Gunslinger: A Sports Romance (3 page)

But I'm not going to lie. I purposefully walk towards the exit of the restaurant with a little sway in my step, just like the hostess did earlier, because I know that he's watching. Something tells me that he likes to watch. What the hell, right? I never do stuff like this, and I'll never see him again.
 

As I smooth my skirt down the sides of my hips and thighs, and carefully place one stiletto heel in front of the other, I can't help but look in the glass doors ahead of me. Just to make sure that stranger danger is still checking me out, and when I do, I catch his reflection.
 

His platinum pupils dancing.
 

Looking straight at me.

And his mouth grinning shamelessly at the view of my behind.

So I sway my hips a little harder. Then turn around and give him a small wave good-bye. One that I make sure Jason can't see. And it's at that moment that I see and feel what I've been waiting for all night, except it's from the stranger's eyes instead of Jason's.

Pure. Unadulterated. Heat.

SAINT

Three Years Ago

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

"You need to kill some time, Mike. She's not ready."

"She's not here yet?!"

"Naw, man. I think she's still at the hotel with the bridesmaids or something. No one's picking up their cell phones over there, but knowing her she's probably just running around driving everybody completely nuts."

"I knew I should've sent my mom over there. I swear to fucking God if she–"

"Calm down, best man. There's no way that girl is going to mess up her wedding day to Saint."

"You mean mess up her meal ticket."

"No shit talking today, Mike. You have to reel it in. This is your brother's future wife we're talking about. Just like you want respect for yours, you need to respect his choice."

"The hell you mean? There's no question about anyone respecting my wife. She's not some sleazy lounge singer looking for a benefactor, so that she won't have to get a real job."

"You know what I mean, Mike."

"All right. I guess the easiest solution is to get everybody drunk. Then no one will know just how fucking late the blushing bride really is. Including my brother."
 

"Good idea. I'll get the waiters to grab us some champagne."

Ten minutes later.

"Open the Dom! Does everybody have a glass? All right, all right. Listen up everyone. I just want to say a few words in a toast before our boy here walks down the aisle. Saint, you know you're one cocky son of a bitch. You always were. Even as a snot-nosed kid, you thought the sun rose and set specifically for your ass. Never thought I'd see the day that you'd get hitched. Especially this early in your career. But I guess there's no rhyme or reason to when we find our happily ever after. Sometimes we find her when we least expect it. So let's all raise our glasses to my little brother and his forever after – Adrianna."

"To Saint and Adrianna!!"

Fifteen more minutes later.

"Excuse me, Mr. Stevenson?"

"Yeah, that's me. How can I help you?"

"I think I need to speak to your brother."

"He's a little busy getting married right now. What do you want Saint for?"

"Well, umm ... I guess it's okay if I tell you. I need to show you something."

"Who are you again?"

"A guest on the bride's side. Can I just show you something? It's important."

"You better not be showing me any videos of your kid playing ball or something. This is my brother's wedding not a recruitment–"

"It's nothing like that. Just take a look at the headline on this website."

Jilted! Saint Stevenson's Fiancée Seen With Reality
 

Star & Singer Benjamin Luck On Wedding Day!
 

"You actually believe this? This is just some bullshit gossip blog looking to get more web traffic with lies. Adrianna is at the hotel getting ready as we speak. There's no way she's in, where does it say?"

"Miami, but look, there's a photo. Scroll down."

"Fuck me. It is her."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure it is."

"How am I going to tell Saint? This is going to kill him."

A few moments later.

"Can we get the room for a minute, fellas?"

"Why are you clearing the room? What's up?"

"Have a seat. I need to talk to you."

"Right now? I'm about to get married."

"Calm down for just a second and listen. Adrianna is gone."

"What the fuck do you mean she's gone?"

"She left, bro. She's in Miami."

"What. Are. You. Talking. About?! What did you do Mikey?"

"Nothing, Saint. I swear. I'd never ruin your wedding day no matter how I feel about your girl. She must have gotten cold feet. She ran away with some rocker reality show kid. Some douche named Benjamin Luck. I'm assuming you haven't spoken to her today."

"We saw each other last night. She wanted to wait to talk until we saw each other at the alter."

"Well it looks like she jumped on a flight to Florida this morning."

"I'm calling her ass right now!"

"Wait. Don't chase her Saint. You're better than this. And isn't it better that you know what she's really like now rather than later when you're three kids deep? I mean if you really think about it–OUCH! You asshole. You just winged my head with that chair!
 

"Dammit, Saint, don't go trashing the entire reception hall. Our parents and their closest friends are here. Reverend Paul is in there. Don't embarrass yourself because she wasn't woman enough to end this the right way."

CRASH!

"You told me not to call her, so this is what I'm doing instead!"

*Sigh*

"Are you actually going to force me to kick your ass on your wedding day to get you to stop?"

"It's not my wedding day anymore!"

"Saint if you don't put that table down, I swear to God I'm going to have to put
you
down."

"I don't fucking care–"

WHAP!

