Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
T HE MORE brENT THOUGHT about the way Rayne played him, the more pissed he got. So he shut down his computer right in the middle of chapter eight and went to Cooley's.
He needed a beer and company that didn't make him think about his feelings. Might as well toss in a competitive game of pool and maybe a pretty girl to contemplate. And he knew he’d find it at the honky-tonk that sat off Highway 1 between Gilmer and Oak Stand.
The parking lot was full and he had to park in the pasture next to the bar. With a tin roof, tinted doors, and flashing beer signs, Cooley's was the equivalent of pulling up a chair to Grandma's apple pie. Pure comfort.
"Yo, Brent," Bones called as Brent stepped inside the dim bar. A cacophony of clacking pool balls, country music, and scruffing boots met his ears. Sweet music.
“How’s it goin’, Bones?" Brent called back at the owner bartender who held two ice-cold beers in each hand. He slid them to a couple of boys who worked oil rigs a county over. One of them was good at shooting pool. Brent knew because the son of a gun had beaten him the last time he'd been in.
"Hey, darlin','' Brent said to Tamara when she appeared at his side. Everything felt damn familiar.
"Thought you had stuff to do."
"Yeah." Brent nodded, signaling the usual to Bones as he edged onto a bar stool beneath the flat screen televising the Lakers' game. “Finished it.”
The dance floor vibrated with a gaggle of women doing a line dance. One wore a weird-looking hat on her head. Or was it a veil? Yes, a veil of condoms. That meant a bachelorette party. No wonder some of the good ol' boys stood around nursing beers when they likely had to get up before light the next morning.
Nothing like a bunch of loaded gals looking to be naughty to keep a guy yanking out his wallet and buying fruity little drinks. Brent always called the fancy martinis that Bones served panty-droppers. Because they worked.
Tamara slid in next to him, leaning forward so her breasts brushed his bare arm. He felt nothing. Not a smidgen of interest.
Damn it.
Rayne had really screwed with his head.
''How about we dance?" he asked, finally focusing on the blonde next to him. She'd changed out of the little dress and now wore tight jeans and a vest thing that bared her arms. She wore slouchy cowboy boots and hoop earrings that brushed her shoulders. Her hair looked blonder and her skin too tanned for early April, but her body was kicking. He should have felt interest stir at her honky tonk sex kitten vibe.
But he didn't.
"Okay." She grinned and placed a manicured hand on his arm. "I love this song."
It was an older song that took him back about ten years. He wished the deejay would play something current. Nothing from the past. Nothing that made him recall who he'd been ten years ago. Or who Rayne had been-the blushing new Mrs. Phillip Albright.
"Fine," he said, setting his nearly empty beer on the bar and following her toward the dance floor. Large bulb Christmas lights dangled from the ceiling over the worn wooden floor, giving the area a festive feel. Brent longed to enjoy the music and the woman gyrating in front of him. He wished he wanted to take Tamara out back and pound out his frustration in a round of hot, fast sex. But at this point, he’d likely have the same problem he’d had the night Katie Newman got hitched.
He couldn’t handle the shame again, so he pasted on a smile and stomped around trying to appear like he was dancing. A slower song came on, and he spun Tamara into a two-step that took them around the perimeter of the floor. He caught sight of a few buddies as he slid his boots and whirled the pretty lady in his arms. A game of pool. That would be better than leading Tamara toward something he had to avoid tonight.
The song ended so he tromped back to his stool. "I'm gonna get a game of pool up if I can rip one of these boys away from trying to get lucky with the tipsy bridesmaids."
“Sure,” Tamara said, before ordering a beer. She turned to one of the roustabouts and ordered him to meet her at the pool table. The man's eyes glinted with interest as he abandoned an empty beer bottle and followed her toward the three pool tables squatting in back of Cooley's.
Brent followed with a second beer in hand, the last he could have for the evening and still make it home unaffected. Lord knew he wanted more, to drink until he didn't remember anything. But he also wanted to avoid twelve-step programs.
Rusty, the oil field worker, fit his name with auburn tufts of hair below a vintage Rusty Wallace NASCAR cap. He racked up the balls and chalked his cue tip as though he'd done it every day of his life. Brent was probably toast, but he really didn't give a damn. He needed distraction. And not of the female variety.
"You break," Rusty said, eyeing Tamara as she leaned against the unoccupied table beside them. She stretched and the vest she wore expanded, threatening to spill out her very nice rack. Rusty swallowed hard and ripped his gaze from the blonde. "What are we playing for?"
