3. Bar Games
3
BAR GAMES
Jake
The Pink Pelican was everything I loved about dive bars. The wood walls were lined with seashells. Jack Johnson played from a stereo system. A dartboard hung on the far side of the joint, and the whole place smelled of beer.
Heaven.
It was an investigator’s paradise too. The bartender, Maris, with her long brown hair braided tightly, was friendly and chatty. A few well-worded questions gave me key details about the nightclub at the end of the block—info I’d never find online.
I wanted to get a bead on Eli and his art investment. He might have the art hidden at the club, or he could have turned it into cash already and used it to buy the place. I’d visit the club later, when the moon was high and the place was busy and I could blend in.
But at five p.m., The Pink Pelican was just the right amount of crowded. I could prop my elbows on the bar and chat with the friendly and informative staff and be just a man on vacation. Plus, the easiest cover was one that could be true. I was thirty-eight-year-old Jake Hawkins, former soldier, now in the “recovery” business, and here on a fishing trip with his buddies. Maris was born and raised in the Florida Panhandle and considered herself an avid fisherwoman—the tattoos of waves coasting down her brown skin were her homage to the sea so we’d exchanged tales of the ones we’d caught and the ones that had gotten away.
“Tomorrow should be a great day on the water,” Maris said as she wiped the counter. “I bet you’ll have a fantastic haul. Marlins and groupers galore.”
“Excellent. That’s what I want to hear.”
“What else will you do while in town? Snorkel trip? Dive? Stingray kiss? I love all things water, so you’d better say yes,” she said, playfully bossy.
“I’ll probably do all of those things you mentioned,” I said, since that felt true enough, and it also might endear me to a water lover. But I needed to get to the heart of my land mission. “But the other thing I want is island art. It’s a thing of mine when I go on a trip. Instead of vacay snaps on my phone, I have a painting on my wall. Like a fish jumping out of the water or something. I passed a place on this street,” I said, gesturing in the direction of the gallery I’d passed earlier—the one run by Eli’s new woman. I’d scouted it out but I wanted a local’s opinion of the place. “Can I get something like that there?”
She shook her head. “No way. That gallery is more for fancier things.”
Like ten - million-dollars fancy ? “Like my Renoir?” I asked dryly.
Maris took my droll question at face value. “The gallery sells some high-end stuff, but nothing on that level. If you decide you want to turn that Renoir into diamonds instead, we’ve got plenty of shops for that,” she said as she wiped down some glasses. “Down on Wayboard Street—those guys have the best deals.”
“So Wayboard Street is where I should go after I sell my Renoir to the lady next door?” I asked with a grin.
“Absolutely.” She pointed as if to show me the street. “You pass this swank restaurant, Tristan’s, then take a right, take the next right, and”—she paused for drama, fluttering her fingers like she was onstage—“prepare to be dazzled.”
I laughed and filed that info.
Maris tapped the bar in parting and went to take care of some customers who had just walked in. I finished my beer while I made notes on my phone, then tossed some bills on the bar, including some extra for Maris, who’d been a gold mine.
As I stood to leave, that dartboard on the far wall tempted me. Satisfied with today’s work so far, I headed over and picked up a few darts, then backed up to the throwing line. Zeroing in on a target, I mimed tossing the dart once, twice, then a third time.
“You’re shooting too high.”
As I let the dart fly, my brain registered adjectives.
Sexy. Pretty. American.
I turned in the direction of the voice and…holy smokes. My assessment needed revising.
She was…beautiful.
Golden-blonde hair. Killer body. Legs a mile long and sculpted to toned perfection. She stood at the bar, knocking back a glass of whiskey, totally at ease.
I glanced at the dartboard. Not only had I missed high, as she’d predicted, but I’d missed by a long shot. The effect of a gorgeous woman.
“Seems I’m in need of a dart coach,” I said to her with a slight grin.
Setting her glass on the corner of the bar, she strolled past me and reached up.
Don’t stare down her shirt. Stop gawking at that ass. Look away from the most perfect pair of legs you’ve ever seen.
As she plucked the dart from the board, I tried to follow my own orders. I swear I tried. But then her short little tank rode up revealing, pale skin and a sexy-as-sin belly button piercing.
Ah hell. That was just too tempting.
As she stood, she flashed me a bright smile, her blue eyes twinkling. She handed me the dart. “I’ll see if I have any openings in my schedule, Tommy,” she said, a nod to the shirt I’d worn to look like a tourist. Her cute little tank said Happy Turtle. She lifted her chin in a challenge. “And, if you hit a bull’s-eye, I’ll give you your first dart lesson free.”
“Can’t turn down that kind of offer.”
She leaned against the bar and took a drink as she eyed the board. Like she was saying go ahead—impress me.
I was no dart pro, but I’d killed enough time in bars that I could play decently. I’d only missed the first shot because of her.
I took aim and let the dart fly. Straight down the middle. Bull’s-eye.
She cheered. “Admit it,” she said. “You’re a dart shark.”
“You’ve figured me out. But I’m still waiting to see how good my dart coach is,” I said, with an inviting sweep of my arm.
She parked a hand on her hip. “You doubt my skills?” she said, as if I’d offended her.
I shrugged. “Well, I’m waiting.”
She stared at me with a challenging expression. “You think I marched in here, gave you advice, and can’t back it up?”
“Time to show me,” I said, egging her on, and damn, it had been a long time since I’d flirted with a stranger.
She took the dart from me slowly, making sure to brush her finger along mine. That felt damn good. She never broke eye contact as she stepped away, like she was inviting me to stare. I drank her in, adding up details both practical and physical. The deep tan said local was more likely, and the bikini top, covered up by the tank and surf shorts, suggested she was a beach bum or simply part of the tourist industry. The toned legs and firm arms said she wasn’t afraid to break a sweat.
I could think of plenty of ways to get sweaty with her.
When she looked away, she raised her arm, steadied her stance, and tossed. Right down the center.
“Holy shit,” I said in appreciation.
She shrugged playfully and blew on her nails. “My stepdad taught me.” Something dark passed over her blue eyes when she said that, but it disappeared just as quickly as it came.
“He taught you well. But can you do it again?”
“I’m a dart coach, remember,” she said, then she proceeded to demonstrate, landing shot after shot until I was thoroughly demolished.
When the game ended, I extended a hand. “Congratulations. You are officially a goddess of darts, and I am humbly destroyed.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a destructive goddess.”
“By the way, real name’s Jake.”
“Mine’s Ariel,” she said.
“Works, even without the red hair or seashell bra.” It might have been her real name, but more likely it was a nickname or simply a bar alias. With two sisters, I understood about fake bar names. Worked for me, whatever it was.
She leaned in closer, and I caught a faint whiff of her shampoo. Coconut. Perfect scent for an island woman. “Maybe I even have a seashell bra,” she whispered.
Ah hell. That was an opening and I was taking it. “Let me buy you a drink and maybe you can tell me why you have a starfish on your belly button,” I said, and her eyes sparked in curiosity. I held her intrigued gaze for a beat.
Maybe work and women didn’t mix, but one night at a bar after a long-term hiatus? What harm could come from that?
I glanced at her stomach again, her hips, her waist, then looked back up to meet her gaze. “Since it’s ridiculously sexy.”