Rock Bottom Girl(59)

“You should’ve seen it ten minutes ago,” Floyd piped up from the dining room.

“Har har. Very funny. Are we playing or what?” Jake growled. “Come on in, and don’t mind the inquisition.”





I played, poorly. It had been a long time since my college poker days. And as in all other areas of my life, Lady Luck was not on my side. But it was fun to kick back and listen to the razzing. To hear Mrs. Gurgevich drop fascinating nuggets about a life that sounded nothing like that of a high school English teacher.

She knew Tony Bennett from her back-up singing days?

She had a lover in Greece who was twenty years her junior?

Jake sat next to me, his knee pressing into mine as he manspread in his chair. He didn’t look like he belonged to this house. Except for maybe the velvet Dogs Playing Poker art. That definitely was his style.

We played. We ate pretty great beef jerky. And I dodged questions like a skinny, spectacled seventh grader dodged balls on the playground.

Mrs. Gurgevich wanted to know if Lisabeth Hooper was finally someone else’s problem.

Floyd wanted to know if I was getting fired.

Bill had questions about Coach Vince blaming poor little innocent me for the red dye incident. I didn’t have answers for any of them. Next week would be early enough for me to face whatever legal trouble I may have stirred up.

And Uncle Max had 17,000 questions about what kind of life partner Jake could expect out of me.

It was awkward, amusing, and somehow even a little bit fun. Mrs. Gurgevich took me out with a full house, and one by one everyone else fell to the reigning poker queen until it was down to her and Jake, eyeing each other across the green felt and trash talking.

I was still having trouble believing that my high school English teacher who dressed in catalogue-ordered monochromatic polyester was a devilish, delightful, worldly woman who once dated a music star. We had it narrowed down to Neil Diamond, John Mellencamp—in his Cougar days—or Billy Ray Cyrus.

“I call,” Mrs. Gurgevich said. She sounded so blasé as if she hadn’t a care in the world or a worry over the seventy-five-dollar pot in front of her. “Full house.”

Her smile was feline, like a lion ready to rip her prey’s face off.

“Huh,” Jake said, looking down at her cards. “That looks like a winning hand to me.” He started laying his hand down one card at a time. Carefully. Precisely. “I mean, it would be if I didn’t have these four gentlemen jacks.”

The rest of the losers and I crowed at the showmanship. Mrs. Gurgevich raised an expertly sketched on eyebrow.

“Your lady friend is a good luck charm,” Uncle Max observed.

“Yeah, she is,” Jake said, looking in my direction and winking.

I tried to dissect exactly why his cocky attitude and overly confident persona was so appealing to me. Normally, I went for a different type. Non-threatening. Easygoing. Maybe just a little preppy leaning.

Jake was rough enough around the edges that I could get splinters. Maybe it was just the fact that he was a damn good kisser.

With the game officially over, everyone set about cleaning up and packing up leftovers. It was a mass exodus of yawns and “see ya Mondays,” and before I knew it, I was alone with Jake Weston in his house. I debated going home. I glanced his way and noted the very nice flexion of his ass muscles as he bent to pull the trash bag out of the can. Yeah. Going home was smart.

“You want a beer?” he offered.

“Uh. Sure.” I wasn’t in any danger here. This was a fake relationship. I wasn’t going to fall prey to his charms, rip my pants off, and tackle him. And let’s be honest. Would that be so awful? My last relationship had been, shall we say, lacking in the bow chicka wow wow department for quite some time.

Could wild sex with Jake Weston really do me any harm?





36





Marley





Jake pulled a pair of beers from the fridge and popped the tops all one-handed and sexy-like. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the back door. “I’ll show you the porch.”

It sounded like a euphemism. And along I went, willingly.

“Oh, wow.” Okay, I was a little disappointed that it wasn’t a euphemism, but the disappointment was tempered by the fact that we were standing in a cool-ass screened-in porch. The seating was of the cozy, wicker, old-lady variety. But the cushions were deep and inviting. There was a tiki bar crammed in the corner with a half-dead palm of some sort in the other corner, and the lighting was soft and glowy from an actual table lamp, and a few strings of lights hung from the ceiling.

“This is my favorite thing about the whole house,” he said. “Thinking about doing a grilling patio over here.” He gestured into the dark yard.

The crickets were loud, the lights were soft, and my beer was cold. Life felt pretty damn good.

I sat down on the couch, relaxing into the cushions. Jake ignored the chair and crowded me on the couch. He kicked his feet up on the coffee table and took a long pull of his beer. “You mind?” he asked, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and rolling it between his fingers.

“Not at all,” I shrugged. My shoulder was squished against his, and I missed the contact when he leaned forward to light the cigar. When he relaxed back, he looped his arm over my shoulders. His body heat took the chill out of the night air.