Just One of the Guys(22)

“Six ball in the corner pocket.” I lean, bridge, shoot, sink. Paul grimaces and takes out his wallet.

“I don’t want my daughter to end up with some jamoke firefighter!” Dad continues.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I won’t,” I say. “Two in the center.” Clack, spin, thunk.

Trevor winks at me. “Here she goes.”

I squint at my next victim. “Six ball in the back corner.”

“You’ll never make that shot,” Paul says.

“Ten bucks says she can,” Trevor says right back.

“Done.” Paul folds his arm smugly. It is, granted, a tough shot. Mr. Six Ball will have to bank just shy of the eight ball, which is only a couple of centimeters from the pocket, then cross the entire length of the table to the left rear pocket. I’ll need to give the cue ball a good bit of English, but I’m not concerned. I’ve been playing pool with my brothers since I was five. I set up, study my angles, take the shot and, because I’m so incredibly cool, turn away for a sip of my beer before the six ball reaches its destination. It sinks into the pocket with a most satisfying thunk.

“Shit!” Paul exclaims, and I blow my dad a kiss. He’s not looking, staring at the table glumly.

“Thanks, Chas,” Trevor calls, taking Paul’s ten dollar bill.

“Eight ball, side pocket.” I lean over once more and win the game. “And I think we’re done, here, Jake.”

The guys applaud, and I grin.

“Thank you, gorgeous. I mean, thanks, Chastity.” Jake grins and accepts the five dollars from Paul.

“I earned that, don’t you think?” I ask. Jake raises an eyebrow, hands me the five and gives me a lecherous look. Suddenly I feel kind of beautiful. I mean, after all, here I am, surrounded by men, some of whom are nonrelatives and single. Being one of the guys has occasional benefits.

“Don’t you marry a firefighter,” Dad growls as I return to the table. “Bunch a’ jamokes, if you ask me. You’d just end up all bitter and dried up and angry, like your mother.”

“There’s a happy thought,” I murmur. Not that a firefighter would dare ask out the O’Neill girl, mind you. I kiss my dad’s bristly cheek, grab my jacket and head for home. Trevor will make sure Dad gets home okay. They only live half a block from each other.

CHAPTER SIX

THE NEXT NIGHT AFTER WORK, I take Buttercup on her nightly drag. I suck in a few breaths of the clean mountain air, and admire the neighbors’ gardens, which are bursting with daffodils and grape hyacinth. Buttercup stops to sniff a flower, then attempts to collapse upon it. “Come on, Butterbaby,” I say, tugging at the leash. She flops, just missing the flower, and gives me a mournful look, sighing deeply. A squirrel, correctly assessing her energy level, darts right over her front paw. Buttercup doesn’t move, just flops on her side, moaning. “Come on, Buttercup!” I end up hauling her to her feet and practically carry her home as she moans and wags. I think she kind of likes this form of transportation. “You’re pathetic,” I say laughing. She wags her tail agreeably.

Ten minutes later, I’m showered, changed and on my way out again. Buttercup gives one mournful howl, sounding very much like a werewolf or the hound of the Baskervilles, then doubtlessly flops down for a snooze.

Tonight is my first EMT class, and though I’m quite unsure that I want to attend, I’m also pretty sick of making an idiot of myself every time someone has a boo-boo. My whole life, I’ve been queasy (putting it gently) around blood. It’s time to take charge. I’d really like to be more like…well, like Aragorn. Now there’s a guy you can count on in times of trouble. After the toy store debacle, after making a fool of myself in front of Kim and Dad and Trevor, I’ve decided that knowledge is power. Desensitization time.

I obediently report to Eaton Falls Hospital, where class will be held once a week. Once again, the notion that I’ll meet a friendly guy here pops into my brain. So far, Tara and Sarah, good sisters-in-law though they may be, have turned up squat on the date front. Every man they know seems to be married or related to me. Maybe I should take out my high school yearbook and take a flip through. Give a few guys a ring. I sigh. Hi, it’s Chastity O’Neill! How are you? I’m back in town, thought we could meet for a drink, shoot some hoops…and by the way, are you married?

I walk in the hospital’s main doors, lost in thought, and slam into someone coming the opposite way. “Sorry!” I exclaim.

“My fault,” he says, and holy crap, it’s him! It’s the guy from Emo’s! Mr. New York Times! Mr. Cheekbones! The one who didn’t send me a drink!

“Hi!” I sound like a breathless teenager upon glimpsing Justin Timberlake. He smiles distantly and continues on his way, as I, open-mouthed, watch him go. Beautiful. He’s beautiful, even from behind. Make that especially from behind. His hair blows in the evening breeze, his suit jacket ruffling. A suit, but no briefcase. Does he work here? Visiting? Probably visiting his supermodel wife, who just gave birth to perfect twin girls.

“Do you happen to know who that man was?” I ask the elderly woman at the reception desk.

“Which man, dear?” she asks.

“The one who just left?”

“Sorry, I didn’t see him.”

Damn. Can’t catch a break these days. I head to the meeting room where our class will be held once a week for the next eight weeks. Maybe I’ll meet someone here, I remind myself.