Brent shrugged. He didn't like to play for money and he'd probably lose anyway. "How about a drink?"
Rusty looked like he wanted Brent to put up Tamara as part of the wager. Which was stupid for many reasons. First, she didn't belong to Brent and, second, they were living in the twenty-first century. But the man nodded. "'Kay."
Brent broke and the balls spun. He pulled stripes and set about working them into the various pockets. For some reason he was on tonight, sinking tough shot after tough shot. Rusty barely had a chance to lift his cuestick before Brent sank the eight ball. The oil worker didn't seem to mind. He'd spent much of his time watching Tamara stretch and brush her hair from her shoulders. Brent wasn't sure but thought the man actually wiped drool from his chin. Brent accepted the beer as part of his win, even though he knew he shouldn't have another. He took a swig and the liquid slid down his throat, icy and seductive. After beating Rusty in another game, he found himself four beers into a good time. Before he could drop the cuestick, the bridesmaids had him out on the dance floor shuffling around doing asinine dance moves even though he knew he looked incredibly stupid. But he didn't care. It was better than staring at his ceiling thinking about Rayne and how she wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire.
But even through the haze of the booze, he hated himself for tossing out his good intention to have only a few drinks. Same ol’ Brent doing the same ol’ dumb shit he’d done for the past fifteen years. He laughed, he flirted, and he drank. Just a man who hadn’t a care in the world. He was what everyone expected. The kind of guy you played with because that’s all he was good for.
As a new song started, all he could think about was going home, finishing the next chapter, sinking into who he wanted to be. Too bad he'd had four beers and couldn't drive. Stupid ass. He'd allowed the prick of Rayne's rebuke to lead him where he was. Instead of doing the adult thing, he'd stomped out the door like a child with an "I'll show her" attitude. And what had he proven?
Nothing other than the fact this neon life wasn't cutting it anymore. He should have left Cooley's and the tipsy chicks to the oil-field workers and took his ass home. It was time for change. He knew it in his gut. He wanted more than lukewarm beers and drunken sex. He wanted more than honkytonks and bar fights. He wanted more than empty rooms and a silent house.
He smiled at the pretty bride-to-be doing some sort of crazy jerky dance, saluted, and then exited the dance floor, swerving around other rowdy patrons before making it to the exit. He had to find a way home. Maybe Tamara. Or maybe he'd have to call someone.
Rayne's image appeared in his mind.
Her soft, wide mouth and cascade of curls brushing her alabaster shoulders. Lord, he was poetic when he was half-drunk. He wanted her. Desire burned inside him, consuming him. And he didn't know what to do about this need, didn’t know how to even proceed with her. She was aware of him, both sexually and spiritually, but she'd passed him up in life. Even with sparks, they were nothing to each other but an old memory of what had been but could never be again.
"Where'd you go?" Tamara said, sticking her head out the glass door.
"Needed some air," he said, wishing she hadn't interrupted the self-pity lurking under the desire for change. He felt close to figuring something out. Maybe. Besides, he knew what Tamara wanted.
She slid out the door and moved so she stood beside him. "Pretty moon tonight, huh?”
He looked up. "Yeah."
"Wanna come home with me, B?" she said, sliding a hand up his back, smoothing his T-shirt against his skin.
He ripped his gaze from the night sky and looked at the girl who'd been his sometimes lover but all-the-time friend. "I don't think so, sugar."
She frowned. "What's wrong with you? You're not acting like yourself."
He shrugged. "I don't know, Tam. I think I want something different than what I've been doing. I can't keep being this person. Spending all my time at bars, indulging in meaningless relationships, going home to an empty house."
She pressed her lips together. "So I'm a meaningless relationship?"
Shit.
He figuratively spat out his boot. “That's not what I meant. You've always been a good friend to me."
''That's the definition of a friend to you? You screw all your friends?" Her mouth formed a straight line. Frost edged her words.
He reached out and rubbed her shoulder. She jerked away. "Hey, that's not what I meant. You're a sweetheart."
"But you could never love me. I've been wasting time trying to get you to see me as something other than a booty call. Guess you think I'm not good enough. Why buy the cow, right?”
