Page 2 of Betting Blind
“It’s a nickname we give girls like you who don’t belong here. Now, what can I get you?”
Yup, definitely an ass. I look him over once more from the top of his pretty head, down as far as I can see. His raven hair is short on the sides and slightly longer on top, and I admire the way it’s slicked back and styled. He has on a button-up dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, no doubt to show off his ink, and I find the attire curious as I attempt to make out the various black markings crisscrossing over his skin, but the lighting is too dim. He’s the only worker I can see that isn’t dressed in a plain T-shirt.
Luckily for him, my momma raised me right, and if you don’t have anything nice to say, well, you keep your mouth shut. “Two shots of tequila, please,” I say plainly and hand him some cash from my wallet. He swipes it off the counter, coming back with a few dollars in change, and slams the shots on the counter. The shot glasses shift with the force behind the motion, spilling a bit of the alcohol.
“Thanks,” I mutter, and I curse Juliana for dragging me here in the first place. A guy like that needs some happy in his life, pronto. I gingerly walk my way back to Juliana so as to not spill any of the liquid.
When I sit, she grabs her shot, knocking it back quickly, and I lean over, peeking past her to where the group was fighting moments ago. To my surprise, everyone has cleared out from the corner. The blond bartender appears through one of the doors, and I eye him curiously.
This is a strange place.
“What is it?” Jules asks, raising a brow and turning in the direction I’m staring.
Blondie jumps back over the bartop, and Blue Eyes slaps his back as they share a smile. “Nothing,” I whisper. That smile from the bearded bartender… it’s charming. I wouldn’t think it possible given how blunt he was with me. I mean, sure, we don’t exactly fit in with this rowdy bunch, but I’m a paying customer, dammit.
After throwing back my shot, we stand to play darts for a bit, and Jules drinks a few more beers. I force myself not to wonder what the moody bartender is doing, but as the night wears on, my neck begins to prickle with an awareness that I find difficult to shrug off.
I’m ready to get out of here, but Jules is having a good time and I don’t want to rain on her parade. I pull out my phone to check for missed calls or texts from home, but it’s peacefully void of any messages. I guess I’m enjoying myself too, though I’m fighting with my worry over Momma, but to be honest, this place gives me the willies.
Juliana is giggling and snorting like a schoolgirl by the time we get ready to leave. She’s a terrible drinking buddy because she’s such a lightweight, and I can’t help but laugh at her when she confesses her love for me as I pull up in front of her apartment.
“I love you, Cassidy. I love yousomuch!” she slurs and reaches over to me with her seat belt still attached. I unclick it for her so she can give me a hug. “You’re my bestest friend. You know that, right?” Her beautiful brown eyes roam all over my face, bleary and unable to hold their focus, and I laugh.
“Yes, you crazycabrona!“ I tease, using a Spanish curse word she taught me years ago. She swats me as she slides her butt lazily across the seat and out of my car. She sways toward the entrance of the stairs, turning around to blow me a kiss, and I blow her one back before driving off.
I sigh long and deep as I start the drive back to my house. Against my will, my thoughts are pulled back to The Pound and the bartender who clearly didn’t appreciate us encroaching on his space.
Gripping the steering wheel, I roll my palms forward and back in frustration. He’s no different from any of the other guys in Mackville, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. I’m the ditzy blonde; a girl next door looking for a good time.
If I had a dollar for every judgment I’ve received like that, Momma and I would be living in a mansion, but screw that mentality. I’m proud of the fact that I was able to step up and become the provider in our household, and I take that job very seriously. Juliana and our boss, Bruce, are always saying I’m a mother hen, but their teasing doesn’t bother me. Caring for others is what I do, and I wear that badge with honor.
Thinking about work makes my stomach turn. The mom-and-pop diner Jules and I waitress at is okay money, but it’s not what I wanted for my life. For Christ’s sake, I’m almost thirty, and I’m working at a diner asking, “Cream or sugar?” at least two-hundred times a day. It’s monotonous.
I want a house, a hot husband, some cute kids, and the security that comes with all those things. But I can’t afford in-home help for Mommaandour bills, so I’ll keep working my butt off and continue to save. Thankfully, we’ve had an ongoing arrangement with our neighbor Deborah. She’s a retired nurse, and if not for her weekly check-ins, I wouldn’t have been comfortable enough to take the few vacations I have with Juliana. Deborah’s never asked me for a dime—even when I’ve tried to be sneaky and slip money into her purse while she wasn’t looking—and to say I’m thankful for her would be an understatement.
My vehicle creaks to a stop in front of our quaint two-bedroom townhouse, and I idle the old car for a moment. I’m certain Momma is asleep, but I’m not prepared to go inside yet. I close my eyes, resting my head against the worn leather of my 1995 Cadillac DeVille. This car belonged to my dad and every time I climb in, it’s as if I can feel him next to me. It’s what one may consider a clunker with its worn beige paint and foggy headlights, but it’s seen us through some tough times, and I’ve come to think of it as Old Reliable.
After a few moments, I gather my things and traverse the small steps that lead to our front door. I adore the simplicity of my childhood home. It resembles something more like a townhouse than a typical one story, and it doesn’t have the flair that some of the neighborhoods on the west side of town have with their giant windows and perfectly trimmed bushes achieved by hired help. No, it isn’t fancy, but money can’t buy the amount of love that has been built into it.
Hoping to fall asleep in time to get some rest before my shift tomorrow, I unlock the front door and slip inside, closing it with a soft click behind me. Gordy, our black lab, lets out a solitary “woof” from the living area to my left, letting me know he sees me. There’s not much he doesn’t tattle on me about.
“Shh,” I whisper to his wiggly form as he tucks his plump body into my knees. “Be quiet, you big oaf.” I give him a generous scratch behind the ears and poke my head into Momma’s room, assuring myself she’s sleeping soundly before heading upstairs to the lone bedroom residing in the space. The very place I sleep every night, only to wake up and repeat the same things I do every single day.
The yellow light illuminating my childhood bedroom shows my tight and tidy space. I painted my room a pretty light purple as a child, and I’ve never had the energy or desire to change it. The cream lace quilt I use for a comforter beckons me, and useless against its magnetic pull, I submit.
After changing into some pajamas, I double-check the volume on my phone, making sure it’s up all the way should Momma need me overnight. She never needs me, and she’s sure to let me know any chance she gets how capable she is, but I don’t want to take the chance. I roll over to look at the clock on my nightstand, showing me it’s way past my usual bedtime. Closing my eyes tightly against its mockery, I say a silent prayer for a single drop of excitement in this boring day-to-day that I call life.
Chapter 2
Cassidy
Asloppy, wet tongue licks me from chin to forehead, and I gasp awake, wiping drool from my face. “Yuck, Gordy!” I glare at him, but he wiggles his butt, barking at me excitedly. I can see the unspoken words in his big brown eyes:“It’s seven thirty in the morning, and this fat boy is hungry.”
I yawn and the muscles of my calves pull taut with a much-needed stretch. The familiar sound of the cooking show my mom is watching resonates from downstairs. She can’t live without her Bobby Flay.
Dragging my feet downstairs to the small kitchen, I grab Gordy some food out of the pantry and pour the large bits into his bowl. “Good morning, sweet pea,” my mother says when I enter our living space.
I nod my head toward the TV resting on a short entertainment center against a window. “How’s your husband this morning?” I ask, motioning to the handsome redheaded chef.
