Chapter 24 #2
He reaches beneath his tightly-woven, tan canvas jacket, pulls out a pistol, and points it at me. "I said you're not working out today."
My adrenaline kicks up several notches. "What in the seven hells are you doing, Jax? Do you have a death wish?"
"You might if you don't get out of my barn and back into your truck," he warns, his gaze deadly serious.
"So you're going to kill your bread and butter?" I ask, but my heart races faster. Jax has never pulled a gun on me before. Maybe he's going senile.
His smoke-laced voice takes on a lethal edge when he states, "I suggest you don't stay to find out."
I don't move.
He clicks the safety off.
"What the fuck, Jax!" I boom, worried he's going to shoot me.
He nudges the gun toward the door. "Out. Now."
I study him for a few more seconds, then realize he's crazy enough to shoot me. So I mutter under my breath, "I need to have you seen by a mental health professional."
He grunts. "Make my day. Don't come back until Wednesday like we discussed."
"With this type of treatment, I may never return," I threaten.
He scoffs. "Keep on running your mouth. I'll shoot you in the ass on your way out."
"Crazy lunatic," I mumble, trudging across the yard and opening my driver's door. I get inside, take one last look at Jax, then speed past him and onto the road.
What now?
The only other place to work off some steam is at the Cartwrights' gym. And I can't go back there right now.
I drive around, unsure where I'm going, until the racetrack comes into view. Goose bumps pop out on my skin, and I'm hit with the shot of endorphins I get before I think I'm going to win big.
"Not a good idea," I tell myself while pulling in and parking the truck.
I sit, staring at the building, with my chest tightening.
Don't go in.
I just need to kill some time.
I've got the feeling.
I'll just place a small bet. I'll give the winnings to Willow to pay her back faster.
Bad idea.
Trying to talk myself out of it doesn't work. I open the door and limp through the parking lot and into the racetrack.
Races across the world appear on the televisions. Smoke circles the air, suffocating my lungs. Regulars chatter and drink.
I glance around, taking it all in, the high of anticipation growing. It's the same thing I always experience whenever I'm in a casino or at a racetrack.
I should get out of here.
No. I'm going to win.
Willow wouldn't approve.
She'll be happy when I pay her back faster.
I read the numbers on the sports screens, then take a seat at the end of the bar.
"Well, look who the cat dragged in," Bo Caruthers, the longtime bartender, announces.
I slap his hand, admitting, "Been a long time. How've you been?"
"Good. The kids keep me busy when I'm not here. Still drinking whiskey?" he asks, reaching for the fifth.
The expressions on the faces of the Cartwrights when I came clean about me and Willow, haunt me. Especially those of Jacob and Jagger.
I nod to Bo.
Bad idea.
Willow's beautiful face appears in my mind.
"Actually, I'll have a beer," I state.
He sets down the bottle of whiskey. "You sure?"
I hesitate, glancing at the bottle.
Bo fills a shot glass and sets it in front of me. "On the house." He pulls a frosted mug out of the cooler and pulls the lever on the keg.
The foam rises until it's at the top. He puts the mug next to the shot glass. "Hell of a ride you gave the other day."
"Thanks." I glance at the shot, take a mouthful of beer, then wrap a hand around the cold mug.
"No!" a lady screeches.
I glance over my shoulder.
She scrunches her face, pounding on the table. "No! No! No!"
"Stop hitting the furniture, Lucy. It's not going to give you a win," Bo reprimands.
She glares at him, then plops onto the seat, staring at the screens, shaking her head.
Sweat forms at my hairline. The sense of dread I feel whenever I lose creeping up on me. For some reason, I can't take my eyes off her.
"Five minutes before she's begging Johnny for another loan," Bo mumbles, but he might as well have screamed it.
Disgust over my past bad decisions hits me. The last time I lost a big bet, I begged my bookie to lend me more money, and he refused.
What am I doing here?
"Wyatt!" a deep voice bellows.
I turn, and the hairs on my arms rise.
Jeb Smoody, a former classmate and guy Jagger and I used to hang out with, stumbles toward me. He used to be the "cool kid" in our class. Now, I barely recognize him.
He's at least fifty pounds heavier, sporting large rolls under his too-tight T-shirt.
Three stains stretch down the right side.
His hair spikes in every direction and is in desperate need of a cut, just like his beard.
He plops down on the stool next to me, slurring, "Well, I'll be, if it isn't the famous Wyatt Houston! "
"Jeb. It's been a long time," I offer.
"Too long. Now that you're all famous, you don't have time for us little people," he teases.
I chuckle.
Bo points out, "You can't call yourself little anymore, Jeb."
He pounds his hand on the wood, ordering, "Bring us a round."
I hold my hand in the air. "I'm good. Just got a drink." I tap my mug.
He points at the shot. "Why's that sitting there?"
I glance at the shot of whiskey. Heat crawls up my neck. I try to distract him. "What have you been up to?"
He motions to Bo to bring him a whiskey, and scratches his head. "Living the dream. I'm down two hundred today, but I'm about to win it back. Put another grand down to sweeten the pot."
"That's good," I reply, but my gut screams he's going to lose his ass.
Bo puts the shot down.
Jeb picks it up and holds it in front of me. "To the good old days."
Swallowing back bile, I pick up the shot and clink it against his glass.
He downs his, then waits for me to take mine.
"You take mine," I offer.
His eyes me warily.
"For good luck," I add.
He grins, grabs it, and shoots it back.
There's no way I'm getting out of here if I start drinking whiskey.
"What bets are you placing?" Jeb asks.
I glance at the boards, staring at the odds. I open my mouth, then shut it.
I picture Willow's face again.
"Well?" Jeb pushes.
My chest tightens.
A roar fills the bar.
"About time!" a fifty-something woman cries out in excitement.
More people cheer.
A rush of adrenaline flows through me, almost making me dizzy.
Just one bet, then I'll leave.
One will lead to two.
This isn't the way to be anymore.
"Well? What will it be?" Jeb questions.
I glance back at the boards, fighting my demons, assessing the odds.
A new race starts. More cheers fill the room, so loud that they compete with my pounding heart.
"Looks like a lucky streak finally arrived," Bo claims.
Jeb slaps his sweaty palm on my back. "What's your take, Wyatt? You feeling lucky and going for the 40 to 1?"
I refocus on the screen, my mouth watering, heart hammering, and adding up how much I need to bet to pay Willow in full.