hair sticks out like a sore thumb in contrast to the darkness of The Pound.
Sliding onto a tall wooden chair at the bar, I patiently wait my turn to order. I’m ignored for several minutes before a man with sandy-blond hair catches my attention and saunters over. He’s tall with a lanky build, and he strikes me as the kind of guy who probably gives good hugs. “Well, well, well. What brings a little Pound Puppy like you in here?”
His southern drawl is a bit thicker than I’m used to, and I frown at the nickname he used to address me. “Um, I’d like a couple of shots for me and my friend, please.”
He flicks his gaze behind me to Juliana and back, but before he can respond, shouts sound from across the bar by one of the pool tables. I turn to see the place erupt into total chaos as a big burly man in a leather jacket breaks a pool stick over another man’s head while a heavily muscled woman lifts a scrawny bald man up over her head and onto one of the green felt tables.
The fight ensues as the blond bartender I was speaking to swiftly swings his body over the bar, rushing to break it up. The tattooed, rough-edged men and women take a scolding from the young man like they’re toddlers. They stare at the ground as he rips the pool sticks from their hands and tells them to break it up or get out.
I’m frozen to my chair with a mixture of awe and fear. I turn back to our table where I left Juliana, but I’m surprised to see that she isn’t there. Damn, she probably missed the whole fiasco. My heart is still hammering away over the commotion. I’ve never seen a physical altercation like that before. The closest thing to a fistfight I’ve ever seen was in first grade when Emmy-Lou slapped Sarah across the face for stealing her bow right off her head.
Everyone sitting next to me at the bar turns away from the commotion as if this is just another Friday night occurrence, and a rough voice touches my ears, making me jump in my seat. “What do you need?”
“Excuse me?” I blink a few times, slightly offended by his bluntness.
He glares at me for a beat, and I take the liberty of glaring back. I first notice his bright blue eyes set under dark brows that pull his handsome face into a scowl. His thick black beard is closely trimmed, and I flick my gaze down to his forearms that are resting on the bar. My eyes follow various striations of ink and images blending to create sleeve tattoos up both arms before settling my gaze on a skull tattoo covering his right hand.
He straightens up, placing those big hands on the bartop, and shifts his attention away from me, insinuating he’d rather be conversing with a wall. “What can I get you.” What should be a question is delivered as a blunt statement, and I’d consider him drool-worthy if he wasn’t being such an ass.
I pull my shoulders back, tapping my shoe against the front of the chair under my feet. “What’s a Pound Puppy?”
He finally drags his gaze to me, narrowing his blues. Out of the corner of my eye, Juliana returns to our table, completely oblivious to any of the fuss.