He’d plunged under the deep and felt panic blanket him. He’d always thought their friends-with-benefits relationship mutual. Never in a billion years had he imagined Tamara's interest as anything more than passing. "I'm not sure I understand. You-"
"God, I'm an idiot." Tears glistened on her lashes and she crossed her arms defensively. "I get it. You're looking for someone wholesome and pure. Someone like Rayne Rose."
He felt himself stiffen at her conclusion. "No. I'm not sure how staring at the moon led to this, but you are a terrific woman. I've just never…I mean..."
"You're not in love with me," she finished.
“No, I’m not.” He turned to her and gently grasped her upper arms. "Don't make this something it's not, Tamara. You're a good person, but I can't make myself fall in love with you any more than you can make yourself fall in love with me."
Her eyes were bright blue in the light of the moon. Tears streaked her cheeks. "Whatever.”
"You're not in love with me, Tamara. You're looking for something you can't force, sugar."
She shrugged loose from his grasp. "Maybe so."
He let her walk away because he’d felt much the same way hours before when Rayne had declared they were nothing, not even friends.
Damn, life sucked sometimes.
"See you around?" he called at Tamara's back.
She flipped him off.
“Yeah,” he sighed focusing on the blurry, flashing beer sign to his left. How had this night gone so wrong?
He stared up at the moon. It held no answers.
The glass door behind him flew open and several members of the bachelorette party tumbled outside.
"Hey, you disappeared in the middle of our dance," the cute brunette who'd dragged him to the dance floor said, wagging a finger at him. Her eyes were glassy from the booze, but she had a warm smile. "Bad boy. You're not supposed to leave a gal hanging like that.”
He managed a smile."Sorry. Needed air."
Another girl, this one a blonde, yawned. "Yeah, we did, too. Not used to these kind of nights. I got car pool in the morning, you know?"
The brunette nodded. "Don't know why we chose a weeknight. I'm so tired.”
The door opened and the bride staggered out ''Come on, girls. Let's blow this joint and go to Shreveport. I feel the need to roll bones."
The blonde wrinkled her nose. "What?"
"Craps, baby. At the casino," the bride said, snapping one of the latex condoms drooping in her eyes.
The blonde groaned but the brunette jabbed her in the ribs.
The condom-crowned bride looked at him. "Wanna go with us, hottie? We got room in the Suburban."
He shook his head. "Not feeling lucky tonight, but if you got a designated driver, I'll take you up on a ride into town."
Two more women staggered out each of them enthusiastic about playing the slots and getting free drinks. The blonde dangled the keys. "Okay, I'm designated driver. We'll give you a ride home. That is if you don't mind being crowded. Janie wouldn't take the car seat out." .
The brunette narrowed her eyes. "Have you ever tried to put one of those things in? Well, let me tell ya, the car seat stays put no matter what."
Ten minutes later, after having stopped so one of the girls could buy a six-pack for the trip, they pulled up to the front of Brent's parents' house. The brakes squealed on the large SUV, and frankly, it was a wonder he could hear them with all the squealing, sisterly squabbling and giggling going on inside the vehicle.
"Is this it?" the blonde asked. He'd since learned her name was Dierdre, she had three kids, and was the sister-in-law to the bride-to-be. She seemed the most reasonable of the bunch. Or maybe she seemed smarter because she'd stuck with Diet Coke all night.
"Yeah, thanks," he said, shifting one of the women so he could climb out. Janie yanked the latch for the door before he was ready and he fell out.
"Damn it." He tried to plant his boots on the curb, but slipped, and fell onto the grass. Right on his ass.
The car window slid down and laughter interrupted the serenity of the night. "Oops. Sorry."
He waved off the apology and lurched to his feet as one of the condoms hit him on the shoulder. The bride to-be rose through the sunroof, wearing a naughty grin on her face as she sling-shot another condom his way.
"Just in case," she called out with a laugh.
Deirdre tooted the horn and the Suburban pulled away with a chorus of "Byes" in its wake.
He brushed an errant leaf from his pants and turned around. He half expected Rayne to be standing there with a disapproving frown and a smart-assed comment But she wasn't. It was twelve forty-eight in the morning and she was likely fast asleep in the house to his left. He trudged toward the gate that led to his house, noticing that his parents' yard needed cutting already and that the cat had killed another field mouse and left it in the driveway.
As he pulled the gate open, a fluttering above him caught his eye. He looked up and caught sight of Rayne in the window. She stared at him for a moment before disappearing.
He shook his head and stared down at the two rubbers he held in his hand.
Fat chance of needing either one of them any time soon.