SABRINA

Three years ago

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

"What can I get you?"

A female bartender who is probably in her twenties, but looks like she's pushing forty because of the bags under her eyes and her leathery skin, asks me for my drink order. Problem is that I don't really drink.
 

It's one of the many things I have given up to stay at my goal weight which is actually pretty high for my height, so I have to be careful; but tonight I want to feel like someone other than myself. Even if it's only temporary. Even if it's just smoke and mirrors. And I know that alcohol can help me get there.

"What do you recommend?" I ask. Her face may look hard, but so is her body. So I'm guessing that she knows a thing or two about staying fit. "I want to order a drink or two tonight, but I don't want to consume a lot of extra calories."

"Do you like red wine?"

"I don't usually drink alcohol at all, so I don't particularly
like
any one thing."

"Then may I ask what's your reason for wanting to drink tonight?"
 

She asks her highly unusual question (for a bartender anyway) while drying the inside of a wine glass with a soft white cloth.
 

"A guy. Well basically
all
men."

"Understood." She smiles briefly. "Then shots are the way to go."

"Shots?"

"Yeah, it's the mixers that are highly caloric like fruit juice or soda. If you drink straight liquor I promise that you will arrive to your destination much quicker with little to show for it around your hips."

"That sounds like exactly what I'm looking for."

"Are you on a budget?"

"Not really." I'm using my company credit card tonight.

"Then Patron shots are the way to go. It's a premium tequila."

"Eww, with the worm inside?"

"Absolutely not," she snickers. "This is an upscale, smooth tasting tequila. Great for margaritas and also for shots and no worms."

Sounds like what I'm looking for.
 

"Okay, give me two."

"Coming right up."

I've never done shots before, although I've seen college kids do a million of them, but I was never that girl in school. I was a scholarship kid carrying a 3.9 GPA. I never had the time or inclination to spend my nights getting drunk and possibly date raped at frat parties. I was always in the library, and parties were never my scene anyway.
 

The bartender never introduces herself to me by name or much less cracks a smile. She's not warm and fuzzy like the ones I've seen on television shows and in movies; but at least she's helpful. Her goal is to get me drunk or at least feeling better, and I'm thinking she understands because she has some pretty interesting war stories about men of her own.

She demonstrates how I should drink my shots for the full experience. Shaking the bar salt on my hand, then licking the salt, drinking the shot (with haste), and then chasing it by sucking on a wedge of lemon or lime. I like that there is a ritual behind this shot taking thing, so I catch on fast. The first shot makes my eyes squint, but by the third (or is it fourth) I am feeling
way
better.

I hear a group of voices coming towards the direction of the bar and my stomach drops. This is it. It has to be new guy's voice I hear among the sea of voices. I wonder if I've ingested enough liquid courage to finally talk to him about something other than mundane topics such as how the microwave works on the third floor lounge or the weather forecast.

I never quite mastered the art of flirting and because of that character flaw, I've ended up only dating a few guys, and they were all guys who I was set up with by friends. Unfortunately that has meant that I've usually ended up with guys that I'm not attracted to at all or who are complete weirdos.
 

I'm hoping that this is the one time that the nice, normal nerd (that's me) gets the successful, safe guy (that's new guy) and that we live happily ever after. For once I would like to be in a sweet, normal, reciprocal relationship.

Of course none of that will ever happen if I don't learn to say anything interesting when I open up my mouth. I tried about thirty minutes ago towards the end of our company dinner and it was a complete disaster. I made a fool of myself.

This must be what it feels like to be drunk, because my ears are playing tricks on me. I couldn't have heard the new guy, because none of the people that enter the bar are actually my coworkers. They are a group of very rowdy and gigantic men who all kind of look alike. I giggle to myself, because they look like they are going to completely annihilate the place by just moving around and bumping into things. They're that big.

It's pretty obvious that they're celebrating something, and the decibel level of their spirited banter grows only louder with each passing moment. This is my cue to leave. Even if my new coworker walked in right now, this noise would make it way too distracting for me to say anything to fix my earlier blunder.

"Are you with the Carson group?" The bartender asks me.
 

"Yes, how did you know?" The hotel is a big place.

"There are three groups that have pretty much locked down all of the rooms in the hotel this weekend, and I don't think that you belong to the other two."

I'm offended by her assumption that I couldn't be with any other group in this hotel. What is she trying to say? Although I guess that's what people do. Make assumptions about others based on limited information. I suppose I did the same thing to her.

"I'm pretty sure your group went to the Galaxy Bar after dinner. That's the lounge on the seventh floor."

Dammit, I'm in the wrong place.

"Thanks," I say curtly.

When I motion to stand up from my stool, I feel loopy. Objects in the room are starting to wave and ripple, and suddenly I wish I was sitting on a chair that was a little lower to the ground and had a back to it.

I'm going down.

"Whoa there. Are you all right?"

Two very tall and wide masses of grinning flesh steady me by the waist, and gratefully I don't fall and split my head open.