Page 46 of Whiskey Chase
My eyes found Scarlett again, and I watched her dance until the song changed again and she returned to the table.
“What’d I miss?” she asked.
“June only dates football fans,” Jameson announced. “And Bowie and McCallister are sexually frustrated.”
“Is that so?” Scarlett regained her seat and snuggled into my side. I threaded my fingers through her hair and thought about how everything in this moment was just about perfect.
“Uh-oh,” she breathed.
When I didn’t react immediately to whatever country danger she’d spotted, Scarlett poked me in the ribs.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She pointed at the dance floor where Cassidy was being pulled into the arms of a two-stepping cowboy type.
“That’s Amos Sheridan.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, leaning in to brush my lips against her hair.
“Cassidy’s ex.”
“They look friendly enough.”
“I’m not worried about them,” she said, staring pointedly at Bowie.
Amos should have been counting his lucky stars that no one ever died from a stare down. Because the one Bowie was sending in his direction could have incinerated flesh and bone.
Bowie’s jaw was set in a tense line. Scarlett leaned across me. “Get out there, Bow,” she hissed at him.
He didn’t even look in her direction but simply got up and stalked toward the dance floor.
Scarlett clamped her hand on my thigh, and I knew I should be focusing on the action in front of the stage, but her touch was distracting enough that I didn’t care whether Bowie punched a guy out or not.
In one smooth move, Bowie cut in and took Cassidy in his arms.
Scarlett breathed a sigh of relief.
“I need water and a game of pool,” she announced.
June and Jameson brought their index fingers to their noses. “Not it.”
“Well, Devlin. It looks like it’s your lucky day,” she said with a sly grin.
“Don’t bet anything higher than a twenty,” Jameson warned me as Scarlett pulled me away from the table.
“Don’t listen to them,” she said. “I’ll go easy on you.”
We grabbed waters from Nicolette, who was remarkably relaxed for a woman in charge of the thirty hard-drinking Bootleggers at her bar.
“Come on, handsome. Let’s see what you can do with a stick,” Scarlett said, leading the way to the pool tables. There was one in the back corner that was empty.
She handed me the pool cue and started racking the balls. I tried not to stare at the rise of her skirt, but it was a futile effort. “You wanna break?” she offered.
I didn’t want to do anything that would prevent me from watching her. I shook my head. “Be my guest.”
She tucked the rack back in the table and chalked her stick. There wasn’t anything overtly sexy about what she was doing, but I was mesmerized. She leaned over, lining up on the ball, and I held my breath. The denim was a millimeter from showing me what I wanted to see. What I needed to see. I willed the skirt higher from my position on the wall, and as if the universe heard my prayer, I caught a peek of simple white cotton.
Instead of relief, my blood started pumping through my veins at adrenaline speeds. I’d seen my share of expensive lingerie. But there was something about that peek of white cotton that had me mesmerized.
